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“Time to sort through the magazines!” Mommy announced one morning, a week before Pesach. Strictly speaking, magazine-sorting isn’t really Pesach-cleaning, but for some reason, in our house this job is done Erev Pesach. It may not be biur chometz, but it’s still an important mitzvah.
“I’m so happy that you decided to join the thousands of Jews who chose to come and spend Pesach here. You must be tired from the trip. Put your bags in the jeep, get in the backseat, and rest. I will wake you when we get close to Yerushalayim.”
I'm not too sure where I am, but wherever it is, it doesn't look too pleasant. In front of me, I see a house—no, not a house, a shack. It's got a door, but no windows and instead of a roof, it's covered with earth. A raggedy looking girl sits outside on the earth, hugging her knees to her to try and keep her warm. I'll just jump back inside my time capsule to find out exactly where I am.