The hours were passing and the unbearable nervous horror grew, and
the inner tension, terrible and so taut that it seemed to be ready to
snap every second, was beginning to turn into a sort of nightmare,
which makes one shiver all over, which dims one's eyes with red mist,
which banishes all fear of death and suffering and turns all that is
human into an elemental, savage fury.
At the very moment, when the tension reached its highest point and the
nightmare was about to pass in a ruthless engagement, Hershel Mak,
unable to control his strained nerves any longer began to pray
plaintively in the tongue of his forefathers. "_Shma Isroel! Shma
Isroel!_" ... His comrades did not understand him and glanced at him
in terror, as at a madman, but from the opposite side another
frightened and plaintive voice answered him in Jewish: "A Jew!... A
Jew!..."
Hershel Mak's heart fell within him. The mad joy that took hold of him
is indescribable. It was undefiled human joy that filled him to the
brim, when from the place whence he expected only death and hatred
there came familiar human words.
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