With the suitcase containing all her worldly possessions under her arm, Sophie Sapinsky elbowed her way through the noisy ghetto crowds. Pushcart peddlers and pullers-in shouted and gesticulated. Women with market-baskets pushed and shoved one another, eyes straining with the one thought—how to get the food a penny cheaper. With the same strained intentness, Sophie scanned each tenement, searching for a room cheap enough for her dwindling means.

In a dingy basement window a crooked sign, in straggling, penciled letters, caught Sophie’s eye: “Room to let, a bargain, cheap.”

The exuberant phrasing was quite in keeping with the extravagant dilapidation of the surroundings. “This is the very place,” thought Sophie. “There couldn’t be nothing cheaper in all New York.”

At the foot of the basement steps she knocked.“Come in!” a voice answered.

As she opened the door she saw an old man bending over a pot of potatoes on a shoemaker’s bench. A group of children in all degrees of rags surrounded him, greedily snatching at the potatoes he handed out.

Sophie paused for an instant, but her absorption in her own problem was too great to halt the question: “Is there a room to let?”

“Hanneh Breineh, in the back, has a room.” The old man was so preoccupied filling the hungry hands that he did not even look up.

Sophie groped her way to the rear hall. A gaunt-faced woman answered her inquiry with loquacious enthusiasm. “A grand room for the money. I’ll let it down to you only for three dollars a month. In the whole block is no bigger bargain. I should live so.”

As she talked, the woman led her through the dark hall into an airshaft room. A narrow window looked out into the bottom of a chimney-like pit, where lay the accumulated refuse from a score of crowded kitchens.

“Oi weh!” gasped Sophie, throwing open the sash. “No air and no light. Outside shines the sun and here it’s so dark.”

“It ain’t so dark. It’s only a little shady. Let me only turn up the gas for you and you’ll quick see everything like with sunshine.”

The claw-fingered flame revealed a rusty, iron cot, an inverted potato barrel that served for a table, and two soap-boxes for chairs.

Sophie felt of the cot. It sagged and flopped under her touch. “The bed has only three feet!” she exclaimed in dismay.

“You can’t have Rockefeller’s palace for three dollars a month,” defended Hanneh Breineh, as she shoved one of the boxes under the legless corner of the cot. “If the bed ain’t so steady, so you got good neighbors. Upstairs lives Shprintzeh Gittle, the herring-woman. You can buy by her the biggest bargains in fish, a few days older…. What she got left over from the Sabbath, she sells to the neighbors cheap…. In the front lives Shmendrik, the shoemaker. I’ll tell you the truth, he ain’t no real shoemaker. He never yet made a pair of whole shoes in his life. He’s a learner from the old country—a tzadik, a saint; but every time he sees in the street a child with torn feet, he calls them in and patches them up. His own eating, the last bite from his mouth, he divides up with them.”

“Three dollars,” deliberated Sophie, scarcely hearing Hanneh Breineh’s chatter. “I will never find anything cheaper. It has a door to lock and I can shut this woman out … I’ll take it,” she said, handing her the money.

Hanneh Breineh kissed the greasy bills gloatingly. “I’ll treat you like a mother! You’ll have it good by me like in your own home.”

“Thanks—but I got no time to shmoos. I got to be alone to get my work done.”

The rebuff could not penetrate Hanneh Breineh’s joy over the sudden possession of three dollars.

“Long years on you! May we be to good luck to one another!” was Hanneh Breineh’s blessing as she closed the door.

Alone in her room—her room, securely hers—yet with the flash of triumph, a stab of bitterness. All that was hers—so wretched and so ugly! Had her eager spirit, eager to give and give, no claim to a bit of beauty—a shred of comfort?

Perhaps her family was right in condemning her rashness. Was it worth while to give up the peace of home, the security of a regular job—suffer hunger, loneliness, and want—for what? For something she knew in her heart was beyond her reach. Would her writing ever amount to enough to vindicate the uprooting of her past? Would she ever become articulate enough to express beautifully what she saw and felt? What had she, after all, but a stifling, sweatshop experience, a meager, night-school education, and this wild, blind hunger to release the dumbness that choked her?

Sophie spread her papers on the cot beside her. Resting her elbows on the potato barrel, she clutched her pencil with tense fingers. In the notebook before her were a hundred beginnings, essays, abstractions, outbursts of chaotic moods. She glanced through the titles: “Believe in Yourself,” “The Quest of the Ideal.”

Meaningless tracings on the paper, her words seemed to her now—a restless spirit pawing at the air. The intensity of experience, the surge of emotion that had been hers when she wrote—where were they? The words had failed to catch the life-beat—had failed to register the passion she had poured into them.

