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removing potatoes from boiling water.
    â€œIt’s nothing. Menahem,” said Nucia, her voice hoarse, “just surprised me.”
    â€œMe, too,” said Rachel.
    â€œI think you’d better explain,” Jacob said to Menahem.
    â€œ Menahem sounds strange at my school,” he said. “The teacher’s always saying it wrong and most of the boys have American names.”
    Mrs. Bloom placed a white oval plate on the table, with skinned, boiled potatoes arranged in a pyramid. She fetched a platter of roast chicken and set it down. Then she took her seat at the end of the table.
    A warm, cinnamon aroma filled the air, reminding Rachel of her Kishinev home, where her mother had served sour cream cake almost every Saturday night.
    â€œBut your name!” gasped Nucia. “Your parents gave you your name.”
    â€œIt was my grandfather’s name,” said Menahem.
    â€œYou see?” said Nucia. “I’m sure he would be hurt if he knew you wanted to give up his name.”
    â€œBut he’s dead.” Menahem spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if were describing the weather. “How would he know?”
    Rachel’s mouth twitched with amusement. Mr. Bloom laughed into a linen square.
    â€œI don’t think you understand, Menahem,” said Jacob. “It’s a very big decision, changing your name. And it would be expensive, changing your documents.”
    â€œI don’t care if my name stays the same on paper,” said Menahem with an earnest face that made him look older than his nine years. “I just want to have an American name.”
    â€œDo you have a name in mind?” asked Rachel.
    â€œThe fellows call me Marty,” he replied.
    â€œMarty,” said Rachel. She chewed a piece of chicken and swallowed. “It kind of suits you.”
    The color faded from Nucia’s face. “You mean, people are already using this name?”
    Menahem nodded with exuberance. “Even the teacher.” He stuffed a potato in his mouth.
    â€œIt would be hard to think of you as anyone but Menahem,” said Jacob.
    â€œIt would be all right if you forget sometimes,” said Menahem. “Just so long as it’s not in front of my friends.”
    Mr. Bloom snorted into the back of his hand. “It’s not so unusual for people to change their names here in America,” he said to Nucia and Jacob. “Why, off the top of my head, I can count five people I know.” He sat back in his chair and patted his big belly.
    Mrs. Bloom rose from the table and filled the kettle with water for tea.
    â€œSome of the names people arrive with are too long or too difficult for Americans to say,” Mr. Bloom continued.
    â€œSo you think we should let Menahem become Marty?” said Jacob to Mr. Bloom.
    â€œIt is not my place to tell you what to do,” Mr. Bloom replied. “I just think you should know that it’s not an unusual decision.”
    â€œWhat do you think?” Nucia asked Mrs. Bloom.
    Mrs. Bloom sat and thought about Nucia’s question for a moment. “I think it’s important that the boy feels comfortable here, no?”
    Nucia dabbed at her lips with a linen square. She lifted her troubled eyes to Menahem’s. “Would it be all right if I still called you Menahem, when we’re alone?”
    â€œI don’t mind,” shrugged Menahem. “Just not around my friends.”
    â€œI promise,” said Nucia. “Just when it’s the two of us.”
    â€œI guess we’ll have to start calling you Marty, too,” said Mrs. Bloom. She stood to collect the empty plates.
    Rachel and Nucia helped Mrs. Bloom gather the plates. They stacked them beside the basin and Nucia began washing the plates and cutlery while Rachel dried. Mrs. Bloom poured water into a teapot and started cutting thick slices of sour cream cake.
    â€œI think you should give Menahem, I mean Marty, the biggest