My first home was in Izbica; this is where I was born. This was my inheritance – yerushe, as you say in Yiddish – my great-grandfather had built the house and passed it on to the following generations.
Even in terms of its landscape, Kazimierz belonged to the world of Polish Jews. It resembled a page from a women’s prayer book, a prayer book with shining, silver corners or old gravure which anonymous Jewish masters from a bygone era engraved with great piety on the Polish land, wanting to present vividly what Poyln means [...].
The old man started to mumble. The commander screamed: Speak up! Speak up! And when the old man still didn’t stop mumbling, he was struck in the face, and a tooth was knocked out. The old Jew bent down to pick up his tooth and sadly said in Hebrew, Sheber-shin. Broken tooth: Sheber-Shin.
Oh, that’s better!—said the commander, as he dutifully marked his primitive map. And so Shebreshin become the official name of this tiny shtetl—at least for Jews all over the world.