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but—”
    She pulled my arm from behind my back and systematically opened my fingers one by one to place the bill in my palm. “Buy what makes you happy,” said Grandma.
    “But my mother said—”
    “Your mother!” A deep crease appeared on one side of her mouth. “This is not for your mother to know!”
    Grandma poured my mother’s coffee and set it down on the kitchen table along with a cup of matzo-ball soup for Sharon. Then she took a large blue crockery bowl and carefully ladled in the steaming broth before dropping in two fat matzo balls. At the kitchen door she called out, “Soup’s ready.” My father came at once, sat down, and finished off his soup while Sharon was still blowing on maybe the second or third spoonful.
    My mother set her coffee cup down and asked, “How is it, Harry?”
    “Not bad,” he said, accepting his second bowl.
    When I heard car doors slamming I looked at the kitchen clock—ten minutes after two. My little cousins, Diane and Jerry, were the first to run in. As I kissed Uncle Irv I saw that everybody else had found somebody to kiss. Uncle Ben called my mother “Sis” and asked, “How’s everything?”
    Then I heard Aunt Dorothy laughing her high-pitched laugh. “Don’t kiss me, Harry. I might swoon.”
    “Come here, you beautiful thing, and kiss a real man,” said my father, “and you’ll never go back to that husband of yours.”
    Now it so happens Aunt Dorothy is no beautiful thing. Frankly speaking, she has buck teeth and good-sized pits on her cheeks, left over from her acne years. And her figure is fatless, though certainly not faultless. Sort of muscle and bone under tightly stretched skin, probably because of all the golf she plays. Two or three years ago her picture was in the Commercial Appeal when she won the Ridgeway Country Club’s women’s golf championship.
    My father led Aunt Dorothy to the window side of the living room and began whispering in her ear. Suddenly her head fell back and she laughed like a woman laughs who wants to please a man. “Oh, Harry, you’re a real card,” she said.
    It has always seemed strange to me, but women like my father. Of course, he’s forever giving them attention, telling them what a big deal they are, so beautiful and all. My Uncle Max told me that my father was the only one of the five Bergen boys who was a genuine “ladies’ man,” spending his pay on clothes and girls. I thought he was just fooling me, but later I asked Aunt Rose which one of her brothers was the most popular with the girls, and right off the bat sheanswered, “Your daddy. The girls were crazy about him.” But he can be very nice to other people. I’ve noticed that.
    When we all sat down at the dining room table, each place had its own small plate of chopped liver resting on a leaf of lettuce. Grandpa stood and raised his wine glass. I reached for mine, and for the first time it was completely full. Just as full as Grandpa’s or Uncle Ben’s, and if I’m not mistaken it was slightly fuller than my mother’s.
    At the moment of absolute quiet, Grandpa spoke. “We pray that we’ll all be together for many, many years to come. And that Hitler and his Nazis should be finished— Kaput! And our dear President Roosevelt should be given a long life and much wisdom. L’chayim! ”
    “L’chayim,” we repeated, bringing our glasses to our lips.
    The talk centered on war news. The fate of the Jews, the capture of General Wainright, and the Russian offensive on the Kalinin Front. My father gave dire warnings about the Russians—how it would be better if they were fighting against us. That way we could destroy both Hitler and Stalin at the same time. Two birds with one stone.
    “Why do we always talk war, war, war?” my mother finally asked. “Why don’t we ever talk about happy things like clothes or parties? Something nice?”
    Aunt Dorothy nodded in agreement. “Ben, tell your sister about the insurance meeting in New York that the