His father carved umbrella handles, but when umbrella
        handles were made by machinery, there was only one
        man for whom his father could work.
The pay was small, though it had once been a good trade.
They lived in the poorest part of the ghetto, near the lots
        where people dump ashes.
His father was anxious that his son should stay at school and
        get out of the mess he himself was in. “Learning is the 
        best merchandise,” he would say.
His father died; there was his mother to be taken care of. He
        taught in a school in the ghetto.
Some pupils came at nine and stayed until three; others came
        after public school and stayed until evening; most of the
        pupils came in the evening.
The courses were crammed, lasting a few months, pupils and
        teachers anxious to be rid of the matter as soon as possible.
So he worked day and night, week-days and Sunday.

His mother was dead. It was cold in the street and windy. A
        dry snow had fallen and the feet of the walkers were
        turning it into brown sand.
He was forty.
Now he was free. To do what? He knew no one whom he
        cared to marry. And who would go into his poverty?
If he were to give up this work he knew so well, to what else,
        could he turn?
He would just keep on. He had lost this world and knew there
        was no other.