The small front garden was ablaze with colours and bursting with birdsong. The bright flowers of late summer were talking to each other intimately in… - Esther Kreitman

His eyes burn like torches but he does not say a word. He looks at his mother with pity and clenches his small fists, thinking of Khetskel, of Shoshe, and of a way to escape. ("Shloyme")

The women had descended on the Lane like locusts, looking for bargains. ("Breaking the Fast")

And there it was, in the ruined street, among the piles of bricks, earth, bent metal joists and glass, and the smoke and smouldering fires which the firemen had not yet managed to extinguish: the high-pitched, regular ticking of their office clock. It was still hanging on the one remaining wall, which was covered in black smoke. It ticked monotonously, vibrating slightly, like the only soul left living in a cemetery.