Madame Freda

For months, Leah had been nagging her husband to go with her to the seance
parlour of Madame Sadie.
"Cyril, Madame Sadie is 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. Cyril, for only £30 you can talk to your
zaida who you miss so much."
Cyril could not resist and at the next seance, there was Cyril sitting under
the coloured light at the green table, holding hands with the person on each
side of him. All were humming.
Madame Sadie, her eyes lost in trance, was making passes over a crystal
ball. "My medium Vashtri, who is that with you? Mr Himmelfarb? Cyril's
zaida?"
Cyril swallowed the lump in his throat and called, "Grandpa? zaida?"
"Ah, Cyril?" a thin voice quavered.
"Yes, yes," cried Cyril, "this is your Cyril, zaida, are you happy in the
other world?"
"Cyril, I am in bliss. I'm with your bubba. We laugh, we sing, we gaze upon
the shining face of the Lord."
Cyril asks his zaida many questions and his zaida answers each, until -
"So now, Cyril, I have to go. The angels are calling. Just one more question
I can answer. Ask. Ask."
"Zaida," sighed Cyril, "when did you learn to speak English?"