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What I am now about to narrate happened one winter day. It was freezing cold and I was in a hurry to get to the Old-New Synagogue in time for the beginning of the Sabbath. Close to the entrance to the synagogue I caught up with an elderly man. Suddenly, he slipped on an ice-patch and fell. As I was helping him get up, he muttered with a matter-of-factness typical of someone speaking his mother tongue: "Todah. Todah Rabah." At that moment, something utterly bizarre occurred to me, something that might be hard for you to understand. "That was Hebrew," I told myself. "That language really does exist."
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