“This is filling me with sorrow,” she says slowly. “Any of these women could be my sister. Or, none of them could be my sister”

Was it better not to ask the questions and live in a fantasy world in which one’s conscience remains clear?

“Is the Garden of Eden so small that it can only fit in your Mama and Papa, your brother Schneur, and the cheder melamed?”

Truth is the babka, hot from the oven, taken through the snowy streets. Truth is the knock at the door

“They didn’t say anything. No stories. No information. Just warnings”