Where Love Is

In a basement lived a shoemaker: Martin. His window was level with the street; he saw only the feet of those who passed, and he knew who was passing by their boots. He was lonely; his wife and children had died long ago. In the evenings he read books.

One night, as he was reading, he fell asleep and heard a voice: "Martin, look into the street tomorrow, I will come." In the morning he woke; he could not tell whether it had been a dream. But he began looking out of the window.

First old Stepanich the snow sweeper passed; tired and cold. Martin called him in and gave him tea. Then a thinly dressed woman passed with a baby in her arms. Martin took them in, warmed some soup and gave the baby an old coat. Then an apple seller and a boy were fighting: the boy had stolen an apple. Martin went out, paid for the apple, told the boy "say sorry" and told the seller "forgive him." The two of them walked off together; the boy was carrying the woman's basket.

Evening came. Nobody had come. Martin opened his book. A voice came from the dark corner of the room: "Martin, didn't you know me?" The shadow of Stepanich appeared and vanished. "That was me." The woman and the baby appeared: "That was me too." The apple seller and the boy: "And that."

Martin looked at the open page of the book: "Whatever you did for one of the least of these my brothers, you did for me."

That night Martin fell asleep smiling. Tolstoy wrote this story; not for everyone, only for those who wait.