He attempted to introduce us
to a queer, slippery kind of fruit, which he called "banana," but had to
give it up for the time being. After the meal, he had better luck with a
curious piece of furniture on runners, which he called "rocking-chair."
There were five of us newcomers, and we found five different ways of
getting into the American machine of perpetual motion, and as many ways
of getting out of it. One born and bred to the use of a rocking-chair
cannot imagine how ludicrous people can make themselves when attempting
to use it for the first time. We laughed immoderately over our various
experiments with the novelty, which was a wholesome way of letting off
steam after the unusual excitement of the day.
In our flat we did not think of such a thing as storing the coal in the
bathtub. There was no bathtub. So in the evening of the first day my
father conducted us to the public baths. As we moved along in a little
procession, I was delighted with the illumination of the streets. So
many lamps, and they burned until morning, my father said, and so people
did not need to carry lanterns. In America, then, everything was free,
as we had heard in Russia. Light was free; the streets were as bright as
a synagogue on a holy day. Music was free; we had been serenaded, to our
gaping delight, by a brass band of many pieces, soon after our
installation on Union Place.
Education was free. That subject my father had written about repeatedly,
as comprising his chief hope for us children, the essence of American
opportunity, the treasure that no thief could touch, not even misfortune
or poverty.
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