“Oi weh!” my mother cried in dismay. “Where’s the sunshine in America?”
She went to the window and looked out at the blank wall of the next house. “Gottuniu! Like in a grave so dark …”
“It ain’t so dark, it’s only a little shady.” Gedalyeh Mindel lighted the gas. “Look only”—he pointed with pride to the dim gaslight. “No candles, no kerosene lamps in America, you turn on a screw and put to it a match and you got it light like with sunshine.”
Again the shadow fell over me, again the doubt of America!
In America were rooms without sunlight, rooms to sleep in, to eat in, to cook in, but without sunshine. And Gedalyeh Mindel was happy. Could I be satisfied with just a place to sleep and eat in, and a door to shut people out—to take the place of sunlight? Or would I always need the sunlight to be happy?
And where was there a place in America for me to play? I looked out into the alley below and saw pale-faced children scrambling in the gutter. “Where is America?” cried my heart.
My eyes were shutting themselves with sleep. Blindly, I felt for the buttons on my dress, and buttoning I sank back in sleep again—the deadweight sleep of utter exhaustion.
“Heart of mine!” my mother’s voice moaned above me. “Father is already gone an hour. You know how they’ll squeeze from you a nickel for every minute you’re late. Quick only!”
I seized my bread and herring and tumbled down the stairs and out into the street. I ate running, blindly pressing through the hurrying throngs of workers—my haste and fear choking each mouthful.