It’s just a torn, tiny piece of paper written by my father in his own hand. Now when I look at that remnant, I’m a heartbroken daughter. Now when I look at that remnant, I’m an anthropologist who went looking for documentation, clues and evidence to flesh out a story I know has significance beyond my father’s individual life or my own sentiments.
Manguito, so many thousands of miles from Jedwabne, one in the old world, so to speak, the other in the new world, so to speak. Yiddish and Polish in one place, the Spanish language in the other place.
The balconies, held up by pillars, created a long gallery down the sidewalk. The pillars looked like Greek columns, smooth, slender and topped by two carved volutes, which gave the poor place an important feel.