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My translation owes much to her specialized knowledge of early-twen­ tieth-century Russian language and literature. It has been fascinat­ ing to see his style change from work to work. I spread out my note­ books and painstakingly began to do my mathematics problems.

Watching Shloyme eat was disgusting: his whole puny body quivered, his fingers covered with grease, his face so pitiful, filled with the dread that someone might harm him, that he might be forgotten. Sometimes his daughter-in-law would play a little trick on Shloyme. She would serve the food, and then act as if she had overlooked him.

He wanted to show that food was not important to him, that he could perfectly well make do without it, but there was so much pleading in the depths of his eyes, in the crease of his mouth, in his outstretched, dating mandolins flatiron arms, and his smile, wrenched with such difficulty, was so pitiful, that all jokes were dropped, and Shloyme received his portion. And thus he lived in his korean star dating 2021 ate and slept, and in the sum­ mer he also lay baking in the sun.

It seemed that he had long ago lost all ability to comprehend anything. Neither his son's business nor household matters interested him. He looked blankly at everything that took place around him, and the only fear that would flutter up in him was that his grandson might catch on that he had hidden a dried-up piece of honey cake under his pillow. Nobody ever spoke to Shloyme, asked his advice about anything, or asked him for help. And Shloyme was quite happy, until one day his son came over to him after dinner and shouted loudly into his ear, "Papa, they're going to evict us from here!

Are you listening? Evict us, kick us out! Shloyme slowly raised his faded eyes, looked around, vaguely comprehending something, wrapped himself tighter in his greasy frock coat, didn't say a word, and shuffled off to sleep. From that day on Shloyme began noticing that something strange dating mandolins flatiron going on in the house.

His son was crestfallen, wasn't taking care of his business, and at times would burst into tears and look furtively at his chewing father.

His grandson stopped going to high school. His daughter-in-law yelled shrilly, wrung her hands, pressed her son close to her, and cried bitterly and profusely. Shloyme now had an occupation, he watched and tried to compre­ hend. Muffled thoughts stirred in his long-torpid brain.

Above all, Babel feared that his economic position would affect his work. His life centered on writing. His stays abroad made him understand that he could not make a comfortable living as an emigre writer. As Cynthia Ozick observed in a review of Babel's Diary, "By remaining in the Soviet Union and refusing finally to bend his art to Soviet directives, Babel sacrificed his life to his language. If I did not live with the Russian people, I would cease being a writer.

He's eighty-six years old! He wants to stay warm! It's cold outside, damp.

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Shloyme isn't going anywhere! He has nowhere to go, nowhere! And the words froze in his toothless mouth, his raised arm dropped weakly. Shloyme, all huddled up as if ashamed at his outburst, sullenly went back to his corner and listened to what his son was saying to his daughter-in-law. His hearing was bad, but with fear and dread he sensed something terrifYing. At such moments his son felt the heavy crazed look of the old man, who was being driven insane, focused on him.

The old man's two small eyes with their accursed probing, seemed incessantly to sense something, to question something. On one occasion words were said too loudly-it had slipped the daughter-in-Iaw's mind that Shloyme was still alive.

And right after her words were spoken, there was a quiet, almost smothered wail.

После небольшой паузы тихий голос произнес: - Пожалуйста, назовитесь. - Я Шут Хедрон. Мой спутник - Элвин. - Какое у вас. - Чистое любопытство.

It was old Shloyme. With tottering steps, dirty and disheveled, he slowly hobbled over to his son, grabbed his hands, caressed them, kissed them, and, not taking his inflamed eyes off his son, shook his head several times, and for the first time in many, many years, tears flowed from his eyes. He didn't say anything.

With difficul­ ty he got up from his knees, his bony hand wiping away the tears; for some reason he shook the dust off his frock coat and shuffled back to his corner, to where the warm stove stood.

Shloyme wanted to warm himsel£ He felt cold. From that time on, Shloyme thought of nothing else. He knew one thing for certain: his son wanted to leave his people for a new God. The old, forgotten faith was kindled within him. Shloyme had never been religious, had rarely ever prayed, and in his younger days had even had the reputation of being godless. But to leave, to leave one's God com­ pletely and forever, the God of an oppressed and suffering people-that he could not understand.

