Cirrus@Austlit

'I was most comfortable in my skin on Sundays. Like tea leaves steeping in a warmed pot, Sundays were infused with Yiddish song and verse. On that day of the week, I learned to read and write the alef-beys. Huddled with the other children around a communal table, our elbows almost touching, I paid close attention to my teacher as she crafted perfectly formed letters with smooth yellow chalk on the blackboard. Holding a freshly sharpened lead pencil in my fist, I tried to emulate her skill, laboriously entering each letter, aleph, beys, gimel, daled, into a pristine heft, an exercise book given to me on the first day of Sunday school. After completing the task, our lererin (teacher), Mirele Kohn, would guide our pronunciation: ‘Noch amol, un noch amol,’ again, and once again, she intoned. We repeated the phonic sounds over and over. Each letter seemed to carry its own melody, its own cadence. On my page, they reminded me of black quavers dancing from right to left across thin blue lines.' (Introduction)