The Chosen

by Chaim Potok

I suddenly realized it was my father who all along had been suggesting books for Danny to read. My father was the man Danny had been meeting in the library! “But you never told me!” I said loudly. My father looked at me. “What did I never tell you?” “You never told me you met Danny in the library! You never told me you were giving him books to read!” My father looked from me to Danny, then back to me. “Ah,” he said, smiling. “I see you know about Danny and the library.” “I told him,” Danny said. He had begun to relax a bit, and the look of surprise was gone from his face now. “And why should I tell you?” my father asked. “A boy asks me for books to read. What is there to tell?” “But all this week, even after the accident, you never said a word!” “I did not think it was for me to tell,” my father said quietly. “A boy comes into the library, climbs to the third floor, the room with old journals, looks carefully around, finds a table behind a bookcase where almost no one can see him, and sits down to read. Some days I am there, and he comes over to me, apologizes for interrupting me in my work, and asks me if I can recommend a book for him to read. He does not know me, and I do not know him. I ask him if he is interested in literature or science, and he tells me he is interested in anything that is worthwhile. I suggest a book, and two hours later he returns, thanks me, and tells me he has finished reading it, is there anything else I can recommend. I am a little astonished, ...