Hannukah was approaching, bringing with it my mother’s white geese, and of course, the delicious skin fried in goose fat. I was overcome by such a longing that I could hardly sit still. Most of all I felt myself drawn, as though under a spell, to my mother’s warm stove, where she used to tell her wonderful stories. And as though to torment me even more, my beloved Uncle was at that time of in Vilna, at the offices of the Rom Brothers Publishing House, getting a new book published. So I was left alone, lonely and "orphaned". My Grandmother Rokhel, who was known in town for her service to the community, didn’t have the time to pay attention to her own grandchild, who was wandering about under a cloud of gloom. She was occupied day and night rushing from one from one synagogue to another, collecting here a "blessing", there a "Hear, O Israel", and such...in this way she hoped to make up for all those years, when she lived in the town among Gentiles. In addition to this, she was busy every Thursday standing outside in front of her husband’s buildinging with a charity box in her hands, and calling out to the rich wives who were on their way to the market to do their Sabbath shopping:

"Give, ladies, for the poor mothers, for the widows and orphans, for the weak and the sick!"

And so when I saw the first lights of Hannukah starting to appear, I just couldn’t stand it any more. I tucked a Gemorra under my arm, and set off for the Radevsky Inn, where the wagon-drivers of Zastavia and Kamenetz would be getting ready to leave. There I found the short-legged, fat-bellied Vigder the Wagon-Driver, and paid him his half-rouble fare, which I had saved up from the meals, which my well-to-do patronesses would sometimes provide me with in the form of cash. And in return for that half-rouble, Vigder the Wagon-Driver stuffed me into the back of his cart, which contained on one side a large drum of oil, and on the other side a couple of barrels of herring...and after being tossed about in the back of the wagon all night long, I finally made it home, barely alive!

For the first few days of Hannukah, the "surprise guest" was treated royally. But as soon as the last Hannukah-lights had gone out, my father started to show his displeasure with my un-planned homecoming. He started to lecture me, giving himself for an example...how for nine or ten years, he had stuck it out in the cold Zohar House of Study in Brisk; how he had to sleep on a hard bench, with a kercheif for his pillow, and how he had to help the beadle to clean, to polish the brass lamps, the large candelabra, and fetch water for the barrel....and he finished off his lecture with a few choice quotes from the chapter, "These are the ways of the Torah": "bread and salt shalt thou eat".... "and on the ground shalt thou sleep".... "if thou shalt do these things, thou shalt have the Law in thine heart...."

But my soft-hearted mother couldn’t bear to watch her dear, beloved "guest", sitting there with his head hanging down, like one being sentenced. She took me under her wing, and answered on my behalf, giving various reasons why my sudden home-coming was justified: first of all, someone had to patch the holes in my tattered boots, and darn my socks. Secondly, it is after all not a transgression for a child to want to see his parents once in a while....

And indeed, right after Hannukah was over, my father gave me a Hebrew note to pass on to my teacher, in which he requested, that he should have mercy on me, and forgive my sin of having gone home without his permission. He further assured my teacher that in the future there would be no more such doings...

Mother gave me a little parcel, which consisted of fresh cookies, a jar of goose fat, a bag of dried carrots, which she knew I was fond of, and other such good things.

They bundled me up in an old fur coat of my father’s; on my head, a toque; over the toque, an old warm kercheif of my mother’s; on my feet, a pair of "woolies"...and when they were done, I simply couldn’t move a muscle! But mother insisted, because "outside there was a dreadful frost"...she wanted no less than to cover me with a feather quilt.

Soon I was sitting on the wagon. I had already kissed my mother goodbye twice, and wanted to say good-bye to my father as well...but he was nowhere to be seen. They looked everywhere for him, and couldn’t find him. Meanwhile, Vigder the Wagon-Driver stood there with the whip and reins in his hands, complaining loudly "that the night was running out", and that at this rate he wouldn’t get to Brisk before the middle of the day!

Suddenly my father came running, all out of breath. He quickly jumped up on the back of the wagon, and shoved something in my hand....a silver coin, known as a "forty" which he had hastily borrowed from somebody at the last minute. He bent his head so close to mine that I could feel his warm breath on my face. I felt his prickly beard brush against my face, which I took for a fatherly kiss...and then he quickly said:

"Go in health, and apply yourself to your studies..."

The wagon gave a sudden start, and was off. I wanted to turn my head, to get one more look at my mother’s house, from which the glow of a small lamp could still be seen in the still, dark night...but on account of the heavy winter clothes in which they had smothered me, I simply couldn’t move a muscle.

The wheels of the wagon were cutting through the deep snow. One after another the lights of town disappeared from view. We were soon swallowed up by the cold dark night. From high above, there sparkled distant, tiny stars...