“Of course we dare!” The superintendent returned Shmendrik’s livid gaze, made bold by the confidence that what he was doing was the only scientific method of administering philanthropy. “These dollars, so generously given, must go to those most worthy.... I find in these letters references to gifts of fruit and other luxuries you did not report at our office.” “He never kept nothing for himself!” Hanneh Breineh broke in defensively. “He gave it all for the children.” Ignoring the interruption Mr. Bernstein turned to the “friendly visitor.” “I’m glad you brought my attention to this case. It’s but one of the many impositions on our charity ... Come ...” “Kossacks! Pogromschiks!” Sophie’s rage broke at last. “You call yourselves Americans? You dare call yourselves Jews? You bosses of the poor! This man Shmendrik, whose house you broke into, whom you made to shame like a beggar--he is the one Jew from whom the Jews can be proud! He gives all he is--all he has--as God gives. _He is_ charity. “But you--you are the greed--the shame of the Jews! _All-right-niks_--fat bellies in fur coats! What do you give from yourselves? You may eat and bust eating! Nothing you give till you’ve stuffed yourselves so full that your hearts are dead!” The door closed in her face. Her wrath fell on indifferent backs as the visitors mounted the steps to the street. Shmendrik groped blindly for the Bible. In a low, quavering voice, he began the chant of the oppressed--the wail of the downtrodden. “I am afraid, and a trembling taketh hold of my flesh. Wherefore do the wicked live, become old, yea, mighty in power?” Hanneh Breineh and the children drew close around the old man. They were weeping--unconscious of their weeping--deep-buried memories roused by the music, the age-old music of the Hebrew race. Through the grating Sophie saw the limousine pass. The chant flowed on: “Their houses are safe from fear; neither is the rod of God upon them.” Silently Sophie stole back to her room. She flung herself on the cot, pressed her fingers to her burning eyeballs. For a long time she lay rigid, clenched--listening to the drumming of her heart like the sea against rock barriers. Presently the barriers burst. Something in her began pouring itself out. She felt for her pencil--paper--and began to write. Whether she reached out to God or man she knew not, but she wrote on and on all through that night. The gray light entering her grated window told her that beyond was dawn. Sophie looked up: “Ach! At last it writes itself in me!” she whispered triumphantly. “It’s not me--it’s their cries--my own people--crying in me! Hanneh Breineh, Shmendrik, they will not be stilled in me, till all America stops to listen.” HOW I FOUND AMERICA Part I Every breath I drew was a breath of fear, every shadow a stifling shock, every footfall struck on my heart like the heavy boot of the Cossack.