He smoked incessantly, and kept silent. That silence of his was in itself terrifying. It drove me crazy...I would have preferred if he had come right out with it! Because I could feel that something was burning in his heart. By and by, it would break out in a storm. He would get around to me...but what kind of an excuse would I give him, and what would I answer?

It was harder and harder for me to bear my mother’s mute, heart-rending sighs and coughs. She spoke only the language of "sigh and cough", which gnawed away at me. She worked with the sweat of her brow to prepare the house for the holy, Kosher Passover. She scrubbed, sche scrpaed the benches with a knife, cleaned the cupboards, polished the spoons, the brass candlesticks, "koshered" with hot water the copper pans. And in between each of her tasks, she would cast a mournful glance in my direction, and clasp at her heart, which bore already so many pent-up sorrows, that were tearing her apart from the inside...

I was overcome by a great pity for her, and also for myself. And at the same time, I felt a terrible longing...for the earlier homecomings, which had always been associated with so much pride and joy...while my present homecoming was so cold and painful....with my father’s hostility, with silent angry glares....with my mother’s sighs and coughs...and with my own guilty conscience, which gives me no peace. I can find no place to rest...and for all this, I alone am guilty! I, with my sin, that screams out from my face, like a Mark of Cain: "You have sinned! Sinned! Betrayed God and your parents!"

The afternoon before Passover, in the synagogue. I stand beside my father in the east wall of the House of Study. No one would guess from his angry expression, that next to him stands a guest. Neighbors, householders greet me with a "Good Day", but it seems to me that even their greetings are not the same as before....I catch a glimpse of my friend, Avraham-Aharon...his glance meets mine, and we both immediately drop our eyes to the floor...as though we were both ashamed to look each other in the eye.

Evening. Everyone was seated around the Passover table. My father made the blessing with such a dry, grating voice that didn’t sound the least bit festive. Yitzkhk-Isaac, my youngest brother, asked the Four Questions. My father started to read the hagodeh, not with his usual, familiar melody which I loved so much. He read somehow with impatience, as though he wanted to all the more quickly to be done with it. It was obviously very hard for him to sit at the same table with me. My heart was pounding, and my face was on fire. There was a ringing in my ears, as though from heavy bells. I tried to bury my eyes in the Passover Haggadah, and couldn’t. Right opposite me sat my mother. Streams of tears were flowing down her thin face. A heavy, foreboding mood hung in the air...like the eve of a storm.

He started throwing the books at me right in my face, and with clenched fists lunged for me with murderous intent. The house was in an uproar. The children started to cry, screaming at the tops of their lungs. My poor, sick mother threw herself between me and my father, clutched at him with trembling hands and begged for mercy:

"Yisroel, for the love of God! Have mercy on me and the children! Please don’t ruin the holiday for us, I’ve worked so hard for it...!"

I was standing with my head hanging down, like one sentenced to death. My heart was pounding away like a hammer. I felt as though I was going to collapse. With one hand, I held myself up by the edge of the table. I had only one thought in my head ... to run away...

My mother stood there in shock, looking at the over-turned candlesticks, the extinguished lights, and mumbling to herself with trembling lips:

"Lord of the Universe, let some good come of this...."

And among the overturned wine-glasses and broken pieces of matzoh, there lay Fayerberg's "To Where", soaked with kosher Passover wine, and splattered with non-kosher tallow from my mother’s overturned blessing-lights.