Rights Reserved By HDM For This Digital - The Wesley Center Online

I said, "Are there any Jews in here?"
I seldom ask that question since Jewish people, on the whole, are law-abiding and
civic-minded. Very few of their young people get into trouble.
A young fellow about six-feet-two raised his hand. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I'm Jewish."
I separated myself from the rest of the workers and went to him.
"You're a Jew?" I asked.
"Yes."
"I'm so glad to meet you. What's your name?"
"What do you care? I wish I hadn't told you I was Jewish. What do you want to pick me out
for?" he said resentfully.
"I'm Jewish too," I said, ignoring his snappy attitude, "and I would just like to know who
you are. Do your mother and father know you're in here?"
A look of hate spread over his face. "Don't talk to me about my mother and father. If I ever
see my daddy again, I'm going to kill him!"
This was very unusual. Jewish children are strictly taught to obey their parents. Something
terrible must have happened to make him talk this way.
"Please tell me about yourself," I ventured. "I want to help you."
"All right. My name is Bob. I lived in Chicago. My mother and father were divorced when
I was a baby. My mother remarried, but my step-daddy didn't care about me. When they moved
away to some other state, my step-daddy hated me so that, for some misdemeanor or other, he put
me in a reformatory. I was there a year and got out, got into trouble and landed back in the
reformatory, because I was young. But from then on until now I've been in and out of jails."
"How old are you now, Bob?"
"Seventeen."
"Tell me more about yourself."
"Well, I held up a jewelry store and got caught and now," he said bitterly, "I'm sentenced to
five years' hard work on the rock pile in the state prison."
"What after that, Bob?"