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You have a simplistic picture of a pogrom. A well-off and respected shopkeeper lives a proud and happy life. All at once, angels of destruction pop out of nowhere and within minutes they…
This work, which I here make public, answers a scholarly need that became evident to me twenty-five years ago, when I was still a young student writing my first book, The Beginning…
Always, by the time the humid, breathless, summer night lifted its veil and a quiet, rosy dawn emerged, when some glimmers of soft, opaque light began to filter through the dried muddy, dusty window…
The third whistle. Reb Zerakh Lilienthal clutched his beloved family to his heart, kissed them, and boarded the train. He did not have the strength to wish them well yet again. His throat was so tight…