Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

52 Adr. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

kitchen. He may have hit a cheek artery and is bleeding to death!"

"Weeds will not die," said Grandmother.

But as the minutes ticked by, she too became worried. "Even if your husband should become my bitterest enemy for the rest of my life, I must see what is happening in that kitchen. After all, you are my daughter who would become a widow with three half-orphans. We cannot take the responsibility of leaving such a quick-tempered person alone with a razor."

She knocked on the kitchen door. We heard Father move and stumble inside. He did not reply

"He is still alive," said Grandma. Father's voice rang through the door.

"Mr. Lebovitz asks me to enquire whether maybe you are sorry that I'm still alive?"

After another long wait, he unlocked the door. We all crowded into the little kitchen. He had taken off his shirt and held his head under the cold water tap. All the foam had been washed and wiped from his face. But what a face! One cheek had been shaved. The other one was still black with the stubble of his beard. For that cheek, Father had feared the safety razor was too dangerous. All along the shaven cheek ran a hedge of white cotton batting, dried in the wounds. The contrast made the half-beard seem blacker and the white of the cotton whiter.

Grandma had her comment ready. "A whipped pastry that has fallen on its side in a coal bucket."

"I forbid you to shave yourself any further," commanded