Perhaps she was not a writer, after all. Had the years and years of night-study been in vain? Choked with discouragement, the cry broke from her, “O—God—God help me! I feel—I see, but it all dies in me—dumb!”

Tedious days passed into weeks. Again Sophie sat staring into her notebook. “There’s nothing here that’s alive. Not a word yet says what’s in me…

“But it is in me!” With clenched fist she smote her bosom. “It must be in me! I believe in it! I got to get it out—even if it tears my flesh in pieces—even if it kills me!…

“But these words—these flat, dead words…

“Whether I can write or can’t write—I can’t stop writing. I can’t rest. I can’t breathe. There’s no peace, no running away for me on earth except in the struggle to give out what’s in me. The beat from my heart—the blood from my veins—must flow out into my words.”

She returned to her unfinished essay, “Believe in Yourself.” Her mind groping—clutching at the misty incoherence that clouded her thoughts—she wrote on.

“These sentences are yet only wood—lead; but I can’t help it—I’ll push on—on—I’ll not eat—I’ll not sleep—I’ll not move from this spot till I get it to say on the paper what I got in my heart!”

Slowly the dead words seemed to begin to breathe. Her eyes brightened. Her cheeks flushed. Her very pencil trembled with the eager onrush of words.

Then a sharp rap sounded on her door. With a gesture of irritation Sophie put down her pencil and looked into the burning, sunken eyes of her neighbor, Hanneh Breineh.

“I got yourself a glass of tea, good friend. It ain’t much I got to give away, but it’s warm even if it’s nothing.”

Sophie scowled. “You mustn’t bother yourself with me. I’m so busy—thanks.”“Don’t thank me yet so quick. I got no sugar.” Hanneh Breineh edged herself into the room confidingly. “At home, in Poland, I not only had sugar for tea—but even jelly—a jelly that would lift you up to heaven. I thought in America everything would be so plenty, I could drink the tea out from my sugar-bowl. But ach! Not in Poland did my children starve like in America!”

Hanneh Breineh, in a friendly manner, settled herself on the sound end of the bed, and began her jeremiad.

“Yosef, my man, ain’t no bread-giver. Already he got consumption the second year. One week he works and nine weeks he lays sick.”

In despair Sophie gathered her papers, wondering how to get the woman out of her room. She glanced through the page she had written, but Hanneh Breineh, unconscious of her indifference, went right on.

“How many times it is tearing the heart out from my body—should I take Yosef’s milk to give to the baby, or the baby’s milk to give to Yosef? If he was dead the pensions they give to widows would help feed my children. Now I got only the charities to help me. A black year on them! They should only have to feed their own children on what they give me.”

Resolved not to listen to the intruder, Sophie debated within herself: “Should I call my essay ‘Believe in Yourself,’ or wouldn’t it be stronger to say, ‘Trust Yourself’? But if I say, ‘Trust Yourself,’ wouldn’t they think that I got the words from Emerson?”

Hanneh Breineh’s voice went on, but it sounded to Sophie like a faint buzzing from afar. “Gotteniu! How much did it cost me my life to go and swear myself that my little Fannie—only skin and bones—that she is already fourteen! How it chokes me the tears every morning when I got to wake her and push her out to the shop when her eyes are yet shutting themselves with sleep!”

Sophie glanced at her wrist-watch as it ticked away the precious minutes. She must get rid of the woman! Had she not left her own sister, sacrificed all comfort, all association, for solitude and its golden possibilities? For the first time in her life she had the chance to be by herself and think. And now, the thoughts which a moment ago had seemed like a flock of fluttering birds had come so close—and this woman with her sordid wailing had scattered them.

“I’m a savage, a beast, but I got to ask her to get out—this very minute,” resolved Sophie. But before she could summon the courage to do what she wanted to do, there was a timid knock at the door, and the wizened little Fannie, her face streaked with tears, stumbled in.

“The inspector said it’s a lie. I ain’t yet fourteen,” she whimpered.

Hanneh Breineh paled. “Woe is me! Sent back from the shop? God from the world—is there no end to my troubles? Why didn’t you hide yourself when you saw the inspector come?”

“I was running to hide myself under the table, but she caught me and she said she’ll take me to the Children’s Society and arrest me and my mother for sending me to work too soon.”“Arrest me?” shrieked Hanneh Breineh, beating her breast. “Let them only come and arrest me! I’ll show America who I am! Let them only begin themselves with me!… Black is for my eyes … the groceryman will not give us another bread till we pay him the bill!”

