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wife—didn’t clear out of the dining room soon, she’d rip the winter seals off one of the windows and leap outside with him.
    Short, damp days followed in quick succession, driving the shtetl ever deeper into winter. Neither indoors nor outdoors offered anything to awaken interest, stirring instead the same indifferent discontent toward everything around, so that one might as well stop every overgrown girl who occasionally strolled down the main street in smartly dressed self-importance, vent one’s frustration on her, and rebuke her in the voice of an older, deeply discontented woman:
    —Why are you so choosy, you? … Why don’t you get married? Why?
    For vast distances all around, the treasures of wind were imprisoned in the gray mists hanging in the air; they grew heavier and heavier, spreading over the frozen, snow-covered earth that grew dirtier from day to day. The skies were hidden, the horizon erased. The people had no sight of them and the shtetl had no need of them. Like great beasts, houses hunkered down ponderously under their heavy, snow-covered roofs and dozed in an unending reverie.
    It seemed:
    These houses had ears, hidden, highly attentive ears, continually listening to the great silence that bore down on everything around both from close by and from far away.
    It seemed:
    They were ready, in response to the slightest, most remote rustle from the fields, to spring up and in great rage and haste rush to confront it, like those starving dogs that race forward to challenge some alien intruder of their own species, an unwelcome guest.
    Smoke puffed from the chimney of one of the houses, but instead of rising up into the sky it sank downward, feebly described circles in the air, and finally spread itself over the snow.
    In the empty marketplace, several people with nothing to do stood around a sleigh that had brought reeds to sell as fuel. They mocked the stubborn peasant with his exorbitant prices and exasperated him with their sharp-tongued witticisms. And the shopkeepers, muffled up in winter clothing and lounging in boredom at the entranceways of their shops, watched all this from a distance, took pleasure in it, and laughed.
    The marketplace was filled with vacancy, and only on the small square in front of the house of Avrom-Moyshe Burnes, the man who would’ve been Mirele’s father-in-law, stood five or six expensive sleighs, fully harnessed and waiting for their owners who had business indoors. These sleighs were attended by their energetic, fur-clad drivers who, having nothing else to do, examined one another’s horses and passed judgment on them:
    —Just look at this one—it’ll go blind in its left eye.
    —And what about that one? … Even at rest it can’t put weight on its hind leg.
    And the horses stood where they were and did what came naturally to them; from time to time they shook themselves, trying to throw off the congealed sweat while numerous small bells tinkled on their necks, telling the outside world everything that was taking place within the house:
    —Rich landowners were visiting, arranging loans for themselves in the smoke-filled study.
    —Worldly merchants were there, speculators who weren’t afraid to make purchases a year in advance, and the spacious, half-lit entrance hall was packed with estate stewards and couriers prepared at any moment to appear before their departing employers, ready to receive their instructions and drive out in all directions.
    Whenever he had occasion to pass this house with Mirele, Lipkis did not feel entirely comfortable.
    He tried in every possible way to forget about it, and to this end had even made strenuous efforts to fix his mind on serious thoughts:
    —In two years’ time he’d complete his studies in the faculty of medicine …
    As though out of spite, however, Mirele insisted on staring at this house every time they passed and refused to leave him in peace:
    —Could he explain it? Why on earth had they painted the outer