2.

Zalmen Kindishman didn’t know what to do with himself he was so happy. He practically danced around the room. His eyes stopped on the autotelephotophone—a tool which served the guests the way the hotel staff once did. He stood next to the machine, guiding his fingers over the apparatus, pressing one button, then another, then a third, according to the instruction chart. Instantly he heard a voice: “What would friend Kindishman like?”

“Could I get some nice wine?”

“With the greatest pleasure, if your wine-card is not used up.”

Zalmen Kindishman carried on this conversation through the autotelephotophone thinking he was speaking with the hotel management. But he was mistaken; the machine answered him while simultaneously taking his picture, preparing what he ordered, and delivering it automatically through the “service tubes” as efficiently as the most devoted porter used to.

Zalmen Kindishman considered the two jugs of wine he had received, and illuminated by a hidden electric light he couldn’t fathom he read: “Gafniah Winery.” And a little further down: “These grapes come from the community vineyards of Ukraine and Moldavia.”

He hadn’t managed to read the label on the second jug when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened and in walked a man, slightly taller than average, with a salt-and-pepper beard, a pleasant, intelligent face, and glasses. The man stood there for a moment as he looked around and wiped his glasses. Kindishman walked over to him and finally the two men hugged, kissing each other like brothers. They sat down on the soft, wide armchair he had been rocking on earlier.

There was a brief, joyful pause.

“So, how are you?” asked Kindishman

“How are you?”

“Take a look. I’ve travelled, wandered around this wide world, been to Africa, America, Japan, China, Argentina, Brazil, Palestine.”

“There too? So, how are things there in our land, in Palestine?”

“Like everywhere else. There are rich people and paupers.”

“How can that be?” Yugendboym asked, unable to contain himself. “In your, no, in our land, in Palestine, they haven’t yet instituted the new order?”

“Unfortunately, no. And as a result there are often revolutions, uprisings, strikes. I’ve been living there the past couple of years and my family still lives there, in Nordiah, a small provincial city with about 16,000 Jews and 30,000 Arabs.”

“How is it living together with them, with the Arabs?”

“Nothing special. But I’d rather hear about you. How are you? You can’t imagine my joy at how lucky I am to meet up with you.”

“Oh the effort I’ve spent trying to find your address. I sent letters to every possible editor. It was as if you vanished without a trace. I got no replies. But thank God you’re alive! How is your wife? And your children?”

“My wife is well, thank goodness. If you recall, as soon as the migrations started she insisted we move to Palestine. Now she is the director of the central workers library, the Morris Rosenfeld Library. My son, little Shloymele—do you remember him? You used to love hearing him sing children’s songs. He’s now a lecturer at Zhitlowsky University, a college for philosophy and economics. He’s also the principal editor of Word and Thought, a monthly journal for literature and art in Yiddish.”

“So is Yiddish recognized as an official language like it is here? Is it as widely used as it is here with us?”

“Yes, the working class and the common people still use Yiddish everywhere. Which causes frequent conflicts. You go into a post office or a train station and ask for a ticket in Yiddish and the clerk wrinkles his nose and doesn’t respond. But the conflict has gotten more and more uncompromising, and the popular masses have begun establishing their own kindergartens, schools, and even universities in Yiddish, not Hebrew. And they’re a great success.”

“I am overjoyed to hear that,” Yugendboym replied. “And your son must certainly be one of those engaged in the fight.”

“You’ve got that right. All the lectures at Zhitlowsky University are conducted in Yiddish. And despite the fact that the local community contributes no money for it it’s still more beautifully and abundantly outfitted than their Marmorek and Wolfson Universities. For the most part it’s new immigrants from Ukraine, Moldavia, Georgia, and the republics of Dagestan and the Don who attend Zhitlowsky University. The ones from Lithuania, Poland, and Galicia are the ones who attend the state schools and universities.

“My son’s students have told me so many interesting things about life here,” Kindishman went on, “that I couldn’t sit still another day and had to travel here to see how things look; this street, this city, which twenty-five years ago couldn’t understand our language, which mocked and laughed at us. And now I’ve come back.”