Whoever. Whatever. Dear God. Please keep my children from harm, my one child actually, the rabbi, and his child. I did nothing in my life except to make this son and I would ask You now to keep him from harm. He had a rough youth as You know. The life started off just fine. But then he went out with his father on that Sabbath morning—and did You punish my Jacob for working on the Sabbath? I hope not. If You answered yes, I would turn my back on You, God. I would ask You please to leave the house of my life. But say that You didn’t do it—say that You were busy in the synagogue with all of the people, the devout ones who went to shul that Saturday morning, and say that You didn’t see the problem, the taxi leaving the hotel, the fire that got so big and smoky somebody called the fire department, the milk truck starting off on its rounds. I know that God is God and that You have eyes on everything. But say that these people in the shul, the very religious men, the ones who would not talk to my Jacob because he disobeyed Your Laws, say that they diverted Your attention for just a minute, and so even though You knew about the taxi, the milk truck, the fire wagon, and my Jacob and my Manny walking with the cart, say that You knew all this—still for a second, just the tiniest part of time, like the part of the body an eyelash is compared to all the rest, for this eyelash of a split of time You looked away, or You blinked, or—could it be?—You were looking at it about to happen and You let it—no, I’ll think that You were listening to the prayers, watching the men lean forward, rock forward and back, forward and back in their devotions, and You missed the instant, just as You would later miss the killing of the Jews in Europe—were You called away then to another planet?
