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far gone. “Otherwise,” he added, “those things are going to fall off his feet.”
    â€œI know,” said my mother. “But I can’t afford to pay that much.”
    â€œWell, what about clogs, then?” he said. “They don’t cost half that much.”
    But she was already shaking her head, and was halfway out of the shop. “I’ll just have to wait a bit,” she said, “until I have the money for shoes.”
    â€œWell, don’t wait too long,” he called after her. “Or that fellow’ll be going barefooted.”
    I was disappointed. I wanted clogs more than anything else. “Why can’t I have clogs?” I nagged her once we were outside.
    â€œBecause you can’t,” she said. She had told me once before why I couldn’t have clogs, and refused to discuss it again.
    Besides, she was in a truly desperate situation that day, and couldn’t have had enough to even buy clogs. We crossed over to the kosher butcher shop. It was crowded inside. My mother stood back with me against the wall, not too anxious yet to be waited on until all the others had gone. The customers were mostly from up the park, the well-to-do, the wives of the tailoring shop masters, the jeweler’s wife, the landlord’s. She must have felt self-conscious among them.
    Behind the counter the butcher hacked away furiously at a haunch of beef. He was a big, heavy, muscular man with red cheeks and red snapping eyes. He wore a long white apron stained with blood. There was fury in his movements as he slashed at the beef, cutting expensive steaks that his wife beside him then wrapped. She was a tall, slender woman who wore no apron over her fancy dress and seemed quite out of place there behind the counter amidst all the blood and raw meat. In fact, there was a certain elegance to her manner and the way she wrapped packages, and keeping up a running conversation with the women, her speech feigned a haughty, aristocratic British accent that sometimes blended incongruously with her Russian accent.
    And yet, despite all her airs and aloofness, she was known as a sharp businesswoman, and always kept a pencil tucked in her hair behind one ear and a ledger book close beside her to record every transaction. It was she who caught sight of my mother standing in the back of the crowd, and immediately whispered something to her husband, who threw a sharp, ugly look in our direction.
    Craning her long, graceful neck, the butcher’s wife called out over the heads of the others, “Yes, madame, is there something I can do for you?”
    Everyone turned to look. My mother, flushing a little, stammered, ‘That’s all right. I’ll wait till you have more time.”
    â€œWe always have time for our customers,” the woman said, smiling a little.
    â€œBut it’s not my turn,” my mother protested.
    â€œNow it is.” Still the same smile as she continued, “I am making it your turn. So please tell me what it is I can do for you.”
    There was cruelty in every word, and in her smile. She knew full well what my mother had to say, and she was forcing her to say it in front of all the other people, and my mother had no choice.
    The flush growing deeper, she stammered, “I just wanted a pound or two of neck meat, and perhaps some bones for a soup.”
    â€œAnd you want it on tick, I suppose,” the butcher’s wife finished for her.
    â€œYes. I thought perhaps, just for a few days.”
    She was wasting her time. In her best haughty British fashion, the butcher’s wife was saying, “Madame, unfortunately you are behind on your account too much already, so I cannot give you any more tick. After all, we are not a charity organization.”
    But now, suddenly, my mother was pulling at my hand and we were on the way out, with all the women staring. Outside, we walked swiftly. Her cheeks were flaming and she was looking