My Father, Sholem Aleichem
I am a little girl of six.
We live in Kiev, the heart of the Ukraine. My father is taking me with him to a party. We are riding in a horse-cab, and Father is softly singing a Ukrainian song.
“Stop singing!” I say to him. I feel embarrassed. Singing in a cab! What will the cabby think?
“Why?” he laughs, and begins to sing even louder. The street is badly paved, all humps and bumps, and the harder we are jolted the louder he sings.
“Now stop that!” I say sternly. “Do you hear me?”
He roars with laughter. I feel disgraced.
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