And he did teach me. He taught me the names of foods in German and Yiddish. He taught me simple expressions—guter morgen, danke schön, bitte schön. He explained serving rotations, drilled me in table settings, demonstrated how to pour soup from serving cups into bowls with a twist of the wrist to catch the dribblings and hold them on the lip of the cup. He timed me in folding table napkins to look like the masts of sailing ships. He made me walk the length of the dining room balancing filled plates along my arm, or filled coffee cups stacked high from the fanned grip of one hand.

I was Harry’s project and Harry was relentless in his instruction. Nothing pleased him as much as watching me struggle with German or Yiddish. I never knew which I was speaking; Harry never told me. He would point to an object and say its name and make me repeat it. Then he would speak the word in a sentence. “Say it,” he would roar. “Say it, dummkopf.” The words were impossible in my mouth. They would clog on my tongue and I would spit them, and saliva, into the air, and Harry would howl with amusement. He would shout, “Dummkopf!” and order me to try again. And the dummkopf would try. It was needless to argue with Harry.

But it was because of Harry’s enthusiasm, and his prankish nature, that I eventually met Avrum.

One afternoon we were walking from the Inn to the swimming pool across the street. Nora Dowling had ordered me to clean the pool, and Harry decided he would sit and watch and teach me new words. “Slave words,” Harry called them, joyfully.

Harry saw that Avrum was sitting on his bench, reading. He whispered to me, “You see that old man I told you about, the one who hears voices?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to go over to him and say this: ‘Guter morgen, Herr Feldman. Wo ist dein arsch?’ ”

I remembered Ben Benton’s warning about Harry. “I don’t know,” I protested. “I don’t think I should.”

“So, tell me why not? He’s not crazy all the time. He won’t hurt you. Besides, you need the practice with somebody else.”

“What does that mean, what you said?”

Harry acted irritated. “You know what guter morgen means: ‘good morning,’ ja?”

“Yes, sir, I know that. What about the rest of it?”

“Herr Feldman is ‘Mr. Feldman.’ Wo ist dein arsch? means ‘What are you reading?’ ” Harry replied. “Say it. Say, ’Wo ist dein arsch?’ ”

I repeated the phrase slowly, hesitantly.

“Gut, gut,” Harry said proudly. “Now, go speak to him. He’ll be a pleased man. I know him well. We’re great friends. He likes young people. Maybe he’ll give you a big tip for being so nice. Say ‘y’all’ to him. He’ll like that.” He urged me forward.

“What will I do if he says something back to me in German?” I asked.