"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.