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for V. Kaverin [Veniamin Kaverin, born Zilber, Soviet writer]
The small town resounded with whistling and shouting. The smell of stewing, the smell of frying, the smell of boiling.
Mr. Dykhes had sold all his defective soap to the army.
Mus…
Before Talpiot was built the King of the Winds used to rule over the entire region: and all his ministers and servants, mighty and stubborn winds, dwelled there with him and blew over mountain and…
In every village in the region, in every farmhouse you’d meet them, the Boyars. The first Boyar, family legend had it, had settled in the Polesian forests many generations ago. His name had been Ezra…
And then—it was after I had returned from Tiberias to Tel Aviv to attend a literary soirée—then the creative activity, archetypical, all-embracing, that hitherto I had sought in vain, at last…
I just can’t. Should I? I feel like going in, but I just can’t; I remain stationary. The church door opens and closes, continually, and I open and close with it, split asunder. Warmth escapes from…
He carried his camera and case into the dining room, and as he stood there for a moment, peering at the table through the twilight haze in the room, he breathed deeply of the familiar holiday odors…
Every article you’ve done for us, Phil,” Minify had said, “has a kind of human stuff in it. The right answers get in it somehow.”
Sure. But he hadn’t asked for them and pried for them. When he’d…
Wherein I, Simon Sit in Judgment
On an afternoon in the month of Nisan, which is the sweetest time of the year, the bells were sounded; and I, Simon, the least, the most unworthy of all my…
“Reb Hersh,” I finally said, “as I sat here listening to you, I sometimes thought I was listening to myself. And since it’s harder to lie to yourself than to someone else, I will answer you as though…