“Abrahm—­you mean—­he—­our Leon—­wanted a violin?”

“‘Wanted,’ she says.  I could potch him again this minute for how he wanted it! Du—­you little bum you—­Chammer—­Momser—­I’ll feedle you!”

Across Mrs. Kantor’s face as she knelt there in the shapeless cotton-stuff uniform of poverty, through the very tenement of her body, a light had flashed up into her eyes.  She drew her son closer, crushing his puny cheek up against hers, cupping his bristly little head in her by no means immaculate palms.

“He wanted a violin—­it’s come, Abrahm!  The dream of all my life—­it’s come!  I knew it must be one of my children if I waited long enough—­and prayed enough.  A musician!  He wants a violin.  He cried for a violin.  My baby!  Why, darlink, mamma’ll sell her clothes off her back to get you a violin.  He’s a musician, Abrahm!  I should have known it the way he’s fooling always around the chimes and the bells in the store!”

Then Mrs. Kantor took to rocking his head between her palms.

“Oi—­oi! The mother is crazier as her son.  A moosican!  A Fresser you mean.  Such an eater, it’s a wonder he ain’t twice too big instead of twice too little for his age.”

“That’s a sign, Abrahm; they all eat big.  For all we know he’s a genius.  I swear to you, Abrahm, all the months before he was born, I prayed for it.  Each one before they came, I prayed it should be the one.  I thought that time the way our Isadore ran after the organ-grinder he would be the one.  How could I know it was the monkey he wanted?  When Isadore wouldn’t take it, I prayed my next one and then my next one should have the talent.  I’ve prayed for it, Abrahm.  If he wants a violin, please, he should have it.”

“Not with my money.”

“With mine!  I’ve got enough saved, Abrahm.  Them three extra dollars right here inside my own waist, that I saved toward that cape down on Grand Street.  I wouldn’t have it now the way they say the wind blows up them—­”

“I tell you the woman’s crazy!”

“I feel it!  I know he’s got talent!  I know my children so well.  A—­a father don’t understand.  I’m so next to them.  It’s like I can tell always everything that will happen to them—­it’s like a pain—­somewheres here—­in back of my heart.”

“A pain in the heart she gets!”

“For my own children I’m always a prophet, I tell you.  You think I didn’t know that—­that terrible night after the pogrom after we got out of Kief to cross the border!  You remember, Abrahm, how I predicted it to you then—­how our Mannie would be born too soon and—­and not right from my suffering?  Did it happen on the ship to America just the way I said it would?  Did it happen just exactly how I predicted our Izzy would break his leg that time playing on the fire-escape?  I tell you, Abrahm, I get a real pain here under my heart that tells me what comes to my children.  Didn’t I tell you how Esther would be the first in her confirmation-class and our baby Boris would be red-headed?  At only five years, our Leon all by himself cries for a fiddle—­get it for him, Abrahm—­get it for him!”