Your God and my God are all the same
“Went dukhan, drank tea,” he said to Kerbalai. “Mine wants eat.”
Kerbalai spoke Russian well, but the deacon thought the Tartar would understand him better if he spoke to him in broken Russian.
“Fried eggs, gave cheese…”
“Come in, come in, pope,” Kerbalai said, bowing, “I’ll give you everything… There’s cheese, there’s wine… Eat whatever you like.”
“What’s God in Tartar?” the deacon asked as he went into the dukhan.
“Your God and my God are all the same,” said Kerbalai, not understanding him. “God is one for everybody, only people are different. Some Russian, some are Turks, or some are English – there are many kinds of people, but God is one.”
“Very good, sir. If all people worship one God, why do you Muslims look upon Christians as your eternal enemies?”
“Why get angry? said Kerbalai, clasping his stomach with both hands. “You’re a pope, I’m a Muslim, you say you want to eat, I give… Only the rich man sorts out which God is yours, which is mine, but for the poor man, it’s all the same. Eat, please.”