Yet one winter night, Uncle Itshe’s stubborn resistance was finally broken. Little by little, he was forced to accept the idea of working in the factory.
They were all sitting in the small, warm room—Tonke, Falke, Bereh, and Aunt Malkaleh.
Outside was a frost. Pale heaps of blue snow, as though frozen solid while trying to scale the roof, glittered through the window.
They sat hunched over the table, sipping hot glasses of tea and exchanging terse sentences:
“Join the working class, you silly old Jew!”
“It’s time you gave up your tradesman’s psychology,* uncle!”
“You’ve patched old clothes...