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Iofin’s portrait of his parents, painted before his emigration from the Soviet Union, was a sly protest against Socialist Realism. He painted in the style but parodied it by overloading his picture…
Her Yoysef was hanging on the shaft of the well. His beard lay humbly on his breast. His fallen shoulders and feebly dangling hands expressed the most profound hopelessness. What can I do? A stone has…
Ay, a lifetime buzzed away . . . what is it, all in all? A dream, a short Friday in winter. . . .
Most people start to philosophize after a savory pot roast and a shot of liquor. Reb Nakhmen the…
Had I fastened
The cradle on a rafter,
And rocked it—and rocked it.
My little son, my Yankl.
But the house has vanished
Into a fiery dome,
How then can I rock
My little son, my own?
Had I…
Why weren’t my family evacuated? Well, at the beginning nobody thought the Germans would get as far as us. Of course, there was the first shock of their sudden attack and their rapid advance, but…