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of our, so to speak, mathematical alphabet, yet very few of them are mathematicians.’
    â€˜Not entirely,’ he nodded, ‘though you’re not far off the mark. In my opinion, a good storyteller must be at home with his people’s folklore, their legends, lullabies, their superstitions. And more than anything, he has to know from whence he came, and to where he is going. Without these fundamentals, he might compose very nice, even clever tales, but they will beas enduring as an epitaph written with one finger on the surface of a lake. Let me tell you a little story from chassidic literature.
    â€˜A youth came to see the sage known as the Baal Shem Tov — a mystic who could discern a ray of sun in the darkness of night, who could detect the Messiah’s footfall at the beginning of time, who proclaimed that the mind which dwells in one’s heart creates a better man than that which reigns over one’s head. “Master,” pleaded the boy, “I have a great need to pray to God, yet I cannot read the prayer-book. My parents were poor, and there was no money for schooling.”
    â€˜The Baal Shem Tov smiled warmly at the boy. “You cannot read, but perhaps you know the letters of the alphabet?”
    â€˜â€œYes, that much I do know, sir.”
    â€˜â€œGood. Then listen, my young friend. Open up your soul while zealously reciting those letters of the alphabet, from beginning to end, and I promise you that the Almighty Himself will compose for you a psalm which cannot be found in any prayer-book.”’
    At this point, Zev stopped and drew another loud sip of his now cold coffee, before continuing. ‘A good writer,’ he said, ‘carries his ideas like precious birds in his heart’s cage. His tale is the sky of their freedom.’
    He paused, and stooped down until his eyes were level with mine.
    â€˜And remember — the writer may not be the one who announces to himself, I am about to write a story. He is the one to whom, during a sleepless night or in the midst of the busiest day, the story rises up and demands: Write me! ’

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    Â  Yiddish Rhapsody  
    As a girl you were already a young maiden, ripening into motherhood. To your starving children you unbuttoned your generous bodice and opened your heart, that they might receive nourishment and sustenance from your spirit.
    And yes, you loved them, mother-bride. And your childpoets, their jealous wives by their sides, lay with you.
    Ah, how quickly you matured into a song of love, of peace, of ironic wit. You became the dread of the mighty, and little wonder. They knew well your music’s rallying power — you were a stubborn flag standing tall and fluttering against the unjust winds.
    Even when shadows grew long and the world became a den of thieves, forcing your children out into the night, you remained in their midst — you were a beacon of light for as long as the dark prevailed.
    When the sun rose anew and the remnants slowly returned to their homes, you still walked among them singing psalms of grace. In time they settled their meagre belongings and found comfort — and they shut their doors in your face.
    I knew of a poet who dreamt he had walked behind your hearse. Later, as the coffin, still open, was lowered into the pit, he was heard to mutter:
    â€˜We will pay a terrible price for this...’

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    Â  Readers  
    I belonged to a family of readers. We were all members of the well-known Bronisław Grosser Library, on 68 Zachodnia Street. I would go there two or three times a week, even if I didn’t need to borrow or return a book; I just loved the ambience, the companyof books, the soothing voices of the librarians, the readers moving about reverently on tiptoe. I always found a corner, and would sit there with my face hidden behind an old newspaper, pretending to read but actually engrossed in thoughts about fantastical realities and the lucidity of