She said of the busboy, a young man named Al, “He will never again work for me, but you will. In his place. I’m going to take you from the dishwasher and make you a busboy.”

“Ma’am, I can’t do that.”

“And why not?” Her voice was sharp, demanding.

“I can’t speak German.”

“We will teach you,” she countered.

“How?”

“You will see,” she promised.

Early the next morning, Nora helped me dress in the uniform of a busboy. She declared that I was handsome and ready to begin my training.

“But, we don’t have any guests,” I said. “They all left, didn’t they? Carter said—”

“Not everyone,” she told me. “Come.”

She led me into the dining room. Sitting there, alone, was Harry Burger, an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth. He was reading a newspaper.

“You know Mr. Burger,” Nora said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He does not go home. He stays through the summer.”

“I’m too rich to run away,” Harry said.

Nora laughed. “No one else with have him.” Then, to Harry: “He’s yours. Teach him.”

“Ja. He will be the headwaiter before I finish with him.”

“Make him a busboy first,” Nora advised. She looked at me with doubt, then left the dining room.

I stood before Harry Burger, waiting. He studied me from a squint.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you are from where?”

“Georgia,” I answered nervously.

Harry nodded. He rolled his cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s in America?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

“It’s still there?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“I thought it was all ‘gone with the wind,’ ” he said gruffly.

“Uh, no, sir.”

“Do you know Jews in Georgia?”

I told him about the Blumenthals, who operated the clothing store.

“All good clothes come from the Jews,” he declared proudly. “My ancestor was a tailor on the exodus from Egypt. Such a mensch. He made the robes for Moses. His name was Haber. Every time Moses got a rip in his robe, he would call for my ancestor, Haber, and my ancestor, Haber, would go running to him. Haber’s family called him a dasher. That’s where the word haberdasher comes from.”

“Sir?”

“Haberdasher. You know this word?”

“Uh, no, sir.”

“It’s a man who deals in men’s clothing. It was what I did in the city. Harry’s Haberdashery. I sold clothes to all the rich Jews and to the goys who wanted to look like rich Jews.”

I did not know what to say. I nodded nervously.

“Do you believe this story about my ancestor, Haber, the dasher?” Harry asked.

“Uh, yes, sir.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oy, mein Gott,” he muttered. Then: “All right. Now, I teach you. Now you will learn.”