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I try to pull myself together, when I hear it. Somebody outside, strains of song. I open the window and a voice carries inside. “Mah nishtanah halaylah hazeh, halaylah hazeh…”

Here in Budapest we found relative safety, but our lives hung on the thread of maintaining our gentile facade

 It cannot be. Even when he goes outside and the woman calls his name he does not believe it is them. He looks at the children. A boy, perhaps six years old, with long peyos. A little girl

A date. With someone I’ve been trying to meet for months, but who had always given me a no

Some people have asked me, “Aren’t these just Hashgachah pratis stories?” They certainly are, but they’re a particular type of story

Unlike her mother, she’d never fail her baby