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in contact with—” My attention was diverted by the pounding of feet on the stairs leading to the apartment. I recognized the lumbering footfalls of Alfie and the gentler ones of Eugene trailing behind.
Just ten minutes,
I pleaded to no one in particular.
Continue on up to the roof and give me ten minutes of peace.
    But who gives a mother peace? The steps stopped and the door opened so forcefully it banged against the wall behind it.
    “You need to slam the door so?” I bellowed to Alfie in Yiddish.
    “Ma,” he called back.
    “Wipe your feet. Don’t go bringing the street into the house.” The way we yelled at each other, you’d think we lived in a Park Avenue mansion, and not the two-bedroom apartment that was about as big as a streetcar. My eyes didn’t leave the letter, though. I read, “I have been in contact with the HIAS representative and he believes a visa to Cuba is attainable. Luckily between the studio, the money from Gerda selling eggs, plus what the children bring in, we have plenty to soothe officials who may be less than eager to grant us papers.”
    Alfie came into the kitchen. “Ma, I need two cents to buy the paper,” he said in English. Eugene trailed behind him, his eyeshalf-hidden by his cap, not that he ever looked folks in the eye. That boy. As shy as a bride on her wedding night.
    “There’s a paper on the dining table.” It irritated me that my younger boys refused to speak in our own language. My English was fine—I understood everything said to me—but I preferred to use my mother tongue, and I wished my children had the courtesy to respond to me in Yiddish.
    “Yitzak has gone to
yeshiva
,” Yussel wrote, “fulfilling the dreams of Mama, may her memory be a blessing. God willing, we will be far from Hitler and the insanity of Poland soon. Write, dear sister, as soon as you can, if you haven’t written until now. Be healthy, both you and yours. From me, your eternally devoted brother, Yussel.”
    Alfie hopped a few steps to the next room, before saying, “Not the
Yiddish
paper, Ma. I need the
Herald Tribune
.” Coming back to the kitchen, he pulled at my sleeve and pointed to the kitchen window. “Don’tcha hear ’em?”
    With an exasperated sigh, I set the letter down. I would reread it five more times today, trying to understand the meaning behind the words. But now, I gave my attention to my boys. Tilting my head slightly, I let myself tune in to the noise of the street, the noise I had been trying to ignore. It rang out clearly. The newsboy called, “Extra, extra! Will Rogers and Wiley Post killed at Point Barrow! Extra, extra!” His voice grew louder and softer as he walked closer to and then farther from the apartment on his march up and down the block. I groaned as I heaved myself from the table, my leg twitching in pain as I hobbled to the window. It wasn’t easy to see through the blackened glass—how many times had I scrubbed the bottom clean only to have it clouded over with dust and ash before I’d finished the top pane?—but looking down, I couldn’t miss the flood of children.
    “Your father will have an English paper when he gets home,” I said, distracted by the children who were pouring out of doors, tumbling down steps, and running through the streets to hear the news. All those children and my leg was throbbing and thechicken entrails, soaking beneath my nose, made my stomach seethe.
    “Ma, I can’t wait,” Alfie said.
    Eugene piped up behind him. “It’s Will Rogers, Ma. Will Rogers! And he’s dead.”
    Some actor who wouldn’t have known these boys from Adam dies and they’re all up in arms?
Will Rogers.
Feh.
    But all those children. Swarming. Massing in the road. Children everywhere. Every apartment on Tenth Street housed throngs of children. In my own house, there were four. Seven-year-old Eugene. Nineteen-year-old Dottie. Izzy at seventeen. And ten-year-old Alfie. Oh, Alfie. Joey would have been ten as well but . . .
    The sounds