“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!” said my laughing 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're going to America. White bread and meat we'll eat every day in America, in America!”
That very evening we brought 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[28] itself. My grandfather bought it at the fair.”
I held up my red-quilted petticoat, the supreme sacrifice of my ten-year-old life. Even my father shyly pushed forward the samovar.
“It can hold enough tea for the whole village,” he declared.