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company is sending us all to.”
    “Irv and I want to take in all the sights,” said Uncle Ben. “But all the girls can talk about is shopping and plays. Plays and shopping!”
    My mother turned her gaze from Uncle Ben to my grandfather. “You’re sending them on a vacation but not me?”
    Grandpa shook his head. “I’m not sending them any place—the company is.”
    “Papa, you are the company!” said my mother, not hiding the anger in her voice. “And you’ve always done that, given everything to your precious boys. Don’t I count for anything? Don’t I deserve something nice too?”
    My grandma’s chin lifted as though it had been struck by an uppercut. “That’s foolish talk, Pearl. Foolish! The difference between you and your brothers is that they always liked whatever they were given, but you, Pearl, never liked anything once it was yours.”
    It was early evening when we drove across the Harrihan Bridge, entering the neon strip of highway known as West Memphis, Arkansas.
    I leaned back into my dark corner of the car, patted my skirt pocket, and felt reassured by the folded square of paper. Grandma’s ten-dollar bill. On the seat next to me was a whole bag of her freshly made cheese and onion knishes. I breathed in deep. It was as though I had just left home and was now going to where I lived.

3. POWs
    W ALKING BACK DOWN Main Street with the bank bag heavy with rolls of dimes, quarters, and halves, I began wondering what I could do with the rest of this Monday. If only I lived in Wynne City, there’d be no problem. The public pool is filled with kids, more kids than chlorine; the school library is open even when school isn’t; and the Capitol Theater has a matinee practically every afternoon.
    A drab-olive truck, canvas-covered from top to sides, passed.I recognized it as the Army truck that had picked up the prisoners from the train station. It turned and angle-parked in front of our store.
    Two men in Army uniform and wearing guns in polished leather holsters jumped from the cab. One of the soldiers, quite muscular despite a prominent belly, called to the back of the truck, “All right, out! Everybody out.”
    And out they came: young men. Two, three, four. Not much older than boys. Five, six, seven. Wearing their matched sets of blue denims. Eight, nine, and ten. As they walked towards the entrance of the store the backs of their shirts revealed for all the world to see the stenciled black letters: POW.
    They were, with one exception, blond- or brown-haired and wore pleasant enough expressions. Didn’t they know they were losing the war? That they were at this moment entering a Jewish store?
    As I followed the last prisoner inside, I watched my father approach the guard with the corporal’s stripes. “Something I can do for you boys today?”
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Bergen. These prisoners been spending more time passing out in Mr. Jackson’s field than they do picking cotton. So Mr. Jackson gave them two dollars apiece and the commandant said it was all right to bring them here for field hats.” He pointed toward the one black-haired prisoner who was moving away from the herd. “Reiker there speaks American. He’ll talk for them.”
    “Tell the boys to come over to the hat department,” my father said as though he didn’t hate them. As if he had never said, “Every German oughta be taken out and tortured to death.”
    When the nine prisoners were gathered around the counter the corporal shouted, “Reiker!” Reiker didn’t look quite so tall or strong as the others. His eyes, specked with green, sought communication with my father. “The men wish to purchase straw field hats to protect themselves from your formidable Arkansas sun.”
    My father remained impassive. “Here are some styles in men’s straws. These are the best quality at one dollar and seventy-nine cents. They will last you for years.”
    Last you for years? I checked out my father’s face to see if he was making a joke