Every year since 1946, when David’s dad was six years old, he had commemorated the death of his hero, Joseph Stalin. At eighty-five, Dad wasn’t going to break his tradition.
“But Stalin wasn’t a Jew.” David sweated in the poorly air-conditioned building, so he loosened his necktie. For balance, he grasped the gate to the spartan room where his father sat on a wooden chair. The place reeked of ammonia floor cleaner.
“You think I don’t know this?” Dad hacked into a handkerchief and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his work shirt. When Dad recovered, he glared at David, made a clucking sound, and rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Get me a damn Yahrzeit candle.”
The man hadn’t mellowed with age. “It’s against the rules.”
The excuse elicited a stern expression. “You’re the big macher. Go
