Anderson A TINY SILVER NEEDLE, sharp point. My large fingers had grown nimble over years of practice and delicate concentration, and I could glide the moistened end of the thread through the needle’s eye on the first try, then pull the strand tight. I completed the first stitches, neat ones, no excuse for clumsy black sutures such as a mortician would use after an autopsy. The needle dipped into the end of the torn arm socket, then emerged, and I pulled the strong thread through, binding the detached arm to the shoulder. I immediately saw that I should have used white thread, because it would have been less conspicuous. I made certain the ends were neatly aligned and continued my stitching. I sat in my dim tailor shop in the ghetto of Ingolstadt. Some called the place cramped; I found it cozy. I was accepted here, though I wasn’t Jewish—what religion would accept someone like me? The people welcomed outsiders, understood them, and did not ask awkward, probing questions.
