His father had always brought back raisins and bagels, dividing them equally among the children, without leaving a crumb for himself. He watched the boys tuck into the titbits and smiled into his moustache. He would bring something for his wife too: either a colourful woollen kerchief, or boots, or a wrap-around skirt. He would hand the presents out to the children and then call out to their mother: “Palazhka, take a look what I found entangled in the sloe!”
Stuffing their treasures into their shirtfronts, the small boys picked up the kerchief and, admiring it against the light, kept asking one before the other, if there hadn’t been anything else there, where he had found it. Merry devils danced in father’s eyes, while mother grumbled good-naturedly:
“There’s already snow on your temples
