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Pantel the wagon driver stretches out under the covers and sits up, yawning. The house is dark but a faint light is just beginning to penetrate through the peepholes in the shutter.
“It’s…
Some sort of strange, humid day. . . . Some sort of day with a ragged sun and low, dark clouds, like threads of smoke, already happened once before in the past: in distant years long ago, when our…
The question arises: How did my mother, who, with her first husband, the feldsher, resided in spacious rooms, with brass handles on the doors, come to be with Father, a village Jew who…