chapter twenty-four
IN the railroad freight yard of Odessa, we sleep at the back of a cattle car. The floor is hard and it stinks of cow urine, but I dream that I am lying under the dormer window of the Matachine with Fatima and we are looking at the unchanging stars.
That night our radio and our samovar are stolen. Ukrainian thieves are very silent, and this makes me so sad that I have no courage left.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Gloria says. “The gear is lighter now. In a way, the thieves did me a favor.”