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Few children know the stories of their parents. During my childhood, I knew only that mine were an impossible match—which did not prevent my mother from spending day and night at my father’s bedside…
When I crossed the ocean, I carried with me the habit of speaking to the shadows, and it became my way of life. I look up at the stars that were extinguished long ago. For me they still shine with the…
[…] I want to tell you about my brother’s ghost.
I had so looked forward to seeing him again: my Schorschi, my Czech brother, who had sent us a few postcards from Theresienstadt. But he wasn’t there…
When I was twelve, I read The Diary of Anne Frank.
I identified with her having to live
stories above a busy street
over a business, and having to keep quiet
for hours at a time.
I’d pad about on…
So I’m glad I got the napkin back. Because she made it for me when we had all the time. Back in the old country when the two of us loved each other better than anybody else in the whole world. I had…
Can you imagine the air filled with smoke?
It was. The city was vanishing before noon
or was it earlier than that? I can’t say because
the light came from nowhere and went nowhere.
This was years…
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…
Superimposed upon my face in the mirror is my mother’s. I am about to comb my hair, but here she is, brushing hers, her thick, wavy, white hair.
We quarrelled about hair.
“D…
“I have a partner for the Point St Charles business,” said Pa.
“A partner! Why a partner?” said Aunt Julia. “Why are you afraid to do anything by yourself? And who is this partner?”
“Henoch,” he told…