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These letters have been selected from thousands in a similar vein which it has been the privilege of the editor to peruse. They were forwarded to him from all sections of the country. The…
I always thought
I had been here before.
Each year of my patched-up life
I mended the fabrics
of my decrepit, tattered world.
In memory I recognized faces and smiles,
even my father and mother…
The shtetl, lost here among Polish fields and groves, might be called Turek or Przasnysz, Konin or Maków, yet what one remembers is not the name but the old marketplace reeking of tar and dung where a…
Photographs shock us in so far as they show us something novel. Unfortunately, the ante keeps getting raised—partly through the very proliferation of such images of horror. One’s first encounter with…
In the name of God Amen I Rachel Luis being sick of body but of sound mind and Memory Do make this my last will and Testamit in manner and form following that is to say I wish and order that after my…
The Street was my father’s life. He was a commission merchant in Washington Market, contracting for crops from farmers in Florida, Georgia, the Carolinas, California, Texas, and just about everywhere…