She would read until the fading
light would remind her that the short fall or winter day was
drawing to a close.
She would come, shivering a little after the fetid
atmosphere of the overheated library, into the crisp, cold
snap of the astringent Wisconsin air. Sometimes she would
stop at the store for her mother. Sometimes she would run
home alone through the twilight, her heels scrunching the
snow, her whole being filled with a vague and unchildish
sadness and disquiet as she faced the tender rose, and
orange, and mauve, and pale lemon of the winter sunset.
There were times when her very heart ached with the beauty
of that color-flooded sky; there were times, later, when it
ached in much the same way at the look in the eyes of a
pushcart peddler; there were times when it ached, seemingly,
for no reason at all--as is sometimes the case when one is a
little Jew girl, with whole centuries of suffering behind
one.
On this day she had taken a book from the library Miss
Perkins, at sight of the title, had glared disapprovingly,
and had hesitated a moment before stamping the card.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88