How can I, Mama? If I can’t be proud of being a jazz singer, then I can’t be proud of anything. It’s all I’ve got, Mama, it’s all I am. [_Gets hat, stick and bag, then pauses._] Well, there won’t be any more arguments around here on my account, I’ll tell you that. I was away for five years—I can stay away longer. I’m sorry if I did anything to make you feel so bad, Papa. But you can make up your mind to this. I’m a young fellow, and I’m going to live my life in my own way. I’m not going to stay down here and sing prayers that don’t mean anything to me any more. Maybe I could do it when I was a kid, but I’m not going to do it now. I’m never going to do it. That’s all. [_To_ SARA _in lower voice._] Well, I’m going to the hotel. I’ll call you up as soon as I get settled. [_Goes to door._] Goodbye, Mama. [SARA _indicates_ CANTOR _sitting, broken, by the table._] Goodbye, Papa.... I’m very sorry—I’m very sorry that you just—don’t understand. [_He goes._] SARA [_Touches_ CANTOR _on shoulder_]. He’s gone, Yosele. Our Jakie is gone. CANTOR [_Without moving, head sunk on chest_]. Did you heard how he sang? The same sighs, the same tears I taught him in the synagogue—that I put in his voice he should sing to God—now he uses them to sing in his jazz music. [_His hand on the table encounters the praying shawl which_ JACK _brought._] A fine birthday present I got. My son brought it to me. A praying shawl from Palestine, from the dirty hands of a loafer. [_He rise._] Burn it! [_He moves toward the settee._] Put it in the stove and burn it! SARA [_Goes to him_]. Oh, Yosele, you are breaking my heart when you speak like this! And I tried to be so happy on your birthday! CANTOR [_Stares at her incredulously_]. Happy—happy? You are happy? You look in my face and tell me happy you are? SARA [_With a tragic attempt to smile_]. Sure! Look at me, ain’t my face smiling? [_Sits beside_ CANTOR.] Why shouldn’t I be happy? Ain’t it today you are sixty years old? CANTOR [_Doesn’t seem to hear; mutters_]. A surprise—that’s a fine surprise I got.... SARA [_Proudly_]. Ain’t it you are mine man—my Cantor? CANTOR Sara, my dear one, you are a good wife, and you were a good mother. You don’t deserve such a son. [_Faintly from the hallway is heard a boyish voice singing “Red Hot Mama.” Neither the_ CANTOR _nor_ SARA _hear it as yet._ SARA _continues._] SARA All right, all right. Forget all your troubles tonight. Lawyer Adler from uptown—he is coming at eight o’clock. The Luryas and the Goldsteins are coming too,—with automobiles. Your birthday—