"They don't do a thing? They just live—and 'keep house!' All those women!
"Six years? Likely to be sixty! But I'm not going to wait!"
WHERE THE HEART IS
I.
A small stone city, very old, built upon rock, rock-paved, rock-bound with twenty centuries of walls.
A Ghetto, an age-old Ghetto, crowded into a stony corner of the crowded stony city; its steep and narrow confines not more a boundary than the iron prejudices that built them.
In the Ghetto—life, human life; close-pressed, kept to its elemental forms, with a vitality purchased at nature's awful price—by surviving slow extinction.
This life, denied all larger grouping, finds its sole joy in fierce deep love of family and home. This home a room, a low and narrow room, unwholesome, dark, incredibly filled up, yet overflowing most with love.
Here was peace. Here was Honor wherewith to face the outer Scorn. Here was Safety—the only safety known. Here, most of all was Love, Love, wound and interwound with the blood-tie, deepened by religion, intensified by centuries of relentless pressure, strengthened a thousandfold by the unbroken cruelty of the environment. Love, one with the family; the family one with the home; the home, for generation after generation—one room!
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