Thoughts rolled heavily inside his head, he comprehended things with difficulty, but these words remained unchanged, hard, and terrible before panama online dating "This mustn't happen, it mustn't! What are you going to do now? But there were no relieving dating mandolins flatiron.

And then, at the moment his heart began aching, when his mind grasped the boundlessness of the disaster, it was then that Shloyme looked at his warm corner one last time and decided that no one was going to kick him out of here, they would never kick him out. So what! Shloyme will tell God how he was wronged! After all, there is a God, God will take him in!

In the middle of the night, trembling with cold, he got up dating mandolins flatiron his bed. Qyietly, so as not to wake anyone, he lit a small kerosene lamp. Slowly, with an old man's groaning and shivering, he started pulling on his dirty clothes.

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Then he took the stool and the rope he had prepared the night before, and, tottering with weakness, steadying himself on the walls, went out into the street. Suddenly it was so cold. His whole body shivered. Shloyme quickly fastened the rope onto a hook, stood up next to the door, put the stool in place, clambered up onto it, wound the rope around his thin, quivering neck, kicked away the stool with his dating matematicienii strength, managing with his dimming eyes to glance at the town he had not left once in sixty years, and hung.

There was a strong wind, and soon old Shloyme's frail body began swaying before the door of his house in which he had left his warm stove and the greasy Torah of his forefathers. Walking through the streets didn't seem to me pointless.

I could daydream remarkably well as I dating mandolins flatiron, and I felt that everything, everything around me was part of my being. I knew the signs, the stones of the houses, the windows of the stores.

I knew them in a very special way, a very personal way, and I was firmly convinced that I saw the funda­ mental secret within them-what we grown-ups call the "essence" of things. Everything about them was deeply imprinted on my soul. When grown-ups mentioned a store in my presence, I envisioned its sign, the worn, golden letters, the little scratch in the left corner, the young lady with the tall coiffure at the cash register, and I remembered the air around this store that was not around any other.

I pieced togeth­ er from these stores, from the people, the air, the theater posters, my own hometown. To this day I remember, feel, and love this town-feel it, as one feels one's mother's scent, the scent of her caresses, words, and smiles, and I love this datând 4 părinți singuri because I grew up in it, was happy, melan­ choly, and dreamy in it.

Passionately and singularly dreamy. I always walked down the main street-that is where most of the people were. The Sabbath I want to tell you about was a Sabbath in early spring. At that time of year, our air does not have the quiet tender­ ness, so sweet in central Russia, resting upon its peaceful streams and modest valleys.

Our air has a sparkling, light coolness that blows with a shallow, chilly passion. I was no more than a young boy then and 4 7 Tlie Comp {e te Work"s of Is a ac B abe { didn't understand a thing, but I felt the spring, and I blossomed and reddened in the chill.

The walk lasted a long time. I stared at the diamonds in the jew­ eler's window, read the theater posters from A to Z, and once I even studied the pale pink corsets with their long, wavy suspenders in Madam Rosalie's store.

As I was about to walk on, I collided with a tall student who had a big black mustache. He smiled at me and asked, "So you're examining these closely, are you? Then he patronizingly patted me on the back and said in a superior tone, " Keep up the good work, dear colleague! My compliments! All the best! I felt very flustered, avoided looking at Madam Rosalie's display window, and quickly head­ ed for home. I was supposed dating mandolins flatiron spend the Sabbath at my grandmother's.

She had her own room at the very end of the apartment, behind the kitchen.

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A stove stood in the corner of this room, Grandmother always felt cold. The room was hot and stuffY, which made me feel melancholy and want to escape, to get out into the open. I dragged my belongings over to Grandmother's, my books, my music stand, and my violin. The table had already been set for me. Grandmother sat in the corner. I ate. We didn't say a word. The door dating mandolins flatiron locked. We were alone. There was cold gefilte fish for dinner with horseradish a dish worth embracing Judaism fora rich and delicious soup, roasted meat with onions, salad, compote, coffee, pie, and apples.

I ate everything. I was a dreamer, it is true, but a dreamer with a hearty appetite. Grandmother cleared away the dishes. The room became tidy. There were wilting flowers on the windowsill. What grandmother loved best among all living things were her son, her grandson, Mimi her dog, and flowers.

