who probably \ ¡ent home wondering what onEarth she did to make me hate her. For years I thought of her quietsmile, her demeanor, her warmth.

I owed a debtto the Joint and HIAS workers in Austria, ro the blond girl whogave me a jacket at Madame Eva's house, to Oswald Prager, whopulled us off the train station in Vienna, pudgy Mr. Prager in hiscrumpled blue blazer who almost drowned in a sea of migrantsand still kept his shit together. I owed rhem, and tonight, ¡welveyears later, the bill came, pried open my mouth, squeezed out thememories, compelled me to say something encouraging.

Thinking about my past was uncomfort-able; speaking about it made my hands shake

You can't let the situation consume you. Iunderstood. It was probably why I was the only volunteer readyto go home

You do your job, and you go home. You need to makeyourself a heart of stone, because if not, your heart will break."

The volunteer next to me handed out the last jacket, and wefroze. The men in front didn't move but the line behind themkept undulating, shoving, pushing, until those around the cor-ner rushed forward, spilled into the room, and realized all of thejackets were gone. Some were aîgryi all were disappointed.

I was so busy shov-ing jackets that I was barely able to see anyrhing bur rhe men'shands, which instantly replaced one another, making it seem as ifthere was just one hand in front of me, an empry, weathered handthat kept coming at me from some inexhaustible source of empryweathered hands

They moved quickly so quickly that we had todevote half of our group to crowd control alone, trying to preventan all-out stampede. I barely had time to reach for another jacketbefore the next man was already there.

Inside the church storage room waited boxes stuffed with s\üeat-ers and jackets collected by San Diego parishes. Judging by thedesperation of the men in the hallwa¡ these types of events didnot happen often.

I had a hoodon, a hat on, I had my sleeves pulled out over my hands andthe ends bundled up so you couldn't see a single fingertip, I hadboth bundles shoved far into the sweatshirt pouch, and still I feltnaked.

Oh, I've had free lunches, roo many to count,free suppers, free clothes, free rides, but some things arent paidfor with money. I could feel the debt pricking me like a splinter inmy mind, telling me to speak.

Trust me, don't take it personall¡,, I added, but they couldn,ttrust me and I couldn't blame them. These people were sad andconfused, and th¡owing empfy platitudes at them wasn,t helping.

To be able to sit down utitb anotber hwman being and let tltemhold my soul for a rnornent, to bold it and return it, and to do sowitbout judging, or controlling, or bating, and to do the sarne totbem-that was the gift of Appalachia. That was the gift Aliciagave me

It was during a sunny April Saturday on the E55 Autobahnthat Peter offered Dad a choice: visit Mauthausen or Sankt Flo-rian. Dad chose the camp. My father's always been eerily drawnto the Nazis.

Autobahn runs across the riveS offering rwo options tothe passing tourist.

Is she laughingat me? People don't giue out clothes' Wbat if sbe taþes the iacketaway?I shrank inward, spun around, and shot her a glance full ofhatred. I wasn't going to let some girl amuse herself by staring ata refugee kid dancing around like a crazed marionette' I revertedto what I was: a migrant, a thing in a room full of things'

The left armhad a tiny zippered pocket on rhe elbow. I had no idea whât itwas for or what I would put in it, but I loved it, because somehowit was that extra zipper that made everything authentic, mademe believe that I was cool and rough, like a real pilot.

I froze and stared ar the pile of children's jackets. A thrillrushed over me, washing away everything else from my mind.

The girls smoothly navigated the piles of clothing with asincere desire to find exactly what their "customers" wanted.

She spoke in a calm stream of English. "They will help usshortl¡" Dad said. "They are helping another family right now,and they only work with one family at a time."

Øe shuffled our feet in front of the sign, wondering how exactlyindividuals asking for free clothes should introduce themselves.

Get tuarm, get warm, utalÞ around, beî,uar7rc, go anywhere, play outside, be utarm

I wanted to walk outside without shivering.

My only otherjacket was too small, and I was constantly contorting my handsinto the tiny pockets that hovered around my rib cage.

"Take," not"give," was king in the land of constant deficits, so the idea of aperson freely giving out perfectly good clothes seemed . . . unnat-ural.

Soviet culture of survival.

making some sort of Americanjoke when he said all you have to do is ring the doorbell and thiscrazy woman named Eva will give you whatever you need

It's where people receive free clothing