After the sudden death of Eddy, his wife Rose did her dying ever so slowly, in a leisurely retreat. She regressed in small, barely visible strokes, wandering through her memories, confessing her secrets, one by one. Hers was an almost typical story of Eastern European immigration from the pogroms of Poland, to Manhattan’s Lower East Side, to the family brownstone homes of Brooklyn. She remembered her father taking them off the boat. “You came to Ellis Island,” she said. “they examined you and if you had any sickness or sores they sent you back. You had to be perfect.
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