Chaim Potok - The Chosen

'I'm really interested in logic. Mathematical logic.'

He looked puzzled.

'Some people call it symbolic logic,' I said.

'I never even heard of it,' he confessed.

'It's really very new. A lot of it began with Russell and Whitehead and a book they wrote called Principia Mathematica.'

'Bertrand Russell?'

'That's right.'

'I didn't know he was a mathematician.'

'Oh, sure. He's a great mathematician. And a logician, too.'

'I'm very bad at mathematics. What's it all about? Mathematical logic, I mean.'

'Well, they try to deduce all of mathematics from simple logical principles and show that mathematics is really based on logic. It's pretty complicated stuff. But I enjoy it.'

'You have a course in that in your schoo!?'

'No. You're not the only person who reads a lot.'

For a moment he looked at me in astonishment. Then he laughed.

'I don't read seven or eight books a week, though, like you,' I said. 'Only about three or four.'

He laughed again. Then he got to his feet and stood facing me.

His eyes were bright and alive with excitement.

'I never even heard of symbolic logic,' he said. 'It sounds fascinating. And you want to be a rabbi? How do they do it? I mean, how can you deduce arithmetic from logic? I don't see -! He stopped and looked at me. 'What's the matter?' he asked.

'There's my father,' I said, and got quickly to my feet.

My father had come out of the elevator at the other end of the hall and was walking toward the eye ward. I thought I would have to call out to attract his attention, but a few steps short of the entrance to the ward he saw us. If he felt any surprise at seeing me with Danny I didn't notice it. His face did not change radically. It went from curiosity to bewildered astonishment. He looked for a moment as though he wanted to run away. I could see he was nervous and agitated, but I didn't have time to think about it, because my father was standing there, looking at the two of us. He was wearing his dark gray, double-breasted suit and his gray hat. He was a good deal shorter than Danny and a little shorter than I, and his face still looked pale and worn. He seemed out of breath, and he was carrying a handkerchief in his right hand.

'I am late,' he said. 'I was afraid they would not let me in.' His voice was hoarse and raspy. 'There was a faculty meeting. How are you, Reuven?'

'I'm fine, abba.'

'Should you be out here in the hall now?'

'It's all right, abba. The man next to me became sick suddenly, and we didn't want to disturb him. Abba, I want you to meet Danny Saunders.'

I could see a faint smile begin to play around the comers of my father's lips. He nodded at Danny.

'This is my father, Danny.'

Danny didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at my father. I saw my father watching him from behind his steel· rimmed spectacles, the smile playing around the corners of his lips.

'I didn! t -' Danny began, then stopped.

There was a long moment of silence, during which Danny and my father stood looking at each other and I stared at the two of them and nothing was said.

It was my father who finally broke the silence. He did it gently and with quiet warmth. He said, 'I see you play ball as well as you read books, Danny. I hope you are not as violent with a book as you are with a baseball: Now it was my turn to be astonished. 'You know Danny?'

'In a way,' my father said, smiling broadly.

'I – I had no idea,' Danny stammered.

'And how could you have?' My father asked. 'I never told you my name: 'You knew me all the time?'

'Only after the second week. I asked the librarian. You applied for membership once, but did not take out a card.'

'I was afraid to.'

'I understood as much,' my father said.

I suddenly realized it was my father who all along had been suggesting books for Danny to read. My father was the man Danny had been meeting in the library!

'But you never told me!' I said loudly.

My father looked at me. 'What did I never tell you?'

'You never told me you met Danny in the library! You never told me you were giving him books to read!'

My father looked from me to Danny, then back to me. 'Ah,' he said, smiling. 'I see you know about Danny and the library: 'I told him,' Danny said. He had begun to relax a bit, and the look of surprise was gone from his face now.

'And why should I tell you?' my father asked. 'A boy asks me for books to read. What is there to tell?'

'But all this week, even after the accident, you never said a word!'

'I did not think it was for me to tell,' my father said quietly. 'A boy comes into the library, climbs to the third floor, the room with old journals, looks carefully around, finds a table behind a bookcase where almost no one can see him, and sits down to read. Some days I am there, and he comes over to me, apologizes for interrupting me in my work and asks me if I can recommend a book for him to read. He does not know me, and I do not know him. I ask him if he is interested in literature or science, and he tells me he is interested in anything that is worthwhile. I suggest a book, and two hours later he returns, thanks me, and tells me he has finished reading it, is there anything else I can recommend. I am a little astonished, and we sit for a while and discuss the book, and I see he has not only read it and understood it, but has memorized it. So I give him another book to read, one that is a little bit more difficult, and the same thing occurs. He finishes it completely, returns to me, and we sit and discuss it. Once I ask him his name, but I see he becomes very nervous, and I go to another topic quickly. Then I ask the librarian, and I understand everything because I have already heard of Reb Saunders' son from other people. He is very interested in psychology, he tells me. So I recommend more books. It is now almost two months that I have been making such recommendations. Isn't that so, Danny? Do you really think, Reuven, I should have told you? It was for Danny to tell if he wished, not for me.'

My father coughed a little and wiped his lips with the handkerchief. The three of us stood there for a moment, not saying anything. Danny had his hands in his pockets and was looking down at the floor. I was still trying to get over my surprise.

'I'm very grateful to you, Mr Malter.' Danny said. 'For everything.'

'There is nothing to be grateful for, Danny,' my father told him. 'You asked me for books and I made recommendations. Soon you will be able to read on your own and not need anyone to make recommendations. If you continue to come to the library I will show you how to use a bibliography.'

'I'll come,' Danny said. 'Of course I'll come: 'I am happy to hear that,' my father told him smiling.

'I -I think I'd better go now. It's very late. I hope the examination goes all right tomorrow, Reuven: I nodded.

'I'll come over to your house Saturday afternoon. Where do you live?'

I told him.

'Maybe we can go out for a walk,' he suggested.

'I'd like that,' I said eagerly.

'I'll see you, then, on Saturday. Goodbye, Mr Malter.'

'Goodbye, Danny.'

He went slowly up the hall. We watched him stop at the elevator and wait. Then the elevator came, and he was gone.

My father coughed into his handkerchief. 'I am very tired,' he said. 'I had to rush to get here. Faculty meetings always take too long. When you are a professor in a university, you must persuade your colleagues not to have long faculty meetings. I must sit down.'

We sat down on the bench near the window. It was almost dark outside, and I could barely make out the people on the sidewalk below.

'So,' my father said, 'how are you feeling?'

'I'm all right, abba. I'm a little bored.'

'Tomorrow you will come home. Dr Snydman will examine you at ten o'clock, and I will come to pick you up at one. If he could examine you earlier, I would·pick you up earlier. But he has an operation in the early morning, and I must teach a class at eleven. So I will be here at one.'