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Updated: April 30, 2025
Toward the noon of that day, a gray one that smelled charred, a fugitive group from a distant village that was still burning faltered, as it too fled toward the horizon, in the blackened village of Vodna, because a litter had to be fashioned for an old man whose feet were frozen, and a mother, whose baby had perished at her breast, would bury her dead.
Snow in the village of Vodna can have the quality of hot white plush of enormous nap, so dryly thick it packs into the angles where fences cross, sealing up the windward sides of houses, rippling in great seas across open places, flaming in brilliancy against the boles of ever so occasional trees, and tucking in the houses up to the sills and down over the eaves.
Reb Baruch, with a married daughter and eleven children in Kishinef, sat up all night and prayed and swayed and trembled. Packed in airtight against the bite of the steely out-of-doors, most of the village of Vodna except the children and the half-witted Shimsha, the ganef huddled under its none-too-plentiful coverings that night and prayed and trembled.
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