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“I must go to carols tomorrow night.”
Mother is serving the soup. Chicken soup again, with noodles, for the third day in a row. While from next door, a roast tickles the nostrils. A myriad globules…
It did our hearts good to see Vaytshepl. It did Pinye too much good. “Why, it’s Berdichev!” he shouted. “Children, I swear, we’re not in London at all, we’re in Berdichev!” The next thing I know he’s…