Mimi came over, rolled herself up on the sofa, and immediately fell asleep. She was kind of a lazy pooch, but a splendid dog, good, clever, small, and pretty. Mimi was a pug dog. Her coat was light-colored. Even in old age she didn't get flabby or heavy, but man­ aged to remain svelte and slim. She lived with us for a long time, from birth to death, the whole fifteen years of her dog life, and, needless to say, she loved us, and most of all our severe and unbending grand­ mother.

I shall tell about what tight-mouthed, secretive friends they were another time. It is a very interesting and tender story.

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Mimi slept. Grandmother, kind, wearing her holiday silk dress, sat in the corner, and I was supposed to study. That day was difficult for me. There were six classes in the high school, and Mr. Sorokin, the music teacher, was supposed to come, and Mr. I had to prepare for all these lessons. I could deal with L. First of all, I started on my homework. I spread out my note­ books and painstakingly began to do my mathematics problems.

Grandmother didn't interrupt me, God forbid.

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The tension inside her, and her reverence for my work, gave her face a dazed look. Her eyes, round, yellow, transparent, never left me. I would turn a page-and her eyes would slowly follow my hand. Another person might have suffered greatly under her persistent, watchful, unwavering stare, but I was used to it. Then Grandmother listened to me recite my lessons. It has to be said that her Russian was bad-she had her own peculiar way of man­ gling words, mixing Russian with Polish and Hebrew.

Needless to say, she couldn't read or write Russian, and would hold books upside down. But that didn't deter me dating crown derby reciting my lesson from beginning to dating mandolins flatiron.

I finished my lessons and began reading a book. At the time, I was reading "First Love " by Turgenev. I liked everything in it, the clear words, the descriptions, the conversations, but the scene that made me shiver all over was the one in which Vladimir's father strikes Zinaida's cheek with a whip. I could hear the whip's whistling sound-its lithe leather body sharply, painfully, instantly bit­ ing into me.

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I was seized by an indescribable emotion. At that point in the book I had to stop reading, and pace up and down the room. And Grandmother sat there stock-still, and even the hot, stupefYing air did not stir, as if it sensed I was studying and shouldn't be disturbed. The heat in the room kept rising. Mimi began snoring. Everything seemed uncan­ ny at that moment and I wanted to run away from it all, and yet I want­ ed to stay there forever. The darkening room, Grandmother's yellow eyes, her tiny body wrapped in a shawl silent and hunched over in the corner, the hot air, the closed door, and the clout of the whip, and that piercing whistle-only now do I realize how strange it all was, how much it meant to me.

I was snatched out of this troubled state by the doorbell. Sorokin had come. I hated him at that moment, I hated the scales, the incomprehensible, pointless, shrill music. I must admit that Sorokin was quite a nice fellow. He wore his black hair cropped very short, had large red hands, and beautiful thick lips.

On that day, under Grandmother's watchful stare, he had to work for a whole hour, even longer, he dating mandolins flatiron to push himself to the limit. For all of this he got absolutely no recognition. The old woman's eyes coldly and persistent­ ly followed his every move, remaining distant and indifferent. Grandmother had no interest in outside people.

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She demanded that they fulfill their obligations to us, and nothing more. We began our les­ son. I wasn't frightened of Grandmother, but for a full hour I had to brave poor Sorokin's boundless zeal. He felt extremely ill-at-ease in this remote room, in the presence dating mandolins flatiron a dog peacefully asleep and a coldly watchful, hostile old woman. Finally he took his leave. Grandmother gave him her hard, wrinkled, large hand with indifference, without shaking it.

On his way out, he stumbled into a chair. I also survived the following hour, Mr. Evening came. Faraway golden dots ignited in the sky.

Our court­ yard, a deep cage, was dazzled by the moon. I became melancholy. I was tired. I had read so much, studied so much, seen so much. Grandmother lit a lamp.

Her room immedi­ ately became quiet. The dark, heavy furniture was softly illuminated. Mimi woke up, walked through the room, came back to us again, and waited for her supper. The maid brought in the samovar. Grandmother was a tea lover. She had saved a slice of honey cake for me. We drank large quantities. Sweat sparkled in Grandmother's deep, sharp wrinkles. We began to talk. And once more I heard Grandmother's stories. H e was poor, married, burdened with children, and traded in bootleg vodka.

The commissar came and tor­ mented him. Life became difficult. He went to the tsaddik and said, "Rabbi! The commissar is vexing me to death! Speak to God on my behalf1 " "Go in peace, " the tsaddik said to him.

