On Sabbath eve my mother might light the consecrated candles, but he kept the store open until Sunday morning.

My mother might believe and worship as she pleased, up to the point where her orthodoxy began to interfere with the American progress of the family.
The price that all of us paid for this disorganization of our family life has been levied on every immigrant Jewish household where the first generation clings to the traditions of the Old World, while the second generation leads the life of the New.

Nothing more pitiful could be written in the annals of the Jews; nothing more inevitable; nothing more hopeful.

Hopeful, yes; alike for the Jew and for the country that has given him shelter.

For Israel is not the only party that has put up a forfeit in this contest.