Who Was My Brother’s Killer?
“Today I will eat a mouthful of bread that will really touch my heart!” said my mother, as she sat between me and my brother at the table laid with our simple meal which the waiter had brought to our room.
“Do it first and then say it, mother,” replied my brother teasingly, because lately he had heard her good intentions so many times, and he had never seen her carry them out.
My mother, used to similar reproaches from her youngest son, paid no attention to his words, but she turned to make sure that the door behind her was shut, and said:
“Don’t let that wagtail come in again. Oh how funny he is with his leaps and bends!”
The “wagtail” was the French waiter at the hotel on the Bosporus, where my mother had come to meet me, upon my arrival from the West. T