At the threshold of his tavern he found the commissar. He was lying there dead, with a purple, swollen face. Grandmother fell silent. The samovar hummed. The woman next door was still singing.

The moon still dazzled.

Почему, к примеру, он не вписывается в саги. Среди тысяч форм развлечения, существовавших в городе, саги были особенно популярны. Вход в сагу не делал из его пассивным наблюдателем, как в несовершенных действах прежних времен, которые Элвин иногда смотрел. Он был активным участником, обладающим - по крайней мере так казалось - свободой выбора. События и сцены, служившие исходным материалом для приключений, могли быть подготовлены заранее давно забытыми художниками, но оказывались достаточно гибкими, допускали всяческие изменения.

Mimi wagged her tail. She was hungry. When I was a girl, the Poles rebelled. Near where we lived was a count's estate. Even the Czar came to visit the count. Seven days and seven nights they made merry. At night I ran over to the count's castle and looked through the bright windows. The count had a daughter and the finest pearls in the world. Then came the uprising. Soldiers dragged him out onto the square. We all stood there crying.

The soldiers dug a pit. They wanted to blindfold the old man. He said, "That will not be necessary! The muzhiks loved him. Just as they began burying him, a messenger came galloping up. He brought a pardon from the Czar. The samovar had gone out. Grandmother drank her last, cold glass of tea, and sucked on a piece of sugar with her toothless mouth. He gave away all his money to his friends, and when his turn came to ask them for some­ thing they kicked him down the stairs, and he lost his mind.

He played the violin, wrote lit­ erary works at night, and knew all the languages. He was governed by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and life. A general's daughter fell in love with their eldest son, who traveled a lot, played cards, and died in Canada at the age of thirty-seven.

All Grandmother had left was one son and me. It was all over. Day slips into evening, and death slowly approaches. Grandmother falls silent, lowers her head, and begins crying. You must know everything. Everyone will fall on their knees before you and bow to you. Let them envy you. Don't believe in people. Don't have friends. Don't give them your dating mandolins flatiron. Petersburg in Z 9 Z 67 he jound the city in wild but stimulating upheaval.

It was still the capital if Russia and the center if Russian literature and art, where the joremost writers if the day lived and published.

But the city was shaken by World War 1. The Imperial government was losing control, and calls jar change, which were to lead to the Revolution and Civil War, were in the air. Perhaps most importantjar a young writer was that the Czarist censorship was crumbling, which meant that daring new subjects could be treated in new ways, a characteristic that was to stay with Babel throughout his dating mandolins flatiron career. His jirst published story, "Old Shloyme Z 9 Z 3dealt with the subversive subject if Jews jorced by efficially sanctioned anti­ Semitism to renounce their religion.

In the story, a young Jew gives in to the pressure to Russianize himself, "to leave his people jar a new God," while the old Jew, dating mandolins flatiron never interested in religion or tradition, cannot bring him­ self to give them up. In the subsequent stories, Babel touches other taboo subjects: Jewish men mixing with Christian women, prostitutioll, teenage pregnancy, and abortion. He has a young woman rtfer herself to her lover, "and the lanky Jellow wallowed in businesslike bliss.

Babel's piquant brand of realism soon caught the eye of Maxim Gorky, who was to be the single most irifluential literary Jigure in the Soviet Union during the Z 92 Os and Z 93 Os, and who was particularly instrumental in help ing young Soviet writers. This mentoring was to last until Gorky's death exactly twenty years later.

The reason for this, plain and simple, is that he was forgotten, the way you forget an unnec­ essary thing that doesn't jump out and grab you. Old Shloyme was pre­ cisely that kind of thing. Dating mandolins flatiron was eighty-six years old. His eyes were watery. His face-his small, dirty, wrinkled face-was overgrown with a yellowish beard that had never been combed, and his head was cov­ ered with a thick, tangled mane.

Shloyme almost never washed, seldom changed his clothes, and gave off a foul stench. His son and daughter­ in-law, with whom he lived, had stopped bothering about him-they kept him in a warm corner and forgot about him.

His warm corner and his food were all that Shloyme had left, and it seemed that this was all he needed. For him, warming his old broken bones and eating a nice, fat, juicy piece of meat were the purest bliss.

