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Bread, bread. The abundance of it dazzles your eyes. In the windows, on the stalls, in hands, in baskets. I won’t be able to hold out if I can’t grab a bite or bread-stuff. “Grab? You don’t look…
There once arrived at our house a person completely unknown to us, an unmarried lady of about forty, in a little red hat and with a sharp chin and angry dark eyes. On the strength…
[ . . . ] In the early autumn of 1918 we entered a new circle of Bolshevik hell, the period of mass Red Terror. The murder of Uritskii and…
Mordkhe Spektor [1858–1925] was the “honorary chair” of the “Society of Gluttons and Drunkards.” Though he had not been elected to this “post,” everyone felt that Spektor was the singular candidate…