“Oi weh! My bitter heart!” I yet see before me the anguish of my mother’s face as she turned her head away from the charity lady.
My father’s eyes sank to the floor. I could feel him shrink in upon himself like one condemned.
The bite of food turned to gall in my throat.
“How long have you been in America? Where were you born?” She questioned by rote, taking out pad and pencil.
The silence of the room was terrible. The woman who had invited us for supper slunk into the bedroom, unable to bear our shame.
“How long have you been in America?” repeated the charity lady.
Choked silence.
“Is there any one here who can speak?” She translated her question into Yiddish.
“A black year on Gedalyeh Mindel, the liar!” my mother burst out at last. “Why did we leave our home? We were among our own. We were people there. But what are we here? Nobodies—nobodies! Cats and dogs at home ain’t thrown in the street. Such things could only happen in America—the land without a heart—the land without a God!”
“For goodness’ sakes! Is there any one here intelligent enough to answer a straight question?” The charity lady turned with disgusted impatience from my mother to me. “Can you tell me how long you have been in this country? Where were you born?”