“No gun,” Simon said. He stripped off his leather gloves and took off his shoes. Maurice shrugged. “It was a long shot.” Simon flopped down on the big couch and stared out the big window in the back. “Maurice?” he said. “Yes?” Maurice looked up from his Wall Street Journal. “Why do we care about this guy? This guy has nothing to do with us, with what we do.” Maurice folded his paper and took off his reading glasses. “It’s an old debt.” Simon didn’t look at him. Maurice sighed. “I knew a man during the war. When we walked into Buchenwald, he was there with me.” Simon frowned, still not looking at Maurice. “All right,” he said. He watched the birds in the back awhile more. Maurice sat patiently. “Maybe it is time,” Simon said. “Mincha,” Maurice agreed. Simon got up and got the tefillin. He came back and Maurice took them and carefully wrapped Simon’s arm, seven times. “Baruch Atah Adonai, elohainu, melech haolam, asher kidshanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'haniach t'fillin.” Simon smiled. Maurice, so at home in the world, was as awkward as a child with prayers. He had come so late to observance. It was the one place where Simon was the teacher. It gave them both comfort.
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