“The only corner at home that I could call my own was under my bed. I would study in the mornings and spend my free time playing with my siblings and friends in our large backyard, much to our neighbors’ dismay. We stayed inside the crowded house only during the cold winter days.

In 1933, on one of those cold, wintry days, we had electricity installed. We were as noisy as a group of active children can be and disturbed the electricians. ‘Settle down already!’ Mamme exclaimed again and again, in vain. ‘If you don’t quiet down, I’ll throw you out!’ She glared at us once or twice.

I had an idea. ‘Wait, Mamme. You don’t need to send us outside. We’ll go ourselves!’

I asked my sister Shoshana to help the little ones put on their coats, and we hurried out with my siblings to put my plan into action. I was almost six, and my siblings – Shoshana, Chava, and Alex – were younger than I, so we could all ride the bus for free. It was warm and comfortable on the bus, and my younger siblings fell asleep on the ride.

Time passed quickly. Mamme was worried, certain that we were walking around in the cold. She felt bad about sending us out in the cold, but when we returned, she was surprised to see her rosy-cheeked children in good spirits … ‘Where have you been all this time?’ she asked. The little ones joyfully shared tales about our excursion. Mamme thanked me for giving her peace of mind by treating me to bread slathered with jam instead of margarine for dinner. I felt that I had shown true leadership.”

This excerpt is from an English translation of a book written by my cousin about her father, Simcha Singer, my uncle, who saved his family (and others) in the Holocaust, thus indirectly making my own life possible. The narrative describes the poverty of the family in Bratislava, Slovakia, and how a 6-year-old boy takes his younger siblings on a bus to get them out of the house one freezing day, something any harried mother of 11 can appreciate.

Consulted about the English translation, it hit me that the writer had omitted, or just didn’t know, a piece of the story that my own mother (the Shoshana referred to above, 4-5 years old at the time) had told me long ago. Here it is, written in my mother’s voice. Keep in mind that these are four little kids cocooned from the rest of the world by penury and orthodox religion:

“When the bus reached the main square, we got off. It was early but there wasn’t much sun in the middle of the winter. Elegant women in fur coats and hats shopped at the stores, holiday decorations lined the square, lights, colors and the sounds of people having a good time were everywhere. We’d never been here. We must have looked bedraggled to the others, but nobody looked at us.

And then we came to a shop window, a chocolate shop window, and our mouths dropped open. The window showed all kinds of chocolate, from the lightest brown to the darkest black, in all shapes and sizes: squares and ovals, spirals and crescents. The small signs told us that they had fillings: nuts and fruit, strawberry, raspberry and lemon, as well as liqueurs.

We’d never seen anything like it. Once or twice a year an uncle would arrive from Vienna, a 90-minute ride away, and bring one piece of chocolate for each of us. But people walked in and out of the store and, through the glass, we could see them pointing to various chocolates that were then carefully put into boxes, wrapped and ribboned. My mouth watered.

‘Look at all the chocolate they’re buying,’ I whispered to my brother, Simcha.

He turned to me, an earnest look on his face, and said: “But do you understand what goes into buying chocolate? You can’t just buy chocolate. First, you must pay rent for the apartment. Then you have to pay for electricity. Then you have to pay for wood (heat) and water. Then you must pay for food, and then for school and some books—and after that, after you’ve paid for all that, only then you could buy chocolate.’”

Perhaps that accounts for why, throughout my life, I’ve loved chocolate. And I’m fortunate enough to buy it without checking the list my uncle itemized so many years ago. He, too, became wealthy enough over the years to afford chocolate—and lots more—without having to check whether the roof was falling over his head or how much money he had in the bank.

I thought of this story on Sunday, a gorgeous day before the return of a nasty heat wave. I felt neither here nor there, somewhat dull and listless, a little stale. The hell with this, I decided, looking at the computer screen and the desk that never empties. I got up and drove off to Unity Park in Turners Falls, which featured a summer picnic and get-together for the entire community.

Many immigrant families, usually anxious about leaving their homes, were there. We’ve sent 15 of their children to camp while the parents work on the farms in this unusually hot and humid summer. I found Jimena, who was womaning the Bingo table, and sat down with a few others for bingo. The prize (which I didn’t win) was a Boston Celtics blanket. There was face-painting, balloons, and raffle tickets, along with hamburgers and hot dogs, potato chips, water bottles, and ice cream.

Instantly I cheered up. So much life, so much fun and spirit, so many bright white teeth flashing happy smiles. The sheer abandon and recklessness were intoxicating. I’m sure that at other times, in other areas, they must do their version of the math my uncle described above almost 100 years ago: Do we have the rent? Can we cover the electricity and water? Do we have food? Will we have money to get what the kids need when schools reopen? Only then, maybe, we could go to get hamburgers and ice cream, only then play games

On Sunday they didn’t have to do that arithmetic, it had been done for them. All they had to do was sit at picnic tables, hover occasionally over their babies in carriages, and laugh and clap while the teenagers played sports and the men went on line for the food.

So, so simple. No one left out. No fancy store windows with children perpetually on the outside, looking with bewilderment and a teaspoonful of envy at what was happening inside. Everyone was there, rich and poor, white, black, brown, English and other-speaking. Jimena read the Bingo numbers in her loud, no-nonsense tone, changing from one language to another. I didn’t win the Celtics blanket. The only drama took place when a little boy, John-Pablo, ran into the volleyball clearing among the teenage boys and girls and they had to stop the game to make sure he didn’t get hurt.

Right then and there, I made plans with Jimena and Byron to see the World Cup final at their home this coming Sunday. I don’t get sports on my TV and I love the World Cup, when some of the most glorious soccer games in the world are played. If you think the Superbowl is something, it is but the tiniest toe compared to the world body watching the World Cup. Train and plane travel come to a halt everywhere. If you’re not home, your eyes are anchored either to a phone screen or else you’re listening to the game. Poor villagers in every continent sit to watch it in front of the one screen someone may have.

And as the world watches, it’s conscious of itself as one world, you can’t miss it. For some 2-3 hours everyone is doing the same thing, yelling, cheering, cursing in all the languages under the sun, eating and drinking their local food, all brought together by this spectacle of the best players in the world passing the ball with astounding accuracy across long distances, running faster than you can  imagine. Even as we watch them, we’re aware of each other because we’re all doing the same thing. We share in a silent but instinctive, visceral understanding that we’re all one.

The politicians and FIFA will try to mess it up. Trump will intervene on behalf of the American team, other politicians will utter racist profanities, and FIFA itself is rotten to the core. But the players! The game!

It’s as if the world is saying: You think you could turn back the clock and deport everyone who’s not white or doesn’t speak English like a native. But these games, and the simple act of coming together on a gorgeous summer afternoon, are way stronger than you. One soccer ball (they’re so colorful in these games) and two nets is all it takes. Several bingo cards, a basketball court, hamburgers and dixie cups with vanilla ice cream, is all it takes. The world is dazzled.