For months, Mrs. Pitzel had been nagging her husband to go with her to the seance parlor of Madame Freda. “Milty, she’s a real gypsy, and she brings the voices of the dead from the other world. We all talk to them! Last week I talked with my mother, may she rest in peace. Milty, for twenty dollars you can talk to your zayde who you miss so much!”Milton Pitzel could not resist her appeal. At the very next seance at Madam Freda’s Seance Parlor, Milty sat under the colored light at the green table, holding hands with the person on each side. All were humming, “Oooom, oooom, tonka tooom.”
Madame Freda, her eyes lost in trance, was making passes over a crystal ball. “My medium…Vashtri,” she called. “Come in. Who is that with you? Who? Mr. Pitzel? Milton Pitzel’s Zayde?”
Milty swallowed the lump in his throad and called, “Grampa? Zayde?”
“Ah, Milteleh?” a thin voice quavered.
“Yes! Yes!” cried Milty. “This is your Milty! Zayde, are you happy in the other world?”
“Milteleh, I am in bliss. With your bubbie together, we laugh, we sing. We gaze upon the shining face of the Lord!”
A dozen more questions did Milty ask of his zayde, and each question did his zayde answer, until “So now, Milteleh, I have to go. The angels are calling.
Just one more question I can answer. Ask. Ask.”
“Zayde,” sighed Milty, “when did you learn to speak English?”
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