“Here’s your tea.”
I stared at her, half hearing.
“Ain’t you going to eat nothing?”
“Oi weh! Yetta! I can’t stand it!” The cry broke from me. “I didn’t come to America to turn into a machine. I came to America to make from myself a person. Does America want only my hands—only the strength of my body—not my heart—not my feelings—my thoughts?”
“Our heads ain’t smart enough,” said Yetta, practically. “We ain’t been to school like the American-born.”
“What for did I come to America but to go to school—to learn—to think—to make something beautiful from my life …”
“Sh-sh! Sh-sh! The boss—the boss!” came the warning whisper.
A sudden hush fell over the shop as the boss entered. He raised his hand.
Breathless silence.
The hard, red face with pig’s eyes held us under its sickening spell. Again I saw the Cossack and heard him thunder the ukaz.