“Who is poor who has hopes on America?” flaunted my mother.
“Sell my red quilted petticoat that grandmother left for my dowry,” I urged in excitement.
“Sell the feather beds, sell the samovar,” chorused the children.
“Sure we can sell everything—the goat and all the winter things,” added my mother; “it must be always summer in America.”
I flung my arms around my brother and he seized Bessie by the curls, and we danced about the room crazy with joy.
“Beggars!” laughed my mother, “why are you so happy with yourselves? How will you go to America without a shirt on your back—without shoes on your feet?”
But we ran out into the road, shouting and singing: “We’ll sell everything we got—we’ll go to America.”
“White bread and meat we’ll eat every day—in America! In America!”
That very evening we fetched Berel Zalman, the usurer, and showed him all our treasures, piled up in the middle of the hut.
“Look, all these fine feather beds, Berel Zalman,” urged my mother; “this grand fur coat came from Nijny itself. My grandfather bought it at the fair.”