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myself, my mother would hug me and rock me. And then she’d look at me and say: ‘Did that help the hurt go away?’ To my mother, being loved caused healing.”
    Rare as those outward demonstrations may have been, the love that inspired them was constant, and Moishe always knew that his mother cared for him. He also knew that his father cared about him, though dynamics between fathers and sons are bound to be different—perhaps more complex—than those between sons and mothers. Likewise, the influence of Jewish religion and identity on Moishe was strong, but complex. To that latter influence we will now turn.
    * Moishe was conscientious about maintaining those distinctions. He recalled, “One year our teacher was handing out candy canes to the whole class. She told us they were for Christmas. Of course I wanted the candy, but still I told her, ‘I don’t get one. I’m Jewish.’” The exclusion from anything connected with Christmas was entirely self-imposed as a matter of loyalty. (The teacher, who did not want any child to feel excluded, smiled and said, “‘That’s all right. You can have yours for Hanukkah.’”)
    * Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur

THREE
    To a little child, there’s not much difference between a star and a streetlight. My world was so small that, for all I knew, the moon could have been a decoration on the wall of the sky. But as I began to gain a larger view of the universe, my sense of awe over God grew.
    â€”MOISHE ROSEN
    A pril 12, 1945, was not a good day. Moishe felt somewhat numb as he processed the news that Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the thirty-second president of the United States, was dead. He had arrived at cheder as usual and immediately noticed that something was amiss. His teacher, Mr. Lerman, was looking down at his old hardwood desk. He waited until the whole class was seated to look up and then, with great effort, said, “Boys, I have something terrible to tell you. . . .” He paused, struggling to compose himself, but his voice was still choked with emotion as he announced, “President Roosevelt died today. He was the best friend the Jews ever had! All of you who know how to say kaddish [A prayer recited in daily synagogue services and also by those mourning the recent death of a close relative.] can join with me now.” He began to sing the ancient Aramaic chant: “Yisgadal, v’yiskadash, sh’may rabboh . . .”
    Later that evening, Moishe and his family huddled by the radio. They were torn between grief over the president and fear of what his death might mean for the country, for the war, and for the whole free world.
    â€œHitler can’t hold out much longer,” Ben said in a low voice.
    But what about the Japanese? Moishe thought. They got one of our destroyers today .
    Meanwhile, the radio commentator was reminding sorrow-stricken Americans of Roosevelt’s achievements. And then came the voice of the dead president, repeating those famous words from his first inaugural address: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” The president was sixty-three years old when he died.
    Fifty years older than me, Moishe thought. I’m never going to be that old. *
    Sixty-three years meant sixty-three birthdays. Moishe wondered if any of FDR’s birthdays had been real clinkers. He wasn’t sure which year was supposed to be special for the goyim (Gentiles). For Jewish boys, it was definitely the thirteenth year. That was the big birthday, the one that meant he could be bar mitzvah, * no longer a boy but a man.
    Moishe would always remember his thirteenth birthday and how it would forever be associated with the passing of a United States president. It was a sad and dreary day; the entire country was in mourning and celebration of any kind would feel strange and unseemly.
    Still, now that he was 13, he was to be bar mitzvah—and so the following Thursday he went