“The inspector said…” The child’s brow puckered in an effort to recall the words.

“What did the inspector said? Gotteniu!” Hanneh Breineh wrung her hands in passionate entreaty. “Listen only once to my prayer! Send on the inspector only a quick death! I only wish her to have her own house with twenty-four rooms and each of the twenty-four rooms should be twenty-four beds and the chills and the fever should throw her from one bed to another!”

“Hanneh Breineh, still yourself a little,” entreated Sophie.

“How can I still myself without Fannie’s wages? Bitter is me! Why do I have to live so long?”

“The inspector said…”“What did the inspector said? A thunder should strike the inspector! Ain’t I as good a mother as other mothers? Wouldn’t I better send my children to school? But who’ll give us to eat? And who’ll pay us the rent?”

Hanneh Breineh wiped her red-lidded eyes with the corner of her apron.

“The president from America should only come to my bitter heart. Let him go fighting himself with the pushcarts how to get the eating a penny cheaper. Let him try to feed his children on the money the charities give me and we’d see if he wouldn’t better send his littlest ones to the shop better than to let them starve before his eyes. Woe is me! What for did I come to America? What’s my life—nothing but one terrible, never-stopping fight with the grocer and the butcher and the landlord…”

Suddenly Sophie’s resentment for her lost morning was forgotten. The crying waste of Hanneh Breineh’s life lay open before her eyes like pictures in a book. She saw her own life in Hanneh Breineh’s life. Her efforts to write were like Hanneh Breineh’s efforts to feed her children. Behind her life and Hanneh Breineh’s life she saw the massed ghosts of thousands upon thousands beating—beating out their hearts against rock barriers.

“The inspector said…” Fannie timidly attempted again to explain.

“The inspector!” shrieked Hanneh Breineh, as she seized hold of Fannie in a rage. “Hellfire should burn the inspector! Tell me again about the inspector and I’ll choke the life out from you—”

Sophie sprang forward to protect the child from the mother. “She’s only trying to tell you something.”

“Why should she yet throw salt on my wounds? If there was enough bread in the house would I need an inspector to tell me to send her to school? If America is so interested in poor people’s children, then why don’t they give them to eat till they should go to work? What learning can come into a child’s head when the stomach is empty?”

A clutter of feet down the creaking cellar steps, a scuffle of broken shoes, and a chorus of shrill voices, as the younger children rushed in from school.

“Mamma—what’s to eat?”

“It smells potatoes!”

“Pfui! The pot is empty! It smells over from Cohen’s.”

“Jake grabbed all the bread!”

“Mamma—he kicked the piece out from my hands!”

“Mamma—it’s so empty in my stomach! Ain’t there nothing?”

“Gluttons—wolves—thieves!” Hanneh Breineh shrieked. “I should only live to bury you all in one day!”

The children, regardless of Hanneh Breineh’s invectives, swarmed around her like hungry bees, tearing at her apron, her skirt. Their voices rose in increased clamor, topped only by their mother’s imprecations. “Gotteniu! Tear me away from these leeches on my neck! Send on them only a quick death!… Only a minute’s peace before I die!”

“Hanneh Breineh—children! What’s the matter?” Shmendrik stood at the door. The sweet quiet of the old man stilled the raucous voices as the coming of evening stills the noises of the day.

“There’s no end to my troubles! Hear them hollering for bread, and the grocer stopped to give till the bill is paid. Woe is me! Fannie sent home by the inspector and not a crumb in the house!”

“I got something.” The old man put his hands over the heads of the children in silent benediction. “All come in by me. I got sent me a box of cake.”

“Cake!” The children cried, catching at the kind hands and snuggling about the shabby coat.

“Yes. Cake and nuts and raisins and even a bottle of wine.”

The children leaped and danced around him in their wild burst of joy.

“Cake and wine—a box—to you? Have the charities gone crazy?” Hanneh Breineh’s eyes sparkled with light and laughter.

“No—no,” Shmendrik explained hastily. “Not from the charities—from a friend—for the holidays.”Shmendrik nodded invitingly to Sophie, who was standing in the door of her room. “The roomerkeh will also give a taste with us our party?”

“Sure will she!” Hanneh Breineh took Sophie by the arm. “Who’ll say no in this black life to cake and wine?”

Young throats burst into shrill cries: “Cake and wine—wine and cake—raisins and nuts—nuts and raisins!” The words rose in a triumphant chorus. The children leaped and danced in time to their chant, almost carrying the old man bodily into his room in the wildness of their joy.

The contagion of this sudden hilarity erased from Sophie’s mind the last thought of work and she found herself seated with the others on the cobbler’s bench.

