The cobbler pulled a whole orange out of his coat pocket. “To decorate the table,” he said, his tone appeasing.

His wife’s eyes rounded in delight. “Who lent it to you?”

“The treasurer of the synagogue.” The cobbler held the orange to the light, and his children, crowding around him, jumped up to try to touch it. “Be careful,” he told them, depositing the precious fruit in his wife’s palm. “We must return it in the morning.”

In spite of her grumbling, the cobbler’s wife seemed pleased to be the recipient of this loan and basked in her newly elevated status, one notch above the unexpected guests. “It’s a mitzvah to share Shabbat with poor people,” she said, her tone haughty, and pointed to the bench at one end of the table. A moment later, by the nearby stove, she whispered to her husband, “So you’ve got yourself a bit of honor in the synagogue by volunteering to take food out of your children’s mouths?”

The words echoed in the tiny hovel, suffused with smells of leather, glue, and dye from the cobbler’s work area in the corner. Batya’s mother’s sunken cheeks blushed in humiliation.

Six children with running noses assembled along two sides of the table, which was covered with a cloth that had seen too many washes, but none in recent months. After the kiddush prayer, for which the host passed one small wineglass around to all present, the hostess explained that the few chicken parts she had received from the butcher were too paltry to share with unanticipated company. “Had I known, I would have cooked a whole goose for you,” she added.

Batya cringed and looked at her mother for a reaction to the insult. Her mother’s head was bent; only her palms, pressing hard together, told Batya of her anger. The orange sat in the middle of the table, round and indifferent.

The cobbler’s wife doled out boiled potatoes to her family, then passed the bowl to Batya’s father. There were only two small potatoes left. He halved them, giving each member of his family a portion.

“That was supposed to be my second helping,” the cobbler’s teenage son whined.

“Maybe the guests are not hungry,” the cobbler’s wife said pointedly.

Koppel, taking a hint, raised his half potato to the boy.

“No,” she interrupted as the boy reached for it. “Let his father, who wants to act rich, who thinks that food grows on trees, give his portion to his children.”

The cobbler’s tin plate was already empty. He sat silently, gazing down, as his wife grumbled about his inadequacies.