imagine a host of tiny soldiers each the size of my little finger,
"but alive and real." These I would drill as I saw officers do their
men in front of the barracks some distance from our home. Or
else I would take. to marching up and down the room with
mother's rolling-pin for a rifle, grunting, ferociously, in Russian:
"Left one! Left one! Left one!" in the double capacity of a Russian
soldier and of David fighting Goliath.

Often, while bent upon her housework, my mother would hum
some of the songs of the famous wedding bard, Eliakim Zunzer,
who later emigrated to America.

I distinctly remember her singing his "There is a flower on the
road, decaying in the dust, Passers-by treading upon it," his
"Summer and Winter," and his "Rachael is bemoaning her
children." I vividly recall these brooding airs as she used to sing
them, for I have inherited her musical memory and her passionate
love for melody, though not her voice. I cannot sing myself, but
some tunes give me thrills of pleasure, keen and terrible as the
edge of a sword. Some haunt me like ghosts. But then this is a
common trait among our people.

She was a wiry little woman, my mother, with prominent
cheek-bones, a small, firm mouth, and dark eyes. Her hair was
likewise dark, though I saw it but very seldom, for like all
orthodox daughters of Israel she always had it carefully covered
by a kerchief, a nightcap, or--on Saturdays and holidays--by a wig.
She was extremely rigorous about it. For instance, while she
changed her kerchief for her nightcap she would cause me to look
away