From under his cot the old man drew forth a wooden box. Lifting the cover he held up before wondering eyes a large frosted cake embedded in raisins and nuts.

Amid the shouts of glee Shmendrik now waved aloft a large bottle of grape-juice.The children could contain themselves no longer and dashed forward.

“Shah—shah! Wait only!” He gently halted their onrush and waved them back to their seats.

“The glasses for the wine!” Hanneh Breineh rushed about hither and thither in happy confusion. From the sink, the shelf, the window-sill, she gathered cracked glasses, cups without handles—anything that would hold even a few drops of the yellow wine.

Sacrificial solemnity filled the basement as the children breathlessly watched Shmendrik cut the precious cake. Mouths—even eyes—watered with the intensity of their emotion.

With almost religious fervor Hanneh Breineh poured the grape-juice into the glasses held in the trembling hands of the children. So overwhelming was the occasion that none dared to taste till the ritual was completed. The suspense was agonizing as one and all waited for Shmendrik’s signal.

“Hanneh Breineh—you drink from my Sabbath wine-glass!”

Hanneh Breineh clinked glasses with Schmendrik. “Long years on you—long years on us all!” Then she turned to Sophie, clinked glasses once more. “May you yet marry yourself from our basement to a millionaire!” Then she lifted the glass to her lips.

The spell was broken. With a yell of triumph the children gobbled the cake in huge mouthfuls and sucked the golden liquid. All the traditions of wealth and joy that ever sparkled from the bubbles of champagne smiled at Hanneh Breineh from her glass of California grape-juice.

“Ach!” she sighed. “How good it is to forget your troubles, and only those that’s got troubles have the chance to forget them!”

She sipped the grape-juice leisurely, thrilled into ecstacy with each lingering drop. “How it laughs yet in me, the life, the minute I turn my head from my worries!”

With growing wonder in her eyes, Sophie watched Hanneh Breineh. This ragged wreck of a woman—how passionately she clung to every atom of life! Hungrily, she burned through the depths of every experience. How she flared against wrongs—and how every tiny spark of pleasure blazed into joy!

Within a half-hour this woman had touched the whole range of human emotions, from bitterest agony to dancing joy. The terrible despair at the onrush of her starving children when she cried out, “O that I should only bury you all in one day!” And now the leaping light of the words: “How it laughs yet in me, the life, the minute I turn my head from my worries.”

“Ach, if I could only write like Hanneh Breineh talks!” thought Sophie. “Her words dance with a thousand colors. Like a rainbow it flows from her lips.” Sentences from her own essays marched before her, stiff and wooden. How clumsy, how unreal, were her most labored phrases compared to Hanneh Breineh’s spontaneity. Fascinated, she listened to Hanneh Breineh, drinking her words as a thirst-perishing man drinks water. Every bubbling phrase filled her with a drunken rapture to create.

“Up till now I was only trying to write from my head. It wasn’t real—it wasn’t life. Hanneh Breineh is real. Hanneh Breineh is life.”

“Ach! What do the rich people got but dried-up dollars? Pfui on them and their money!” Hanneh Breineh held up her glass to be refilled. “Let me only win a fortune on the lotteree and move myself in my own bought house. Let me only have my first hundred dollars in the bank and I’ll lift up my head like a person and tell the charities to eat their own cornmeal. I’ll get myself an automobile like the kind rich ladies and ride up to their houses on Fifth Avenue and feed them only once on the eating they like so good for me and my children.”

With a smile of benediction Shmendrik refilled the glasses and cut for each of his guests another slice of cake. Then came the handful of nuts and raisins.

As the children were scurrying about for hammers and iron lasts with which to crack their nuts, the basement door creaked. Unannounced, a woman entered—the “friendly visitor” of the charities. Her look of awful amazement swept the group of merrymakers.“Mr. Shmendrik!—Hanneh Breineh!” Indignation seethed in her voice. “What’s this? A feast—a birthday?”

Gasps—bewildered glances—a struggle for utterance!

“I came to make my monthly visit—evidently I’m not needed.”

Shmendrik faced the accusing eyes of the “friendly visitor.” “Holiday eating…”

“Oh—I’m glad you’re so prosperous.”

Before any one had gained presence of mind enough to explain things, the door had clanked. The “friendly visitor” had vanished.

“Pfui!” Hanneh Breineh snatched up her glass and drained its contents. “What will she do now? Will we get no more dry bread from the charities because once we ate cake?”

“What for did she come?” asked Sophie.

