Mr Frank.

Mr Frank; one of the old Jewish timers, was about to put on his winter jacket. He was an old man; so old that even the gage of time could not help in knowing his years. I wanted to help him slip into the last sleeve of his long and tarnished jacket, but he refused me and with an abrupt movement placed his arm into the the sleeve. I had heard from others that he survived the war in Prague, hiding in a small and dense attic by the grace of one of his non Jewish friends. I did not need to ask him. His face spoke of it all. He invited me down the hall to a small room adjunct to the temple, where we had just completed our morning prayers. A long thin table stretched out to the end of the room. On the table A few bottles of aged Eastern European spirits,which looked more like combustible fluids,that even a slight flicker of a match would set the whole place on fire. Mr Frank made a brief and mumbled blessing on the bread. I took a sip of the ready snaps, and for A moment felt the total escalation of my covert bowels re-ignite their lost vigor. This was not A pleasant feeling; and being the good guest that I was, I did my best to keep my smile intact.