He was the first to come to the table, and greedily watched every bite with unflinching eyes, convulsively cramming food into his mouth with his long bony fingers, and he ate, ate, ate till they refused to give him any more, even a tiny little piece. Watching Shloyme eat was disgusting: his whole puny body quivered, his fingers covered with grease, his face b2gether dating pitiful, filled with the dread that someone might harm him, that he might be forgotten.

Sometimes his daughter-in-law would play a little trick on Shloyme. She would serve the food, and then act as if she had overlooked him. He wanted to show that food was not important to him, that he could perfectly well make do without it, but there was so much pleading in the depths of his eyes, in the crease of his mouth, in his outstretched, imploring arms, and his smile, wrenched with such difficulty, was so pitiful, that all jokes were dropped, and Shloyme received his portion.

And thus he lived in his corner-he ate and slept, and in the sum­ mer he also lay baking in the sun. It seemed that he had long ago lost all ability to comprehend anything. Neither his son's business nor household matters interested him. He looked blankly at everything that took place around him, and the only fear that would flutter up in him was that his grandson might catch on that he had hidden a dried-up piece of honey cake under his pillow.

Nobody ever spoke to Shloyme, asked his advice about anything, or asked him for help. And Shloyme was quite happy, until one day his son came over to him after dinner and shouted loudly into his ear, "Papa, they're going to evict us from here!

Are you listening? Evict us, kick us out! Shloyme slowly raised his faded eyes, looked around, vaguely comprehending something, wrapped himself tighter in his greasy frock coat, didn't say a word, and shuffled off to sleep. From that day on Shloyme began noticing that something strange was going on in the house. His son was crestfallen, wasn't taking care of his business, and at times would burst into tears and look furtively at his chewing father.

His grandson stopped going to high school. His daughter-in-law yelled shrilly, wrung her hands, pressed her son close to her, and cried bitterly and profusely. Shloyme now had an occupation, he watched and tried to compre­ hend. Muffled thoughts stirred in his long-torpid brain. He's eighty-six years old! He wants to stay warm! It's cold outside, damp.

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Shloyme isn't going anywhere! He has nowhere to go, nowhere! And the words froze in his toothless mouth, his raised arm dropped weakly.

Shloyme, all huddled up as if ashamed at his outburst, sullenly went back to his corner and listened to what his son was saying to his daughter-in-law. His hearing was bad, but with fear and dread he dating mandolins flatiron something terrifYing.

At such moments his son felt the heavy crazed look of the old man, who was being driven insane, focused on him. The old man's two small eyes with their accursed probing, seemed incessantly to sense something, to question something. On one occasion words were said too loudly-it had slipped the daughter-in-Iaw's mind that Shloyme was still alive.

And right after her words were spoken, there was a quiet, almost smothered wail. It was old Shloyme. With tottering steps, dirty and disheveled, he slowly hobbled over to his son, grabbed his hands, caressed them, kissed them, and, not taking his inflamed eyes off his son, shook his head several times, and for the first time in many, many years, tears flowed from his eyes. He didn't say anything. With difficul­ ty he got up from his knees, his bony hand wiping away the tears; for some reason he shook the dust off his frock coat and shuffled back to his corner, to where the warm stove stood.

Shloyme wanted to warm himsel£ He felt cold. From that time on, Shloyme thought of nothing else. He knew one thing for certain: his son wanted to leave his people for a new God. The old, forgotten faith was kindled within him.

Shloyme had never been religious, had rarely ever prayed, and in his younger days had even had the reputation of being godless. But to leave, to leave one's God com­ pletely and forever, the God of an oppressed and suffering people-that he could not understand. Thoughts rolled heavily inside his head, he comprehended things with difficulty, but these words remained unchanged, hard, and terrible before him: "This mustn't happen, it mustn't!

What are you going to do now? But there were no relieving tears. And then, at the moment real xs dating login heart began aching, when his mind grasped the boundlessness of the disaster, it was then that Shloyme looked at his warm corner one last time and decided that no one was going to kick him out of here, they would never kick him out. So what! Shloyme will tell God dating mandolins flatiron he was wronged!

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After all, there is a God, God will take him in! In the middle of the night, trembling with cold, he got up from his bed. Qyietly, so as not to wake anyone, he lit a small kerosene lamp. Slowly, with an old man's groaning and shivering, he started pulling on his dirty clothes. Then he took the stool and the rope he had prepared the night before, and, tottering with weakness, steadying himself on the walls, went out into the street.

