The editor of Thorns remembered Henryk as a shy young man in a school uniform who would enter the office tentatively, place an unsolicited feuilleton signed Hen on his desk, and leave without a word. Amazed at the talent in those pieces, the editor gave him a special column. A large procession ofcolleagues and friends, both Catholics and Jews, representing the publications and philanthropies he had once been associated with, accompanied the immediate family in walking behind the horse-drawn wagon that carried his coffin to the Jewish cemetery. It was adorned only with an embossed wreath. Between school and his tutoring, Henryk bad few spare moments, but alone in his room, his only refuge in an apartment now filled with boarders, he was haunted by the thought that he, too, might end up in an asylum.
Literature is just words, while medicine is deeds.