Here Dr. Kirsch had risen, and,
coming forward, had paused to lean over his desk and, with
an awful geniality, had looked down upon two rustling,
exquisitely gowned late-comers. They sank into their seats,
cowed. Fanny grinned. He began his lecture
something about modern politics. Fanny was fascinated
and resentful by turns. His brilliant satire probed, cut,
jabbed like a surgeon's scalpel; or he railed, scolded,
snarled, like a dyspeptic schoolmaster. Often he was in
wretched taste. He mimicked, postured, sneered. But he had
this millionaire congregation of his in hand. Fanny found
herself smiling up at him, delightedly. Perhaps this wasn't
religion, as she had been taught to look upon it, but it
certainly was tonic. She told herself that she would have
come to the same conclusion if Kirsch had occupied a
Methodist pulpit.
There were no Kaddish prayers in Kirsch's Temple. On the
Friday following the first anniversary of Molly Brandeis's
death Fanny did not go home after working hours, but took a
bite of supper in a neighborhood restaurant.
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