“This is my house,” she said. “Tell that old fucker, this is my house. . . .”

Luria was on his feet coming toward her, the dream come true, but she came away from the door and faced him.

“Tell her,” he yelled. “Tell her what her friends have done. Scum . . . tell her!”

“Which friends, what is he talking about?” Rachel yelled.

Jacob pulled her out of the door onto the path. Luria stayed behind, and her last view was of her shopping bag abandoned at his feet.

It was a beautiful early spring evening. Jacob made her walk to the end of the path, holding her arm. When they reached the curb he stopped and put his arms around her. They were almost the same height, and his body fitted hers perfectly. He held her close, almost like a lover.

“Go to Golda’s,” he whispered, “and stay there until nine. Leah’s there, she’s fine. . . .”

“Please . . . Jacob.”

“There was a terrible fight in the school today. Two boys were killed, one white, one black. . . .”

“Not Tom . . .”

“No, not Tom, nor Eric. But Tom was involved. He and a bunch of other blacks were in on it. They hit Michael Brodsky—a bad hit. Fractured his skull, Rachel. He’s dead.” He let her go and she sank against the car; Michael Brodsky was Isaac Luria’s oldest grandson.

The funeral was on the afternoon before Passover eve. Esther Brodsky, Luria’s daughter, screamed and clawed at her father, then sagged, ready to fall into the mud next to the grave. He held her up, his eyes bleak as they lowered the coffin. It was warm, the ice had melted all at once, and the grave site was a mire. Rachel’s heels sank in mud. The coffin disappeared into the grave. Luria scooped up a handful of mud. It squeezed through his fingers and he opened his hand and looked at the lump of mud, then at Jacob. Dworkin looked up, and one by one, so did the others. When he had their attention, he nodded, then he pressed the mud into his daughter’s hand.

“Throw it on the coffin, Esther,” he said gently.