The Time of the Uprooted [antikvár]

Tm four years old, or maybe five. It's a Sab-bath afternoon. Mother is lying down in the next room. I'd asked her to read to me from the book she had by her side, but she has one of her frequent headaches. So I ask my father to tell me a story, but just then there's a knock at the door. "Go see who it is," says my father, reluctantly glancing up from the journal he's keeping. A stranger is at the door. "May I come in?" he asks. A big bearded man, broad across the shoulders, with sad eyes—there's something disturbing about him. His gaze seems heavy with secrets, and glows with a pale and holy fire. "Who's there?" my father asks, and I reply, "I don't know." "Call me a wanderer," the stranger says, "a wandering man who's worn-out and hungry." "Who do you want to see?" I ask, and he says to me, "You." "Who is it, a beggar?" my father asks. "Tell him to come