Take, for instance, the first winter snows; the remembrance remains clearer than the most recent of dreams. Mother Sheine is singing him to sleep. Lullabies fade to darkness and, as if no time has passed, he awakens to the sight of ice clinging to window panes above the bed. The morning light silhouettes fantastic shapes of ghostly figures, wild images painted by overnight frosts, while outside the first snows are falling. When Bishke came home from work during the winter months, he would bring the ice with him. It clung to his beard, clothes, and bundles of unsold newspapers. He would arrive fresh, cold: an iceman returning to the family, to be greeted by a simmering samovar and the heavenly warmth of that first cup of tea. Snow caressed the earth as far as the eye could see. It filled the streets, permeated the forests, froze over lakes and rivers. From its softness, father and his playmates built babushkas, only to smash them soon after. They hurled snowballs at each other, while on the iced surface of the Biale they raced sleds down inclines in a whirl of whiteness.
