Our angle looks straight up. Now an angle looking steeply down: the snow falls not quite dead away to collect on a foreground chimney pot and on the little shtetl street that lies maplike below us. It is night, and quiet, and the street is deserted except for one man who walks away from us, his valenki squeaking in the fresh snow. He leads a horse and cart. We cut down to street level. The man walks toward us, bearded, and bundled against the cold. Smiling, he mutters in Yiddish – the dialogue subtitled. MAN What a marvel … what a marvel … HOUSE INTERIOR The man enters. MAN Dora! VOICE Yes … The man crosses to the stove with a bundle of wood. Dora’s voice continues: … Can you help me with the ice? The man dumps the wood into a box by the stove as his wife enters with an ice pick. … I expected you hours ago.
