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The next day Marcel Schwartz registered at the labor exchange. [ . . . ]
Ten days later he heard clearly and explicitly: Marcel Schwartz! With trembling hands, he took his work notice, went home to…
Michael and I arranged to meet that same evening in Cafe Atara in Ben Yehuda Street. Outside an absolute storm was raging, beating down furiously on the stone walls of Jerusalem.
Austerity regulations…
Opposite the windowsill is a shuttered curtain and a wasteland of chimneys. The street is being drained of life. A double-decker bus with gleaming windows of light passes by the corner. A woman pushes…
Arab Halva—moist, sticky, fibrous. The taste tears across my lips like a memory. Within me Jaffa stirs, wakens from sleep; eyes and faces of Jaffa.
I am there, it is afternoon, a city half-awake…
The filthy train lurched along the tracks, jolting my spine through the slats of the wooden seat.
I was thoughtful, my happiness mixed with vague regrets. Happiness? No, a deserter’s sense of hard-won…