“To see that we don’t over-eat ourselves!” returned Hanneh Breineh. “She’s a ‘friendly visitor’! She learns us how to cook cornmeal. By pictures and lectures she shows us how the poor people should live without meat, without milk, without butter, and without eggs. Always it’s on the end of my tongue to ask her, ‘You learned us to do without so much, why can’t you yet learn us how to eat without eating?’”

The children seized the last crumbs of cake that Shmendrik handed them and rushed for the street.

“What a killing look was on her face,” said Sophie. “Couldn’t she be a little glad for your gladness?”

“Charity ladies—gladness?” The joy of the grape-wine still rippled in Hanneh Breineh’s laughter. “For poor people is only cornmeal. Ten cents a day—to feed my children!”

Still in her rollicking mood Hanneh Breineh picked up the baby and tossed it like a Bacchante. “Could you be happy a lot with ten cents in your stomach? Ten cents—half a can of condensed milk—then fill yourself the rest with water!… Maybe yet feed you with all water and save the ten-cent pieces to buy you a carriage like the Fifth Avenue babies!…”

The soft sound of a limousine purred through the area grating and two well-fed figures in seal-skin coats, led by the “friendly visitor,” appeared at the door.

“Mr. Bernstein, you can see for yourself.” The “friendly visitor” pointed to the table.

The merry group shrank back. It was as if a gust of icy wind had swept all the joy and laughter from the basement.

“You are charged with intent to deceive and obtain assistance by dishonest means,” said Mr. Bernstein.

“Dishonest?” Shmendrik paled.

Sophie’s throat strained with passionate protest, but no words came to her release.

“A friend—a friend”—stammered Shmendrik—“sent me the holiday eating.”

The superintendent of the Social Betterment Society faced him accusingly. “You told us that you had no friends when you applied to us for assistance.”

“My friend—he knew me in my better time.” Shmendrik flushed painfully. “I was once a scholar—respected. I wanted by this one friend to hold myself like I was.”

Mr. Bernstein had taken from the bookshelf a number of letters, glanced through them rapidly and handed them one by one to the deferential superintendent.

Shmendrik clutched at his heart in an agony of humiliation. Suddenly his bent body straightened. His eyes dilated. “My letters—my life—you dare?”

“Of course we dare!” The superintendent returned Shmendrik’s livid gaze, made bold by the confidence that what he was doing was the only scientific method of administering philanthropy. “These dollars, so generously given, must go to those most worthy…. I find in these letters references to gifts of fruit and other luxuries you did not report at our office.”

“He never kept nothing for himself!” Hanneh Breineh broke in defensively. “He gave it all for the children.”

Ignoring the interruption Mr. Bernstein turned to the “friendly visitor.” “I’m glad you brought my attention to this case. It’s but one of the many impositions on our charity … Come…”

“Kossacks! Pogromschiks!” Sophie’s rage broke at last. “You call yourselves Americans? You dare call yourselves Jews? You bosses of the poor! This man Shmendrik, whose house you broke into, whom you made to shame like a beggar—he is the one Jew from whom the Jews can be proud! He gives all he is—all he has—as God gives. He is charity.

“But you—you are the greed—the shame of the Jews! All-right-niks—fat bellies in fur coats! What do you give from yourselves? You may eat and bust eating! Nothing you give till you’ve stuffed yourselves so full that your hearts are dead!”

The door closed in her face. Her wrath fell on indifferent backs as the visitors mounted the steps to the street.

Shmendrik groped blindly for the Bible. In a low, quavering voice, he began the chant of the oppressed—the wail of the downtrodden. “I am afraid, and a trembling taketh hold of my flesh. Wherefore do the wicked live, become old, yea, mighty in power?”

Hanneh Breineh and the children drew close around the old man. They were weeping—unconscious of their weeping—deep-buried memories roused by the music, the age-old music of the Hebrew race.

Through the grating Sophie saw the limousine pass. The chant flowed on: “Their houses are safe from fear; neither is the rod of God upon them.”

Silently Sophie stole back to her room. She flung herself on the cot, pressed her fingers to her burning eyeballs. For a long time she lay rigid, clenched—listening to the drumming of her heart like the sea against rock barriers. Presently the barriers burst. Something in her began pouring itself out. She felt for her pencil—paper—and began to write. Whether she reached out to God or man she knew not, but she wrote on and on all through that night.

The gray light entering her grated window told her that beyond was dawn. Sophie looked up: “Ach! At last it writes itself in me!” she whispered triumphantly. “It’s not me—it’s their cries—my own people—crying in me! Hanneh Breineh, Shmendrik, they will not be stilled in me, till all America stops to listen.”