The Light in the Tenement
The classroom smelled of boiled cabbage and wet wool. Eleanor Whitfield stood at the front of Room 14 on the third floor of the Delancey Street School, looking out at forty faces pressed against the cold November light. Forty children. Forty different languages spoken at home—Italian, Irish Gaelic, Yiddish, and the new one that made her chest ache every time she heard it: the careful, measured...
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