57
Toronto 1961
After two days in the slammer, Avrom looked cowed, bent, defeated. Hollowed-eyed with dark circles rimming his face. A face with the consistency of unkneaded dough. The officer brought him in, shoulders slumped, unmanacled. He stood there swaying slightly as if the lightest breeze would blow him over. His white shirt looked like a rumpled sheet, billowing at his sides, the fringes he wore, poking through. I saw no fire. No heat blazing through him like a combustible planet. Just resignation.
“Take a seat,” I said.
He slid into the chair. His head drooped, chin to chest, and he stared fixedly at the scarred tabletop. He straightened his skullcap. Birdie and I sat opposite with the steno in the corner, fingers poised to take notes. After a long moment, he finally lifted h
