In 1930 we went to live in Sweden. Before we had unpacked, and while I was still in that baffled mood that always comes on me when forced to tackle a new land and a new language, I noticed my husband struggling over a long, legal-looking document.

“The police are after our life history?” I asked with pale interest.

“It isn’t the police,” he answered in a resigned voice. “It’s my application for a liquor book. Chuck the unpacking and help me — won’t you? In Sweden your liquor book is your badge of respectability, your rating in society.”

The…