David Khait


The train pulls up to the platform, steaming and boiling like a samovar.

Lazar is standing on the platform—short, glowing, joyful—waving his dirty handkerchief at the cars.

The train is on its way to Moscow. On the platform is the usual train station commotion, the ringing, pushing, and smell of coal and sand. Lazar and Ruth are running past the…

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