Morrie took comfort in her soothing voice, her school lessons, her strong character.
When his brother returned from the medical home, still wearing leg braces from the polio,
the two of them shared a rollaway bed in the kitchen of their apartment, and Eva would kiss them good-night.
Morrie waited on those kisses like a puppy waits on milk, and he felt, deep down, that he had a mother again.
There was no escaping their poverty, however. They lived now in the Bronx, in a one-bedroom apartment
in a redbrick building on Tremont Avenue, next to an Italian beer garden where the old men played boccie on summer evenings.
Because of the Depression, Morrie’s father found even less work in the fur business.
Sometimes when the family sat at the dinner table, all Eva could put out was bread.
“What else is there?” David would ask. “Nothing else,” she would answer.
When she tucked Morrie and David into bed, she would sing to them in Yiddish.
Even the songs were sad and poor. There was one about a girl trying to sell her cigarettes:
Please buy my cigarettes. They are dry, not wet by rain. Take pity on me, take pity on me.
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