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Ai, the troubles of a greenhorn! A scholar in the subject of cloakmaking, as I am today, I had not yet become. And if in those days you had “unioned” me till you were blue in the face, I still would…
I know a town in White Russia [Belarus] on the River Dnieper. Its name is Shklov. I was born there, went to heder there, which is why I know it so well.The flame of life burns calmly there. Nobody…
As for me, I was born in Tsviatshits and my name is Mendele the Book Peddler. Most of the year I’m on the road, travelling from one place to another, so people know me everywhere. I ride all over…
Nuska Shkolnik, who had come on a four-day leave, cried those four straight. He’d been a whiner since childhood, and Lyovka never did manage to knock that vice out of him. All anyone had to do was…
Tirzeh rose early the following morning, cooked some schav, beat in several eggs, boiled a pot of potatoes, and put the food on the table to cool. As soon as she sat down, she remembered…
I doubt if the Dreyfus case made such a stir anywhere as it did in Kasrilevka.
Paris, they say, seethed like a boiling vat. The papers carried streamers, generals shot themselves, and small boys ran…
In the province of Mollive, there is an old woman who is known for her shtetl wisdom, her old sayings, and her folktales. I met her quite by chance. Her…
. . . An empty street. An unfamiliar shack. A tightly shut gate. And hanging over the gate, over the dead street, over us all—a Cossack cap with a raspberry-colored band. A trail of smoke from an…
The heder was in the basement. It was a dark, damp room with a low ceiling. There were two windows on the ground level. In the middle of the room, there was a long wooden table covered with books, two…
Time grows short at the end of a century, like winter days when night falls too soon. In the dusk, angels and demons walk. Who knows who they are? Or which is which. But there they are, sneaking their…