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did he even attempt to cut open the pages and look into the book, which was customary on such occasions. His eyes brimmed with scorn and contempt. It seemed that the rabbi took the fact of Father’s publishing a book as an insult. And another thing: in the period between the rabbi’s visits, Father had spent some time in Bilgoray with his father-in-law, my grandfather. The rabbi knew quite well that Father had undertaken a journey, but he didn’t even ask about it. For him, Father was merely a pair of ears. It sufficed him that Father should hear what he, the world-famous genius, had to say …
    Mother declared that she wouldn’t let the rabbi cross our threshold anymore, but Father implored her not to do such a thing, God forbid.
    â€œHe has his flaws, but he’s a great scholar,” Father said.

    Then my mother uttered something I had never heard her say before: “Yes, he’s great. He grates on one’s nerves.”
    In time, the rabbi stopped visiting us. I grew up somewhat. Once, a scholar praised my father’s book, telling me that Father “interprets what he sees.” For him, the plain meaning of the text was more important than overly subtle hair-splitting. He compared Father to the early commentators. I then asked the scholar if he knew that rabbi who would come to visit us, and if he indeed was such a genius.
    The scholar replied, “Disjointed blather … lots of hot air … In his quibbling analyses he tries to bring East and West together. Can you bring two walls together? Futile attempts … he doesn’t even come up to your father’s ankles.”

SOUNDS THAT INTERFERE WITH STUDYING
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    A few doors from us there was an apartment whose tenants were dissolute. It wasn’t a house of prostitution, God forbid, but the people who lived there were decidedly low-class. The man probably dealt in stolen goods; in Warsaw lingo he was called a fence. He may have had another profession which wasn’t too kosher either. His wife went about bareheaded. In my parents’ view, everything about that apartment was loud and brazen. The walls were colored rose and red. They had a gramophone that squeaked out all kinds of theater songs from early in the morning until late at night. They had a cage with canaries and a parrot. And as if that wasn’t enough, they also kept a dog.
    The man’s wife was chubby, with big breasts, a short neck, and a round face. She didn’t speak; she sang. Her Yiddish was a kind of Warsaw slang; she added letters to words and changed prefixes. She also spoke Polish. She had a baby girl whom she took out on walks in a stroller. We considered all these things gentile ways.
    In that apartment they were still asleep at 10 a.m., for they went to bed at three in the morning. Aside from breakfast, lunch,
and supper, they also took a second supper at midnight. Their gentile maid would go down late at night to bring them crackly fresh rolls, salami, turkey breast, liver, roast meat, goose, or a platter of cold cuts, all of which they dipped into mustard and washed down with beer. Sometimes they would eat hot sausages. And during this meal the men—the owner of the apartment and his guests—spoke loudly and shouted. The women’s laughter could be heard in the entire courtyard.
    Every manner of evil was imputed to them. The man shaved his beard. He didn’t even attend synagogue on Sabbath. The woman did not go to the ritual bath. They had a balcony next to ours and on it they did all kinds of forbidden things. Men kissed women. They used uncouth expressions. My mother once saw the mistress of the house kissing her dog. “How low can people sink?” Mother asked. “That’s what happens when people turn away from the Jewish path.”
    Once, they threw a party and invited the police. Father immediately removed his rabbinic hat and put on a velvet one with a high crown, for he did not have a