The most religious person Stern knew was his grandmother, who opened the neighborhood synagogue each morning at five-thirty in cold weather or warm. In arguments with friends as to whose grandmother was more religious, Stern would weigh in with "Mine _opens_ the damned synagogue," and he would generally walk off with the honors. A woman of indeterminate age with long silver hair kept in a bun, she lived out her last years in a small flat in a house near Stern's apartment building, which she shared with another grandmother. Since her own flat faced a back alley and had no front windows, she would come and spend most of the day in Stern's apartment, where she could sit at the window, look out, and see light and people. Most of the day she prayed, bowing and singing softly and wetting the pages of her prayer book as she slapped them along. She wore coat sweaters and had long breasts that hung down to her waist; Stern, horrified by them, wondered nevertheless what old women's breasts were like--yet hoped he'd never have to look at a set. When she was finished praying, she would look out the window and spot other grandmothers and laugh at them all for having crooked feet. Stern's father teased her, and whenever he spotted another old lady in the street, he would say, "There goes one of her buddies. Don't worry. She's got a whole mob of them organized." Her mind slipped and she buried bits of food around Stern's apartment, a piece of lettuce here, a slice of orange there, under sofa cushions and behind vases. When Stern's father found one, he would say, "She's got enough buried to feed an army. Probably got a load of money, too." Stern was going to high school during this period, and when he got home each afternoon, she would be waiting with the daily newspapers, asking Stern to explain the headlines to her since she knew little English. No matter what they said--"Strike to Tie Up Pier" or "Cold Weather to Continue"--she would take them to be an accounting of one of Hitler's misdeeds and would heap curses upon his head. Her eyesight was poor, and in the evening, when the light faded, it fell upon Stern to take her home so she would not be hit by cars in crossing the several streets on the way to the flat. Stern did not care for the job and would say, "I don't want to be walking with grandmothers." Since her wind was short, it took an agonizingly long time to get her back each night. She would grip his arm, they would walk thirty paces or so, and she would ask him to stop so she could catch her breath. During the stops, Stern would shuffle his feet and say, "Are you ready?" Sometimes, with his grandmother on his arm, he would pass friends in front of a bowling alley and he would say, "This is my grandmother," as the friends watched the pair creep by. When Stern came home from summer camp one year, he said to his mother, "Where's Granma?" And she said, "She's gone." Stern said, "What do you mean?" And his mother said, "She's not here any more.