Heart of Stone by James W. Ziskin Page A

back to more pleasant memories. “I don’t remember his name, but his mother used to call for him at suppertime.”
    No one volunteered.
    â€œYou know, it was something like ‘Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov Lefkowitz, you come in for supper!’”
    Isaac’s smile dimmed ever so slightly, while Simon cleared his throat and frowned outright. Apparently I’d tripped over some old bones.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, thinking he must have met some tragic end. “Have I said something wrong?”
    Isaac made an effort to relight his smile and brushed off my apology. “Not at all, Ellie,” he said. “It’s just that Karl—that’s Karl Marx Merkleson— moved to California many years ago, and we haven’t stayed in touch.”
    I drew a sigh, relieved it wasn’t a more woeful tale. But then Simon stood up and poured himself another drink.
    â€œKarl betrayed his family, friends, and his faith,” he announced. “He converted to Christianity, for God’s sake. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead. And good riddance.”
    I stiffened in my seat. The story was a little bit woeful after all.
    â€œNot with the faith again,” moaned Isaac. “Simon, we’re all atheists here except for you.”
    â€œThat’s right, Isaac. And you’re all wrong. What are we doing here if no God exists?”
    â€œNot now, Simon,” said Miriam, his weary wife. “No one wants to hear it again.”
    â€œSorry to disappoint you, old friend,” said Isaac, staking claim to the last word. “But there is no God.”
    Then, perhaps realizing that he knew nothing of my beliefs, he turned to me and apologized if he’d offended me.
    â€œIt’s all right,” I said, thinking he should apologize to Simon instead. “My father loved debating God with others. Jews and Christians alike. It didn’t matter. He loved the exercise.”
    â€œAnd what about you?”
    â€œMy mother used to say that arguing with a passionate believer of any tenet is a losing proposition. You’ll never win the argument. But even if you do, you destroy something much more important in your opponent than his case.”
    â€œDestroying the argument for atheism won’t hurt anyone,” said Simon. “Quite the opposite. If I could convince you all to embrace God, you would lose nothing. You would win in the bargain and be enriched.”
    â€œEnough,” snapped Miriam. “How do you reconcile your God and all his warts with socialism? You’re such a hypocrite.”
    â€œSocialism and God are not mutually exclusive. We Jews aren’t like those crazy evangelicals in the village who preach love in Jesus’s name, but in practice act more like bigots and fascists.”
    The room fell silent after that. It seethed and hissed emotionally, especially between the married couple, but no one spoke for at least a minute. A long minute. I actually heard bullfrogs croaking outside the hall. As the silence wore on, I wondered if I could slip out without being noticed. That was impossible, of course. Adding to my discomfort was the knowledge that my question had provoked the fight in the first place.
    I was about to excuse myself when Isaac’s father wrestled himself out of his chair and, unhappy with the strife that had ruined the end of a fine evening, announced that he was turning in for the night. He stopped to grasp my hand in his bony, wrinkled grip. His eyes smiled at me, and he wished me good night.
    â€œI hope to see you again tomorrow for supper, despite this ugliness,” he said.
    Then he shuffled out of the Great Lodge. Rachel excused herself, saying she would see him to his cabin and be right back.
    After several more minutes had passed with no conversation, Simon offered me a limp apology for having made such a fuss in front of a guest.
    â€œI’m a passionate person,” he said. “I