She has disobeyed a cardinal rule. Never interrupt in the middle of a poem. A poem must be savored, from beginning to end

"Will there be a comfortable mattress?”

Hannah cocks her head to one side, considering. In one word, no. She pushes down on Emmy’s mattress, stuffed with wool. At home — home! — the mattresses are stuffed with hay.

Emmy lifts her eyebrows. “Well, Mama?”

“I have an idea. We will take along your down quilt, and spread it over the mattress there. Then we’ll cover the whole thing with a sheet. You’ll sleep like a baby.”

She lifts a pen and adds to her list: extra down quilt. Sheets. She thinks for a moment. They may as well take along pillows for good measure.

“And I shall not be expected to fold up my gowns and stuff them into drawers, shall I?”

“Of course not.”

She marks down on her list: hangers. Not that there will be enough space in the little wardrobe, but she may be able to persuade Shneur to hammer a few strong nails into the wall; the hangers can be placed on the nails.

“And Mama...” Emmy’s eyes open wide, pleading. “I shall not be expected to eat kasha, shall I?”

Hannah bursts into laughter. “No Emmy. No kasha for you.”

The night before they leave, Ernst tries to coax Emmy into a musical evening, but she refuses. He pats the ottoman and asks Hannah to sit with him. “Shall we have some poetry?” he asks.

He picks up a small, leather-bound volume, opens at random and begins to read.

We speak with the lip, and we dream in the soul,

Of some better and fairer day;

And our days, the meanwhile, to that golden goal

Are gliding and sliding away.

“Sad,” Hannah interrupts.

Ernst blinks.

She has disobeyed a cardinal rule. Never interrupt in the middle of a poem. A poem must be savored, from beginning to end. Its meaning is always new, there is forever space for fresh interpretation, but the words must be allowed to be spoken.