“Small as she is, she already feels how it hurts to swallow charity eating,” defended Mrs. Ravinsky.
Miss Naughton could understand the woman’s dislike of accepting charity. She had coped with this pride of the poor before. But she had no sympathy with this mother who fostered resentment in her child towards the help that was so urgently needed. Miss Naughton’s long-suffering patience broke. She turned from the stove and resolutely continued her questioning.
“Has your husband tried our employment bureau?”
“No.”
“Then send him to our office to-morrow at nine. He can be a janitor—or a porter——”
“My man? My man a janitor or a porter?” Her eyes flamed. “Do you know who was my man in Russia? The fat of the land they brought him just for the pleasure to listen to his learning. Barrels full of meat, pots full of chicken fat stood packed in my cellar. I used to make boilers of jelly at a time. The gefüllte fish only I gave away is more than the charities give out to the poor in a month.”
Miss Naughton could not suppress a smile. “Why did you leave it, then, if it was all so perfect?”
“My gefüllte fish! Oi-i-i! Oi-i!! My apple strudel!” she kept repeating, unable to tear herself away from the dream of the past.
“Can you live on the apple strudel you had in Russia? In America a man must work to support his family——”
“All thick-heads support their families,” defended Reb Ravinsky’s wife. “Any fat-belly can make money. My man is a light for the world. He works for God who feeds even the worms under the stone.”