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your window.”
    “Yes,” the Rav acknowledged somberly, “damage
has
been done.”
    “Well, here’s the malefactor,” the policeman answered,pulling at the young boy’s collar as if to hoist him like a trapped animal. “I’m ashamed to say that Tim Hogan here’s my ungrateful nephew. We took him in after his poor mother Margaret fell sick.”
    “Oh,” said the Rav. “So this is Margaret Hogan’s son. I should have recognized the eyes.”
    “You knew my mother?” Tim asked.
    “In a distant way. When my wife died, Sexton Isaacs hired her to come in now and then to keep my house in order.”
    “More’s the disgrace.” Tuck glared at Tim. “Now say it. Tell the rabbi what I told you.”
    Timothy screwed up his face as if tasting a bitter pill and mumbled, “I’m—”
    “Louder, boy,” the policeman growled. “This is a man of the cloth you’re talking to.”
    “I—I’m sorry for what I did, Your Reverence,” Timothy responded, and continued by rote, “I take full responsibility for my actions and I intend to pay for the damage.”
    Rav Luria looked quizzically at the young man for a moment, then said, “Sit down, Timothy.”
    Tim perched himself obediently on the edge of a chair facing the rabbi’s book-strewn desk, but he could not keep himself from squirming nervously as he watched the bearded Jewish man pace back and forth along the sagging wooden shelves, his hands clasped behind his back.
    “Timothy,” the rabbi began slowly, “can you tell me what induced you to perform such a hostile act?”
    “I—I didn’t know it was your house, sir.”
    “But you knew it was a Jewish home, yes?”
    Tim lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”
    “Do you feel any special … animosity toward our people?”
    “I … well, some of my friends … I mean, we’ve been told …”
    He could say no more. By this point his uncle was also beginning to sweat.
    “But do you think it’s true?” the Rav said quietly. “Imean, does this house look in any way different from your friends’ homes?”
    Tim looked around for a moment, before responding candidly, “Well, there are an awful lot of books …”
    “Yes,” the rabbi continued. “But otherwise, do I or any of my family look like demons?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Then I hope that this unhappy incident gave you a chance to see that Jews are just like other people … with perhaps a few more books.”
    He turned to the policeman. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to converse with your nephew.”
    “But we haven’t discussed compensation yet. A big window like that must have cost a pretty penny. And since Tim won’t rat on his accomplices, he’ll have to pay you by himself.”
    “But Uncle Tuck—”
    The Rav intervened. “How old are you, Timothy?”
    “Just turned fourteen, sir.”
    “What do you think you can do to earn money?”
    Tuck answered for his nephew. “He can run errands or carry groceries for the neighbors and they’ll give him a little something.”
    “How little?”
    “Oh, a nickel or a dime.”
    “But at that rate it would take years to repay the cost of my window.”
    The officer merely looked at the rabbi and stated, “I don’t care if it takes a century. He’ll pay you something every week.”
    Rav Luria put his hands to his forehead as if grasping for some elusive idea, then raised his head and spoke.
    “I think I have a solution that may be of help to both parties,” he declared. “Officer Delaney,” the rabbi went on, “I can see your nephew is basically a good boy. How late is Timothy allowed to stay up?”
    “School days till ten.”
    “And Friday nights?” asked the Rav.
    “Ten-thirty, eleven. If there’s a night game on TV, I let him watch till it’s over.”
    “Good.” A smile had taken over the rabbi’s face. Turning to the boy, he announced, “I may have a job for you.…”
    “He’ll take it,” his uncle said quickly.
    “I’d rather he made up his own mind,” said the Rav