Free My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok Page B

now under the Bolsheviks. The Russian government is different, but the Russian hatred of the Jew is the same. This morning, the Rebbe asked me to ask all our dear students to plead with the Master of the Universe to spare the lives of the Jewish doctors and return them safely to their families, and to pray for the redemption of all our oppressed people everywhere.”
    We all stood as the mashpia chanted a Hebrew prayer. Then we answered amen, and filed silently back to our classrooms.
    I came out of the school building in the early darkness of the winter day, and instead of turning toward home I went in the opposite direction to Kingston Avenue. I walked quicklyalong Kingston Avenue, went past my Uncle Yitzchok’s jewelry and watch-repair store, and came into the stationery store where Yudel Krinsky worked. I saw him standing on a ladder behind the counter, reaching for pads of paper. There were two women ahead of me. I waited. Looking around, I noticed that a new glass display case had been placed to the right of the door. The case was small and had three shelves filled with art supplies—pencils, crayons, watercolors, brushes. There were boxes with names I did not understand, like Conté Crayons, Rembrandt Pastels, Grumbacher Zinc White. Next to this display case was a tall metal cabinet with an open slanting top divided into sections by metal strips. The sections were stocked with tubes of oil colors.
    “The son of Reb Aryeh Lev,” I heard Yudel Krinsky say in Yiddish in his hoarse voice. “How can I help you?”
    He wore a white frock over his shirt and trousers. He had on his kaskett. He looked relaxed and cheerful.
    “I need a notebook,” I said in Yiddish.
    “A Hebrew notebook or a goyische notebook?”
    “A Hebrew notebook.”
    “Here is a Hebrew notebook for the son of Reb Aryeh Lev.”
    “I need also a pencil.”
    “A dark pencil or a light pencil?”
    “A dark pencil.”
    “Here is a dark pencil for the son of Reb Aryeh Lev. How is your father?”
    “He is well, thank you. He is at meetings all day long. About the doctors.”
    “The doctors?”
    “The Jewish doctors in Russia.”
    “Ah,” he said. His thin face darkened. “Yes. The Cossacks came out again.”
    “Will they send the doctors to Siberia?”
    “I do not doubt it. If they will not shoot them, they will send them to Siberia.”
    “Is Siberia really very cold?”
    He looked at me closely, his eyes clouding. “Siberia is the home of the Angel of Death. It is the place where the Angel of Death feeds and grows fat. No one should know of it, Asher. No one. Not even my worst enemies, all of whom, thank God, I left behind in Russia. Only Stalin should know of it. But even he should know of it only for a little while. I have a Jewish heart even where Stalin, may his name and memory be erased, is concerned. Now, what else do you need? Paper, pens, erasers? It is a big store and we have, thank God, everything.”
    I did not need anything else. I thanked him and hurried home in the dark.
    My mother was not due back from college until later. Mrs. Rackover met me at the door.
    “Where were you?”
    “I had to buy a notebook.”
    “Your mother knew you had to buy a notebook?”
    “I forgot to tell her.”
    “Your mother does not like you to come home late. What shall I say when she asks when you came home?”
    “I don’t care.”
    She looked at me sadly. “You are not the boy I thought you would be,” she said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Take off your coat and galoshes. I will give you a glass of milk. You still care about milk, yes?”
    She did not tell my mother.
    I slept late the next morning. My father woke me. I sat up in my bed. My father looked upset.
    “I saw the mashpia at yesterday’s meeting with the Rebbe. He gave me a bad report, Asher.”
    I looked down at the hills my knees made beneath the blanket.
    “Look at me, Asher.”
    “Yes, Papa.”
    “Are you feeling all right?”
    “I’m tired, Papa.”
    “The mashpia