[M, 11/28/94]
Preface
MY TEACHERS
It was a blustery fall day in 1939. In the streets outside
the apartment building fallen leaves were swirling in little
whirlwinds, each with a life of its own.  It was good to be
inside and warm and safe, with my mother preparing dinner in the
next room.  In our apartment there were no older kids who picked
on you for no reason. Just the week before, I had been in a
fight — I can't remember, after all these years, who it was
with; maybe it was Snoony Agata from the third floor — and,
after a wild swing, I found I had put my fist through the plate
glass window in Schechter's drug store.
Mr. Schechter was solicitous:  "It's all right, I'm
insured," he said as he put some unbelievably painful antiseptic
on my wrist. My mother took me to the doctor whose office was on
the ground floor of our building. With a pair of tweezers, he
pulled out a fragment of glass. Using needle and thread, he
sewed two stitches.
"Two stitches!" my father repeated later that night. He
knew about stitches, because he was a cutter in the garment
industry; his job was to use a very scary power saw to cut out
patterns — backs, say, or sleeves for ladies' coats and suits —
from an enormous stack of cloth. Then the patterns were conveyed
to endless rows of womenAat sewing machines. He was pleased I
had gotten angry enough to overcome a natural timidity. fpyVW'