Not surprisingly, my mother's take on our better life, as well as her estimation of America, was more complex and, to my way of thinking, far less satisfying. She never publicly contradicted my father's joyous outbursts, though later, when they were alone, she'd remind him that what got us out of Berman Court was not virtue but a loan from her parents, nor had hard work been much of a factor. True, he always worked hard, she'd grant him this much. Yet that was no excuse to go around talking nonsense about good things happening to good people, because bad things happened to good people all the time. In fact, the bad thing that had happened to me was more responsible for our move to the East End than our industry or virtue combined.

On those rare occasions when she took my father to task, he always hung his head woefully and claimed she hadn't understood what he meant. "All I'm saying is, what if this was Russia? Over there you got no chance. You just gotta take what they give you." To which my mother would roll her eyes. "How much do you really know about Russia, Lou? Did you go to Russia once and not tell me?" Which would make him even more sheepish. "It's what they say," he'd reply lamely, which would elicit, predictably, my mother's trump observation, that she couldn't care less what "they" said. It was what he said that was giving her a headache.