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Paris, Tuesday, May 25, 1926, half past three in the afternoon. The car in which I had suddenly found myself honked and barely managed to drive through the dense throng, with people screaming on all…
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…
On Saturdays, and on unusually busy days when my father could not take the time to come home to the noon dinner, it became my duty to take his midday meal down to him, very carefully packed in a large…
All of us—dying here in polar, ice-cold indifference of nations, forgotten by the world and its hustle and bustle—have nonetheless felt the need to leave something for posterity: if not complete…
This morning I was in the children’s nursery. Women who work leave their children from 7 to 6. There are 150 children between the ages of three months and two years, [one…
I will print this book in ink as a remembrance and a sign, a memorial for my dear children. For now I will reveal their strength with words, as a reminder for them and their children…
I have a lovely period photo, sepia coloured, with all the characters in a row, and their gentle trusting faces, photograph faces that nobody ever looks at now. They are the shifbrider, the ship…
At the end of King George Boulevard stood a tall building with two black, cavernous entrances. It served as a brothel, first for Arabs and later for Allied troops. When passing in front of this…
It is April 1959, I’m standing at the railing of the Batory’s upper deck, and I feel that my life is ending. I’m looking out at the crowd that has gathered on the shore to see the ship’s departure…
My experience with discrimination—especially at the hands of the Paul, Weiss firm over my Sabbath observance—caused me an embarrassing moment during my interview for the Supreme Court clerkship I did…