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different from other people.”
    “No we’re not, Itzik. If we become kindred to our fellow Poles, stop calling ourselves the chosen people, and insulting them
     with our kosher eating, they’ll stop hating us for being different. We’ll be able to live like men in this country. That’s
     how Piotr and I are brothers.”
    Itzik nodded slowly. Then he began to smile. The color returned a little to his cheeks. “If socialism will get rid of the
     thieving rabbis, then I’m for it.”
    “Well,” said Hillel, giving Itzik a playful tap on the head, “then you’d better learn how to drink!”
    Thwap!
I broke one of the strings on Hillel’s guitar and kept him turning around in confusion, looking for the cause. What was he
     teaching my Itzik?
To be kindred to our fellow Poles?
Was he stupid or just willfully blind? When the Poles let us own land and live where and how we want, maybe we’ll be kindred
     as two dignified peoples can be. Blame the rabbis and our traditions for the rules the Poles made for us? What kind of crazy
     thinking was this? The best thing a Jew can aspire to, after five thousand years of survival, is to learn to drink like a
     Pole? For shame!
    A fog had rolled in, carrying with it the smell of horse manure and sewage, tar and smoke. I hovered over Hillel and Itzik
     as the two made their way to Bonipart Street through a maze of tiny workshops that gave off their own smells of leather, yeast,
     sour cabbage, and decayed herring.
    We arrived at Pesha Goldman’s damp basement apartment.
“Sholem-aleichem,”
Pesha’s wife, Devora, welcomed us.
“Aleichem-sholem,”
Hillel answered. She put her hand on Itzik’s shoulder and ushered my exhausted boy in, even though Hillel had barely explained
     his presence. “You look very tired,” Devora said to Itzik. “Lie down on that pallet. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.” Her hair
     was not covered by a marriage cap, as would have been proper. But even so, I liked her and the care she took to make Itzik,
     a stranger, comfortable.
    Itzik mumbled his thanks and went immediately to the place Devora had indicated for him to lie down. He pulled out the red
     ribbon his sister Hindeleh had given him and began to play with it, comforting himself by wrapping and rewrapping it first
     around his fingers, then his wrists and forearms.
    Almighty God,
I called out.
I think maybe You should take a look at what Itzik the Socialist, the one all of Zokof used to call Itzik the Faithless One,
     has done with his little sister Hindeleh’s ribbon. You see? He can’t let go of You. Look how he wraps it, around his hand
     like a pious Jew laying tefillin.
    The door opened, and Pesha came in, stout but sturdy, squinting slightly through his glasses. “Ah, Hillel. Are Schimmel and
     Gordon with you?” he asked, removing his coat and galoshes.
    “No,” his wife answered. “They went to the printer for the leaflets.”
    “Well, good. Good. They’ll be ready for distribution tomorrow then.” Pesha rubbed his hands together and nodded agreeably
     at his wife. Then, noticing Itzik on the floor, he said, “A new student?”
    Hillel smiled. “Yes, he’s just got off the train from Radom this afternoon, and he’s already become a socialist.”
    Itzik sat up.
    “Very impressive,” Pesha said warmly. Then, studying Itzik more closely, he said to him, “You have a good face. I wonder if
     you’d mind posing for me tomorrow.”
    Itzik stared up at Pesha, so drunk with fatigue he could not speak. Who could blame him, poor soul? In one day, he’d been
     accused of killing a man, been forced to leave his home and family in terror, and traveled to a strange city, where he’d been
     tossed from here to there like a dust rag.
    Pesha nodded understandingly. “We can talk about this tomorrow. Rest, child.”
    That night, long after Itzik had fallen into his deep sleep and Pesha’s students had reassembled under their teacher’s roof,
     I listened as they ate pumpkin