Batya’s father passed his half potato to the boy. “As the Good Book says, if a poor man has a coat, he should give it to the poorer man who doesn’t.” Then, glancing at his own hungry family, he said, “Since we aren’t partaking in the chicken, the law of kashrut doesn’t apply to us.” Before Batya could protest that the law forbidding mixing meat and dairy still applied to them, he asked the hostess, “May I use your dairy dishes?”

She tossed on the table two chipped enamel plates. As if he didn’t notice her derision, Batya’s father went out to their cart and brought butter and cream to mash into their potatoes, drawing envious stares from the children.

The rest of the meal passed in strained silence. Charity recipients deserved no better, Batya thought. She shouldn’t feel the resentment that was bubbling in her.

Before parting amidst words of thanks, Koppel filled the hostess’s milk jug and gave her a piece of cheese for the next day.

“Who fed whom?” Batya’s mother asked once they were outside. “This woman invited the evil eye upon herself.”

“As the Good Book says, ‘Each according to his abilities,’” Batya’s father responded.

Batya smiled, recalling Fishke’s lessons. That was a Marxist saying, not the Good Book’s.

Clouds moved to block the stars and the moon. From behind, Surale clutched the hem of Batya’s dress, while Batya held both her parents’ elbows as they felt their way in the dark to the unlit synagogue.

Because of Shabbat, they couldn’t light a candle. When their eyes adjusted to the darkness in the synagogue, they settled on the straw mat that covered the packed-dirt floor.

Batya’s mother pulled out the leftover bread and broke a piece for each member of her family. “Pretend this is our challah,” she said.

“Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha’olam hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz,” her father intoned the prayer for the bread.

Batya had been sleeping when she was awakened by her father’s voice conversing outside the synagogue door. The moon had broken through the clouds, and in its faint light entering from the high window she saw her mother sitting with her back against a column, Surale’s head in her lap. At first Batya thought that her father was chatting with God, although even God would be sleeping at this late hour. But then she heard a second man’s voice.