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38 ChICAGO’S WAlDhEIM CEMETERY We are in Chicago’s Waldheim Cemetery. I am walking with my father. My nose, my eyes, left pink wrinkled oversize ear my whole face is in my armpit. We are at the stone beneath which lies my father’s mother. There is embedded in it a pearl-shaped portrait. I do not know this woman. I never saw her. I am suddenly enraged, indignant. I clench my fists. I would like to strike her. My father weeps. He is Russian. He weeps with conviction, sincerity, enthusiasm. I am attentive. I stand there listening beside him. After a while, a little bored, but moved, I decide myself to make the effort. I have paid strict attention. I have listened carefully. Now, I too will attempt tears. They are like song. They are like flight. I fail. ...

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