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her. Ida was fully awake now, and the events of the day tumbled quickly through her brain. She thought of the episode of the gas, and a sharp streak of pain ripped through every nerve in her body. Had Sam really tried to take his life? Had he? She wanted to wake him and ask him, but she was afraid. She turned over and tried to sleep again, but she couldn’t.
    Ida reached over to the night table and looked at the luminous face of the clock. It was four-twenty-five. The alarm would ring at six. Sam would get up and she would ask him, then maybe she could sleep. She closed her eyes, but still no sleep came. She opened them and kept them open.
    A faint tinkling on the window caused her to look out. By the light of the street lamp she could see that it was snowing again. The flakes drifted down slowly and silently. They seemed to hang in the air, then the wind rose and blew them against the windows. The windows rattled softly; then everything became quiet again, except for the ticking of the clock.
    Ida reached over for the clock and shut off the alarm. It was nearly five. At six o’clock she would get up, dress, and go downstairs. She would pull in the milk box and the bread. Then she would sweep the store, and then the snow from the sidewalk. Let Sam sleep. Later, if he felt better, he could come downstairs. Ida looked at the clock again. Five past five. The sleep would do him good.
    1943

Benefit Performance
    M aurice Rosenfeld was conscious of himself as he took the key from his pocket and inserted it into the door of his small apartment. The Jewish actor saw his graying hair, the thick black eyebrows, the hunch of disappointment in his shoulders, and the sardonic grimness of his face accentuated by the twisted line of the lips. Rosenfeld turned the key in the lock, aware that he was playing his role well. Tragedy in the twisting of a key, he thought.
    “Who’s there?” said a voice from inside the apartment.
    Surprised, Rosenfeld pushed open the door and saw that it was his daughter who had called out. Sophie was lying in her bed, which became the couch when it was folded together, and her bedroom became the living room. There was one other room, a small one, where Rosenfeld and his wife slept, and an alcove for the kitchen. When her father was working and came home late after the performance, Sophie would set up three screens around her bed so that she would not be awakened by the light which he put on while heating up some milk for himself before going to bed. The screens served another purpose. Whenever Sophie and her father quarreled, she set them up and let him rant outside. Deprived of her presence, he became silent and sulked. She sat on her sofa, reading a magazine by the light of her own lamp and blessing the screens for giving her privacy and preserving her dignity.
    The screens were stacked up in the corner, and Rosenfeld was surprised to see his daughter in bed.
    “What’s the matter?” he said.
    “I’m not well,” she answered.
    “Where’s Momma?”
    “She went to work.”
    “Today she’s working?”
    “She had half a day off. She’s working from five to ten.”
    Rosenfeld looked around. The table in the alcove was not set and it was nearly suppertime.
    “She left me to eat, something?”
    “No, she thought you were going to eat with Markowitz. Is there anything doing?”
    “No,” he said bitterly, “nothing is doing. The Jewish theayter is deep in hell. Since the war, the Jews stay home. Everybody else goes out for a good time to forget their troubles, but Jews stay home and worry. Second Avenue is like a tomb.”
    “What did Markowitz want to see you for?” Sophie asked.
    “A benefit, something. I should act in a benefit for Isaac Levin.”
    “Don’t worry,” she said, “you had a good season last year.”
    “I’m too young to live on memories,” he said.
    Sophie had no answer to that.
    “If you want me to make you something, I’ll get up,” she said.
    He walked into the