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Suddenly it was so cold. His whole body shivered. Shloyme quickly fastened the rope onto a hook, stood up next to the door, put the stool in place, clambered up onto it, wound the rope around his thin, quivering neck, kicked away the stool with his last strength, managing with his dimming eyes to glance at the town he had not left once in sixty years, and hung.

There was a strong wind, and soon old Shloyme's frail body began swaying before the door of his house in which he had left his warm stove and the greasy Torah of his forefathers.

Walking through the streets didn't seem to dating mandolins flatiron pointless. I could daydream remarkably well as I walked, and I felt that everything, everything around me was part of my being. I knew the signs, the stones of the houses, the windows of the stores. I knew them in a very special way, a very personal way, and I was firmly convinced that I saw the funda­ mental secret within them-what we grown-ups call the "essence" of things.

Everything about them was dating mandolins flatiron imprinted on my soul. When grown-ups mentioned a store in my presence, I envisioned its sign, the worn, golden letters, the little scratch in the left corner, the young lady with the tall coiffure 123 rețea de dating the cash register, and I remembered the air around this store that was not around any other.

I pieced togeth­ er from these stores, from the people, the air, the theater posters, my own hometown. To this day I remember, feel, and love this town-feel it, as one feels one's mother's scent, the scent of her caresses, words, and smiles, and I love this town because I grew up in it, was happy, melan­ choly, and dreamy in it.

Passionately and singularly dreamy. I always walked down the dating mandolins flatiron street-that is where most of the people were. The Sabbath I want to tell you about was a Sabbath in early spring. At that time of year, our air does not have the quiet tender­ ness, so sweet in central Russia, resting upon its peaceful streams and modest valleys.

Our air has a sparkling, light coolness that blows with a shallow, chilly passion. I was no more than a young boy then and 4 7 Tlie Comp {e te Work"s of Is a ac B abe { didn't understand a thing, but I felt the spring, and I blossomed and reddened in the chill.

The walk lasted a long time. I stared at the diamonds in the jew­ eler's window, read the theater posters from A to Z, and once I even studied the pale pink corsets with their long, wavy suspenders in Madam Rosalie's store.

As I was about to walk on, I collided with a tall student who had a big black mustache. He smiled at me and asked, "So you're examining these closely, are you? Then he patronizingly patted me on the back and said in a superior tone, " Keep up the good work, dear colleague! My compliments! All the best! I felt very flustered, avoided looking at Madam Rosalie's display window, and quickly head­ ed for home. I was supposed to spend the Sabbath at my grandmother's.

She had her own room at the very end of the apartment, behind the kitchen. A stove stood in the corner of this room, Grandmother always felt cold.

The room was hot and stuffY, which made me feel melancholy and want to escape, to get out into the open. I dragged my belongings over to Grandmother's, my books, my music stand, and my violin.

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The table had already been set for me. Grandmother sat in the corner. I ate. We didn't say a word. The door was locked. We were alone.

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There was cold gefilte fish for dinner with horseradish a dish worth embracing Judaism fora rich and delicious soup, roasted meat with onions, salad, compote, coffee, pie, and apples. I ate everything. I was a dreamer, it is true, but a dreamer with a dating mandolins flatiron appetite. Grandmother cleared away the dishes. The room became tidy. There were wilting flowers on the windowsill.

What grandmother loved best among all living things were her son, her grandson, Mimi her dog, and flowers. Mimi came over, rolled herself up on the sofa, and immediately fell asleep. She was kind of a lazy pooch, but a splendid dog, good, clever, small, and pretty. Mimi was a pug dog. Her coat was light-colored. Even in old age she didn't get flabby or heavy, but man­ aged to remain svelte and slim.

She lived with us for a long time, from birth to death, the whole fifteen years of her dog life, and, needless to say, she loved us, and most of all our severe and unbending grand­ mother. I shall tell about what tight-mouthed, secretive friends they were another time.

It is a very interesting and tender story. Mimi slept. Grandmother, kind, wearing her holiday silk dress, sat in the corner, and I was supposed to study. That day was difficult for me. There were six classes in the high school, and Mr. Sorokin, the music teacher, was supposed to come, and Mr. I had to prepare for all these lessons. I could deal with Dating mandolins flatiron. First of all, I started on my homework. I spread out my note­ books and painstakingly began to do my mathematics problems.

