Mutter Florenz came out of the pantry into the spare electric light with two jars of spiced peaches. There they stood, their tousled sandy hair and crimson extremities each five points of contrast with their bleached, steaming long-handles. Her straight gash of a mouth lifted perceptibly at a corner.

“Heinrich!” She strode over and laid her fingers against her firstborn’s cheek. “You must be frozen. Quickly—get your bath before you catch your death.”

Hank turned his face upward. “Where’s Pa?”

“He’s in the parlor, reading his paper.” She rubbed her upper arm absently. “He’s upset about the War. Let’s not bother him, all right?”

She smiled as he passed and watched him pad into the hallway. As she turned back her face fell and hardened.

“Pick up your hat, Harold,” she said flatly. “And straighten up those clothes; they’re a disgrace.” She cuffed his ear sharply with her fingers. “Schnell! Quickly!”

Harry rubbed the sting out of his ear as he bent down, not daring to look at her standing over him, her hands on her hips.

Hank sat in his flannel nightshirt, aimlessly swinging his bare legs over the edge of the bed, when Harry came in from his tepid bath swaddled in Hank’s too-big cast-off. He walked around to his side, pulled back the covers, and slid in. Hank swung himself onto the mattress.

“Ain’t you goin’ to say your prayers?”

Harry look at him askance. “To who?”

“God, stoopid.”

“You know what I mean. Ma heard yours—I seen her in here.”

Hank beckoned with his finger. “C’mon, get up. I’ll hear ‘em. C’mon. You don’t want to go to Hell, do you?”

“Who says I ain’t already there?” Harry muttered. He labored up to his knees, folded his hands, and began a dispirited recitation. Hank’s hand rested on his shoulder. Harry finished, crossed himself, and sank back into bed. Sliding in behind him, Hank encircled his bony waist with his arm.

“She don’t mean it, Harry. Not really.”

Harry blinked at the frost-painted panes and waited for sleep to come.

A fog of perspiration and the odor of chipping varnish filled the nostrils of the spectators huddled in the frigid, poorly-lit gymnasium. After the referee raised and released his leaden arm, Harry used it to peel off his leather headgear and slogged off the mat. His coach clapped his shoulders as he threw the heavy gray warm-up over them. The warrior found the family in the bleachers and climbed wearily to them. Wilhelm Martz stood stiffly and extended his hand.

“Excellent…” He frowned a little, furrowing his brow.

Harry gulped a breath and gripped his father’s palm. “Match, Pa.”

“Yes – match. Prima.” Wilhelm leaned away as his wife burst through and seized Hank’s face with both hands.

“Heinrich!” She gave him the full once-over. “Are you all right?”

“’Course, Ma – I won!”

“It’s just – I worry so that you will be hurt, Mein Liebshen.”

“Aw – it’s real safe, Ma; and my third straight.” Hank looked between them at Harry and winked. “Think I’m goin’ to regionals this year! Well; gotta get back to the team, I guess.” He peeled off, the slaps of his sneakers’ rubber soles on the bleacher seats echoing off the enameled block walls. As his father sat, Harry jumped to the seat in front of him and bounced on his toes.

“Can I go out next year, Pa? Huh?”

Florenz pushed derisively at the boy’s shoulder and spoke before her husband could. “Don’t be silly. You’re not as athletic as your brother and too small, anyway – you would just get hurt.”

Wilhelm flicked his eyes at Harry, then quickly away. “We’ll see, boy. Come – let’s go to wait for Hank.”

Hank buttoned the dull black gabardine gown to his neck. Turning to the bureau mirror, he set the mortarboard on his head at a jaunty angle. He whirled airily and thrust his arms out.

“Wottya think?”

Propped against the headboard, Harry peeped through his crossed shoes at the foot of the bed, folded his arms, and emitted a low wolf-whistle for effect. “Cat’s meow, Mister Engineer. You decided where you’re taking this degree yet?”

“Best response I’ve gotten so far is from the IRT back east.”

“Where’s that?”

“New York City – ‘Interborough Rapid Transit Authority.’ Imagine—me bein’ a NooYawkuh!”

“Huh-huh. Doing what?”

“Cofferdams and subways, I think.”

“Government job?”

“Well, yes—City and County of.”

“It’s 1929, brother. Capitalism and private enterprise are all the rage; haven’t you heard? Jeez—didn’t you ever take an economics class?”

“Wall Street itself’s lookin’ a little fragile these days, ‘Frosh.’” Hank pointed, with playful purpose. “You might have taken a little more in civics and public affairs—you and your ‘captains of industry’ heroes.”

Harry sniffed. “Oh, yeah; so I could carry on like you and your ‘Red’ pals.”

“Hey—Russia wasn’t the only country born out of revolution, you know.”

Harry yawned, and scratched. “You can keep your ‘Quo vadis?’ Three more years of academic slavery and I’m on my way—finding my fortune in the big ‘burg.”