The Washington times. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1902-1939, 1920-03-08
By Jane Mclean.
Screen Version NopeIized.

voice rang unpleasantly in his ears
$50 this Is the birthday you make
for me-"
There was nothing to say-noth-
Ing to do but march back In dis
grace to the brass shop and thence
to the fiat above.
Mira Kantor was horrined. but
she was ienient even though her son
had no explanations. She applied
water and a towel and gradually
turned her son into a white boy
again.
Abraham stood waitinE-"It's his
birthday. Papa" said the mother
you should take him out and buy
him a present"
The man stared And here is
one dollar i have saved" she held
out the money.
He took half OF II and started to
give back the rest. Mrs. Kantor
seven. he should have a good
present.
There was nothing in the fgure
seven to appeal to Abraham" no
argued loudly. finally gave in and
started or his wife called him
back-"You have forgotten some
thing. Papa"
She stood there smiling-a big
woman with love and patience writ
ten on her large features. The
brass dealer walked back. put his
arms about her and kissed her.
Mrs. Kanter surveyed the rooms
where she and her husband. Leon.
his smaller sister, his two slightly
older brothers and an inbecile eld-
est brother managed to live. 1t was
better than Russia and persecution.
but 1t was far from comfort.
None of them had ever known
anything different: II was work.
work, work, with hope on the hori-
zon of their dreams. But their
hardest time had passed. They
owned a shop now and rich people
from far away Fifth Avenue came
to buy brasses supposedly from the
Ukraine. They could afford to pay
and the Kantors were accommodating
the beginnings of bank account.
Now and again they saw pictures
In the papers of the homes Of the
rich filled with unattainable won
ders, but 1t was too violent a
stretch for the imagination to
bridge the chasm between the
crowded room with the cook stove
and the splendor Of soft rugs and
big spaces.
Mother Kantor turned to the i'm
becile-he was twenty now and he
sat like a statue in his wheel chair
from morning till night, vacuous
look on his pale face, without in
terest in life, not caring whether
he lived or died. not knowing what
life or death meant.
His mother brushed her hand over
her eyes as she looked and then,
walking to him and taking from
her apron small feather she
tickled his nostrils to see him smile
as he used to smile when he was
a mere child.
She shook her head: she had the
iron hand of persecution to thank
for him; the long fight through
bitter weather, privations and hum
ger. Sometimes she wondered why
the beneficient God had not taken
him, wondered with a shudder that
she could wonder, and tried to
make it up by added tenderness to
son who was no son.
More than once 1t occurred to her
that he should not be there with
the other children growing up,
but she could do nothing, even in
this America, the land Of the free;
lack of money meant lack Of lux
ury.
The children came in from the
streets hungry, waiting for the
arrival of Leon and his father.
Seven candles were lighted in the
candelabra and there was a cake.
Their eyes turned greedily toward
1t. Icons birthday was to mean
something to them after all.
(TO BE Continued Tomorrow