But until he finished his speech and was loudly cheered off the stage by the Garden audience, no one else moved or said another word. I wouldn’t dare to, and my brother was preoccupied—as he often was in such a setting—with sketching what we all looked like, now while listening to the radio. Alvin’s was the silence of murderous loathing, and my father—divested for perhaps the first time in his life of that relentless passion he brought to the struggle against setback and disappointment—was too stirred up to speak.
