"In 1949 I arrived in Israel with a single wooden suitcase."
I never saw it.
After his passing I cleared the house.
In a distant corner in the attic
the lost suitcase was found.
His name, David Moshkovitz, was written on one of its sides
in blue ink, in the hesitant handwriting of a new immigrant.
I opened it.
It was filled with old Yiddish newspapers.
18.12.1951 – "Letste Nayes:
catastrophale lage in di ma'abarot"
["Latest News: catastrophic situation in the transit camps"]
Fifty years later, the catastrophes and transit camps
are still packed in his suitcase.
My father was a skilled wandering Jew: his possessions were always ready.
I perforated the front.
A number in light burst forth from within: 78446.