The hatmaker chewed his thick bottom lip as he always did when he came upon a dilemma (which more typically involved the color of a ribbon for a woman’s hat, or which type of steak he wanted from the butcher). Presently, he looked at the painting of his family that he had earlier laid upon the floor. A triangle of sunlight illuminated the face of his sister, and he remembered times as a child that she and he had enjoyed playing with their friends outside of the synagogue, even in the midst of their wretched poverty.
With three heirlooms and all of his savings, Morton Steinman strode from his apartment and down the stairs.
He did not bother to lock the doors as he left.
Amidst a throng of Trailspur townspeople who were carrying suitcases, valises, satchels, boxes, grocer’s bags, crates,
