A hand reached out and touched my shoulder.
Maybe it was the Styrofoam quart of matzo-ball soup and the plastic bag full of hallah I was holding that tipped him off. Whatever, I didn’t like the accusatory tone that accompanied his question.
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I didn’t really want to answer. Maybe because I didn’t think it was any of his business. Maybe because I remembered the time in fifth grade when Michael Hennessy told me he hated all Jews, except I was OK. Maybe because I remembered walking home with Judy from our second-grade field trip to a synagogue and having her tell me that that was the stupidest religion she’d ever heard of: “What language was he speaking? And why don’t you have Christmas?” Maybe because I remembered the time I went over to Tom’s house for a sleep-over party, and his father stared me down and asked me if I’d been enjoying the television miniseries Holocaust.
But though I ignored him, the man did not let up.
“My parents are,” I said finally.
“I don’t think so,” I repeated.
He took me by the hand and led me to the truck.
