“This is our country. Or it would be ours if we could just get rid of the dumb Brits”

Dovid

Zalman was waiting for me on the steps between the Yeshivah and the makolet, a small sefer open on his lap.

“How are you?” he asked, snapping his sefer shut as I sat down on the step next to him. “Elka came home today, didn’t she?”

“Uh huh,” I nodded, leaning my shoulder against the wall on my right. “Seems like she had a good time.”

“I’m sure she did,” Zalman tilted his head, looking at me. “Have you been back to Europe at all?”

“Since we moved?” I shrugged. “Nah. I don’t even want to go back, to be honest. Not that I remember much of it — just that it was always cold all the time.”

“You don’t have to worry about that here,” Zalman laughed, rubbing the top of his head, which was baking in the sun.

“Yeah,” I agreed, leaning into the shade of the wall just to keep cool. “Maybe we should move inside.” But I made no move to get up. “Anyway,” I added, “this is our country. Or it would be ours if we could just get rid of the dumb Brits.”