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stomach rumbled embarrassingly. Even after several weeks here, every meal felt as though it might be my last.
    The boys whooped and hollered their way to the kitchen table, its enamel top scratched from years of use. Charlie plunked Robbie down in his chair before grabbing Liam and Jack under each arm and pretending to bang their heads together.
    â€œBoys!” Mrs. Connally admonished, but her tone was good-natured, as if the chaos was normal. She turned to me. “Why don’t you sit here next to me where these little rascals can’t bother you.”
    â€œThank you.” I slid into the chair Mrs. Connally indicated, then looked hopefully at the empty seat next to mine. But Charlie dropped down between the twins on the other side of the table.
    Mrs. Connally passed me a plate of sliced tomato. “We just bought these at a farmer’s stand on the way into town.” The piece I took was warm. Biting into it, I was taken back to sun-soaked holiday afternoons at the cottage outside Trieste, filling our baskets with tomatoes off the vine for Nonna to make her thick sauce.
    Mrs. Connally handed around the platter of sandwiches and glasses of milk. The kitchen turned quiet as the boys attacked their lunches. Each of them ate differently. Charlie wolfed his meal down in great bites, barely pausing between mouthfuls to breathe or speak. Jack was meticulous, as if auditioning for a part. Liam sat back and nibbled disinterestedly, while Robbie played with his food just shy of irritating his mother. I ate carefully, taking care not to leave crumbs.
    From where I sat at the kitchen table, I could see that the house was a bit down-at-heels, the paint peeling and woodwork worn. “It’s been in my family for generations,” Mrs. Connally said, seeming to notice. “It’s a lot to keep up, but I couldn’t bear to sell it.”
    â€œWe live in South Philadelphia back home,” Jack offered between bites.
    â€œWe do, too, I think. Fifth and Porter,” I said, repeating the location I’d heard from Aunt Bess.
    â€œThat’s the Jewish neighborhood,” Liam observed.
    â€œLiam, mind your manners,” his mother cautioned.
    â€œIs it true that Jews don’t believe in Jesus?” Robbie asked. I nodded. His eyes widened with disbelief. “We’re Catholic.”
    â€œSort of,” Charlie corrected. “Dad is, and we go to church sometimes. But Mom is a Quaker.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIt’s just a different kind of church,” Mrs. Connally replied. “And we Quakers are pacifists, which means we don’t believe in fighting or war.” Still not fully understanding, I made a note to look up the words later.
    â€œIs that why you don’t want America to help stop Germany?” Charlie asked his mother. His voice was rich and resonant. “Because you’re a pacifist?”
    â€œPartly, I suppose. Mostly it’s because I have four sons.” My heart sank. I had heard such talk at the drugstore and among Aunt Bess’s friends. Back in Italy, I’d just assumed that the Americans would come and help stop the Germans, that it was only a matter of time. How could they not? But here people spoke of the war as though it were unreal, a book or movie, or simply someone else’s problem.
    â€œWe live about ten blocks from you,” Jack said. I turned to him, grateful for the return to an easier subject.
    â€œYou’ll attend high school in the fall?” Mrs. Connally asked me.
    â€œUgh, only Mom would ruin a perfectly good lunch with the
S
word.” Liam ducked as his mother swiped at him playfully, then tried to wipe mustard from the corner of his mouth.
    â€œAt South Philadelphia High School, I think.”
    â€œIt’s called Southern,” Liam corrected disdainfully.
    â€œUs, too,” Jack chimed in. “Charlie’s gonna be quarterback of the football team.”
    Charlie