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was not to be free of fear; it clung to my body, to my life. And I understood I was not the only one to endure it; my parents too were marked by it, and their friends, and all the other Jews in our town; all were victims of fear. All were afraid, not of Reb Gamliel, of course, but of the world surrounding us, the world whose dark threat made Reb Gamliel himself tremble.
    A recollection: Christmas Eve. Sent home in the early afternoon, before prayers, I ask my mother why. This night, and until the following morning, she explains, it is forbidden to study our holy texts. Why? She does not know. Taking my courage in both hands, I ask my father, who knows everything:
    “This is the night,” he answers, “when a curse passes over us; it’s better not to expose our secret treasures.”
    Later I learned that on Christmas Eve, throughout Christendom, the enemies of the Jews would chase them in the streets to punish them in the name of their Lord, in the name of His love; it was more prudent not to go to school or to the Houses of Study and prayer; prudence obliged Jews to stay at home.
    I was growing up, maturing, understanding better: being a Jew in a Christian world meant to know and becomeaccustomed to fear. Fear of heaven as well as fear of man. Fear of death and fear of life—fear of everything that breathed outside, of everything being plotted on the other side. An obscure threat hung over each and every one of us. Now it was becoming more precise, taking shape. I was going to witness my first pogrom, I was going to live through it, survive it. My age? I don’t recall, I remember only that it was before the First World War.
    I especially remember the day, shortly before Passover, when my father, looking distraught, appeared unexpectedly in my class and took the teacher aside. It was clear he was giving him bad news, because the teacher decided once more to close the
heder
for the day. He sighed: “Oh God, Oh God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, have pity on their children and on yours, have pity.”
    Bewildered, we gazed at him. All those hours of freedom, what a gift! We had already begun rejoicing when my father brought us back to reality.
    “Go home,” he said, “run fast; God willing, you’ll come back tomorrow.”
    I took his hand and followed him quickly. I had never seen him walk so fast. My mother was in the courtyard, holding a broom; she was beginning to make preparations for Passover. She saw us, and with her free hand covered her mouth to suppress a cry: she had understood everything.
    “Where are the girls?” my father asked.
    “Inside.”
    “Let them stay there. We shut down the school,” he added.
    “And the shop?”
    “Also shut. Everything must be shut.”
    My mother did not look surprised; for her it was not the first time.
    It was around noon. A splendid April day. Trees in bloom; a feast of fragrance and color. Blue sky fleckedwith white; a golden sun, full of promise. Far off, the parks in all their freshness. And the river, serene and luminous. And in the midst of it all, a small, brutal and barbarous word—pogrom—ringing out like the scream of a mangled woman heralding visions of disemboweled bodies and smashed skulls. Yes, Citizen Magistrate, it must have been noon on one of those spring days when man feels in harmony with Creation. And Barassy was beautiful. Never shall I forget the beauty of Barassy, the serenity of Krasnograd on that day.
    Nothing about that day shall I ever forget.
    My father called my older sister, Masha: “Would you run an errand for me?”
    “Of course, Father.”
    “You’re not afraid?”
    “No, Father. Anyway, it’s less dangerous for a woman. Where would you like me to go?”
    “Hurry over to the House of Study; tell the out-of-town students, those who have no place to go, to come here.”
    Masha left and brought back three young men, one of whom—a whim of fate—was to become her husband.
    Standing in the bedroom—where, I remember, an old painting