bathtub. There was no bathtub. So in the evening of the first day my
father conducted us to the public baths. As we moved along in a little
procession, I was delighted with the illumination of the streets. So
many lamps, and they burned until morning, my father said, and so people
did not need to carry lanterns. In America, then, everything was free,
as we had heard in Russia. Light was free; the streets were as bright as
a synagogue on a holy day. Music was free; we had been serenaded, to our
gaping delight, by a brass band of many pieces, soon after our
installation on Union Place.

Education was free. That subject my father had written about repeatedly,
as comprising his chief hope for us children, the essence of American
opportunity, the treasure that no thief could touch, not even misfortune
or poverty. It was the one thing that he was able to promise us when he
sent for us; surer, safer than bread or shelter. On our second day I was
thrilled with the realization of what this freedom of education meant. A
little girl from across the alley came and offered to conduct us to
school. My father was out, but we five between us had a few words of
English by this time. We knew the word school. We understood. This
child, who had never seen us till yesterday, who could not pronounce our
names, who was not much better dressed than we, was able to offer us the
freedom of the schools of Boston! No application made, no questions
asked, no examinations, rulings, exclusions; no machinations, no fees.
The doors stood open for every one of us. The smallest child could show
us the way.

This incident impressed me more than anything I had heard in advance of
the freedom of education in America. It was a concrete proof--almost the
thing itself. One had to experience it to understand it.