Grandmother didn't interrupt me, God forbid. The tension inside her, and her reverence for my work, gave her face a dazed look. Her eyes, round, yellow, transparent, never left me. I would turn a page-and her eyes would slowly follow my hand.

Another person might have suffered greatly under her persistent, watchful, unwavering stare, but I was used to it. Then Grandmother listened to me recite my lessons.

It has to be said that her Russian was bad-she had her own peculiar way of man­ gling words, mixing Russian with Polish and Hebrew.

Needless to say, she couldn't read or write Russian, and would hold books upside down. But that didn't deter me from reciting my lesson from beginning to end. I finished my lessons and began reading a book. At the time, I was reading "First Love " by Turgenev. I liked everything in it, the clear words, the descriptions, the conversations, but the scene that made me shiver all over was the one in which Vladimir's father strikes Zinaida's cheek with a whip.

I could hear the whip's whistling sound-its lithe leather body sharply, painfully, instantly bit­ ing into me. I was seized by an indescribable emotion. At that point in the book I had to stop reading, and pace up and down the room. And Grandmother sat there stock-still, and even the hot, stupefYing air did not stir, as if it sensed I was studying and shouldn't be disturbed.

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The heat in the room kept rising. Mimi began snoring. Everything seemed uncan­ ny at that moment and I wanted to run away from it all, and yet I want­ ed to stay there forever. The darkening room, Grandmother's yellow eyes, her tiny body wrapped in a shawl silent and hunched over in the corner, the hot air, the closed door, and the clout of the whip, and that piercing whistle-only now do I realize how strange it all was, how much it meant to me.

I was snatched out of this troubled state by the doorbell. Sorokin had come. I hated him at that dating mandolins flatiron, I hated the scales, the incomprehensible, pointless, shrill music.

I must admit that Sorokin was quite a nice fellow. He wore his black hair cropped very short, had large red hands, and beautiful thick lips. On that day, under Grandmother's watchful stare, he had to work for a whole hour, even longer, he had to push himself to the limit. For all of this he got absolutely no recognition. The old woman's eyes coldly and persistent­ ly followed his every move, remaining distant and indifferent.

Grandmother had no interest in outside people. She demanded that they fulfill their obligations to us, and nothing more.

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We began our les­ son. I wasn't frightened of Grandmother, but for a full hour I had to brave poor Sorokin's boundless zeal. He felt extremely ill-at-ease in this remote room, in the presence of a dog peacefully asleep and a coldly watchful, hostile old woman.

Finally he took his leave. Grandmother gave him her hard, wrinkled, large hand with indifference, without shaking it. On his way out, he stumbled into a chair. I also survived the following hour, Mr. Evening came. Faraway golden dots ignited in the sky. Our court­ yard, a deep cage, was dazzled by the moon. I became melancholy. I was tired. I had read so much, studied so much, seen so much. Grandmother lit a lamp. Her room immedi­ ately became quiet. The dark, heavy furniture was softly illuminated.

Inter-site site woke up, walked through the room, came back to us again, and waited for her supper.

The maid brought in the samovar. Grandmother was a tea lover. She had saved a slice of honey cake for me. We drank large quantities. Sweat sparkled in Dating mandolins flatiron deep, sharp wrinkles. We began to talk. And once more I heard Grandmother's stories. H e was poor, married, burdened with children, and traded in bootleg vodka. The commissar came and tor­ mented him. Life became difficult.

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He went to the tsaddik and said, "Rabbi! The commissar is vexing me to death! Speak to God on my behalf1 " "Go in peace, " the tsaddik said to him.

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At the threshold of his tavern he found the commissar. He was lying there dead, with a purple, swollen face. Grandmother fell silent. The samovar hummed. The woman next door was still singing. The moon still dazzled. Mimi wagged her tail. She was hungry. When I was a girl, the Poles rebelled. Near where we lived was a count's estate.

Even the Czar came to visit the count. Seven days and seven nights they made merry. At night I ran over to the count's castle and looked through the bright windows. The count had a daughter and the finest pearls in the world. Then came the uprising. Soldiers dragged him out onto the square. We all stood there crying. The soldiers dug a pit.