East of Time by Jacob Rosenberg

stuttering in his new tongue, with hands outstretched, a beggar awaiting a scrap of mercy. He died alone. Nobody walked behind his hearse — except the stonemason, whom he had instructed to inscribe above his tomb an epitaph that would sum up a wasted existence. It read:
    A cat dreamt he was a tiger
    And dreaming, lost his wits.
    He fell asleep in the arms of a tiger
    And woke up torn to bits.’
    Lev-Leon shook his head. ‘Save your preaching for somebody else,’ he said, making no effort to disguise his irritation. ‘I’ve listened to enough sermons in my time. After I’m gone I don’t care what my epitaph says. What matters is life, not death.’
    As he hurried off, his last words echoed in the Logician’s mind like a rifle-shot.

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    Â  The Philosopher  
    Mechel Schiff, my father’s friend, would show up every Sunday morning to tell stories and partake of a hot cooked breakfast. The rest of the week he was fed by the Christian Mission, somewhere on Wólcza ń ska Street. A stocky, red-headed, blue-eyed chap, who dwelt for most of his life in a dilapidated shed, Mechel was known as Der Hosenkavalier because, as he himself put it, ‘I come from a line of fastidious dressers’. At the start of spring, this unemployed philosopher would visit the local market, where for one złoty he would purchase an entire new wardrobe. He would spend 20 groshen on a pair of shoes, 10 on a shirt, 25 on a jacket, and another 5 on socks and a tie; the balance, a whole 40 groshen, he always chose to invest in a pair of hosen — trousers, according to him, being the most important item in a man’s wardrobe. Then, Mechel, the highly intelligent atheist, was off to the Christian Mission for a free meal.
    â€˜And how was the soup today, Herr Mechel?’ enquired the head of the Mission, Johann Mentzeler, who had been trying for years to convert Mechel to the right path.
    â€˜Fabulous,’ Mechel retorted. ‘I imagine that is the way they cook in your paradise kitchen, Herr Johann.’
    â€˜That’s true, that’s true,’ Johann jumped up, excited. ‘I’m glad you can finally see a glimpse of the true light.’
    â€˜Sir, I said it merely by way of conversation. But to be quite honest, I must confess—’
    â€˜Yes, that’s it!’ Johann almost shrieked with joy. ‘Confess! Confess!’
    â€˜â€”that I am more absorbed,’ Mechel continued, ignoring the intrusion, ‘with the economics of this world, than with the culinary art of the next. And to be truthful, I must lodge a small complaint: some mischievous devil, I know not of whichdenomination, has pinched the traditional marrowbone out of my soup.’
    â€˜Yes, so I see,’ Johann replied, blushing. ‘But surely, in order to be happy, one must learn to detach oneself from such trivialities.’
    â€˜Sir — a marrowbone is not a triviality. Not just to me, but even to the most stoutly religious believer.’
    Johann was not to be outdone. ‘Ah, well, Herr Mechel. I know that some of your people are such stout believers that they fast every Monday and Thursday.’
    â€˜True, Herr Johann. But that is not an expression of their belief — rather of the lack of it.’
    â€˜Ah, Herr Mechel, dear Mechel, you are so clever! If only you could learn to love God — to understand God — to come to Him...’
    â€˜Of course I can, and I will — but not until such time as a fellow can be locked up behind bars for preaching religion. So that no devil will ever dare to help himself to the marrowbone in my soup, which in their wisdom the gods — whatever their persuasion — have bestowed upon their beloved Mechel Schiff.’

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    Â  Yankl Bolshevik  
    It was not by proper given-name and surname that a person was officially known in the territory of our community, but by his or her acquired nickname. For