When my parents and I immigrated to the United States in the early sixties, we rented our first apartment in Providence, R.I., from the Jakubowiczs, a Polish and Yiddish-speaking family of Auschwitz survivors. Although we shared their hard-earned duplex for four years, I never felt as if I had come to know this tired old couple or their pale and otherwordly daughter Chana, who was only ten, though her parents were already in their late fifties. We might have been neighbors in distant Eastern Europe Poland and Rumania did not seem so far apart from the vantage point of Providence and neighbors on Summit Avenue, but worlds separated us. They were orthodox and kept kosher and would not even drink a glass of water in our house. We were eager to furnish our first American apartment with the latest in what we considered modern and cosmopolitan walnut Danish and tasteful Ria rugs while their flat, with its haphazard mixture of second-hand furniture and Sears formica, topped with doilies and fringes, had a distinct old-world look about it. Of course, I was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by the numbers tattooed on their arms and could not stop asking my mother for details of their survival in Auschwitz, their respec-
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