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Shterenberg is famous for a series of paintings he did in 1917 and 1918, which are sometimes known as “hungry still lives.” A single object, such as a herring or a loaf of bread, is the focus of the…
. . . An empty street. An unfamiliar shack. A tightly shut gate. And hanging over the gate, over the dead street, over us all—a Cossack cap with a raspberry-colored band. A trail of smoke from an…
One year later, a Sunday afternoon. The front room. Jacob is giving his son Mordecai [Uncle Morty] a haircut, newspapers spread around the base of the chair. Moe is reading a newspaper, l…
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 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…
It is barely six in the morning and the stars are still out, but Manuel has to get up.
It isn’t a job that wakes him. That obligation used to get him right to his feet, but now? Now just getting…
The towering life of the towering city
Is burning in white fires.
And in the streets of the Jewish East side
The whiteness of the fires burns even whiter.
I like to stroll in the burning frenzy of…
Pass on, pass on, you lonely grandfathers,
With frightened beards covered with snow,
In the last sorrow, in the final grief
You’re still here, the final witnesses.
Pass on, pass on, you lonely…
Aged woolen women, like old siddurim—moldy, mossy
Bound in coarse canvas;
Pointless bellies dangling after them like empty sacks,
Dried-out breasts, like horseradish roots, swaying back and forth.…
Inside the house they took their seats. Though it was lighter than a few evenings before, a bulb or two would have helped. Eli had to hold his briefcase towards the window for the last gleamings. He…