In the Fall of 2022, my story "The Table at the Back of the Coffee Shop" was published by New Plains Review, a student-run literary journal at the University of Central Oklahoma. The journal was published as a paperback and is available for purchase at Amazon. Yesterday I received in the mail a contributor's copy of the journal.
I spoke to the Qesher Book Club about my book Rakiya - Stories of Bulgaria. Qesher features books with Jewish themes, both fiction and history, so the first thing I said to my audience was "You’re probably wondering why a collection of short stories set in Bulgaria would be featured on the Qesher Book Club. I’m hoping that by the end of this evening, you will not only understand why, but you’ll also learn about the fascinating story of Bulgarian Jewry during the Holocaust."
In the talk I told about growing up in Sioux City, making Aliyah, founding Kibbutz Yahel, setting up a home on Moshav Neve Ilan, starting a career in marketing online poker, a job that took me to the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas, to Macau, and finally to a two-year relocation contract in Sofia.
I spoke about my books and short stories, and how my experiences on a kibbutz led to The Virtual Kibbutz and how our life in Bulgaria resulted in my writing Valley of Thracians, The Burgas Affair, and Rakiya - Stories of Bulgaria.
I gave details of my research into the subject of Bulgarian Jewry during World War, and how that fascinating period of history compelled me to write my short story "Forgiveness".
The online talk was attended by 89 people from all over - there was even someone joining in from Bulgaria. After my talk ended, there was time set for questions.
Surprisingly, many of the questions related to my growing up in Sioux City! How did my childhood there influence my writing? How did my parents end up living in Sioux City in the first place? Did I know that was where Dear Abby came from? (And Ann Landers).
I think everyone enjoyed themselves - I certainly did!
For me, the highlight of this collection is how Shuman intertwines multiple stories, either through characters, or through the historical/geographical locations explored. This added a layer of continuity and connection to the collection.
The wide variety of the stories, yet their ability to connect the stories to each other demonstrates how masterfully each story is woven. The vivid imagery and ability of the author to evoke such powerful emotions through his writing demonstrates his craftsmanship. If you are interested in exploring new cultures through literature, this is definitely a collection for you!
Read the full review on The Pen Not the Sword.
My boss
called me into his office one day toward the end of 2008 and informed me that
my job was being relocated from Tel Aviv to Bulgaria. If I didn’t agree to relocate, someone would be chosen
to replace me. I thought it was too late in my career to consider an offer of
relocation, so this took me by surprise.
I told my wife that we needed
to talk.
At the time, I was a division
manager in an Israel-based company providing marketing and support services in
the online gaming sector. I had been working at the company for four years. “We
have one week to decide whether to relocate,” I told my wife.
Being forced to make a
life-changing decision in such a short time was the deciding factor. If we had
more time to think about relocation, we would have probably rejected the offer.
After all, my wife and I had aging parents to care for and we couldn’t see
being away from our children, even though they were already adults. And what
would we do with our house? Our cats?
Bulgaria. We had never even
considered traveling to the country on a vacation, less moving there to work. In
a quick, somewhat impulsive decision, we accepted this once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity.
I relocated to Sofia in
January 2009 and my wife arrived three weeks later, in the midst of a ferocious
snowstorm. Our new lives were about to begin.
Working
in Bulgaria, Touring in Bulgaria
All my tasks and
responsibilities as a division manager moved to Bulgaria with me. But now, I
was managing my team in Tel Aviv remotely from Bulgaria.
My coworkers in Sofia were
Bulgarians, but everyone spoke English in the workplace. They were all much
younger than me – the age of my children. They spent their nights at Sofia’s
bars and clubs, and their weekends on the ski slopes in winter, and on the
Black Sea beaches in summer. My wife and I utilized our free time to explore
the country.
We visited the picturesque
villages. We learned about Bulgaria’s colorful culture and history. We toured
Plovdiv and Varna, and the famous Rila Monastery. We dined on nutritious
Bulgarian cuisine and made many new friends. And all this without learning anything
more than basic Bulgarian.
And then before we knew it,
our two-year contract ended, and it was time to return home.
In My
Writing, I Return to Bulgaria Every Day
After resuming my job in
Israel, I found that I couldn’t stop thinking about Bulgaria. But I soon found
that I was able to return to Bulgaria every single day – in my writing. I grew
up with the dream of becoming an author. Even today I write all the time. And it was my writing about Bulgaria, based on my
experiences there, that really got my creative juices flowing.
I published my novel Valley
of Thracians (January 2013). The book
is a suspenseful tale of a Peace Corps volunteer who goes missing in Bulgaria,
and of his grandfather who launches a search for him against all odds. My
second novel The Burgas
Affair (published in Bulgarian in
2016 by Ciela, and in English in 2017) is a fictional account of the aftermath
of the 2012 terrorist bombing in Burgas, in which five Israelis were killed in
the blast, along with their Bulgarian bus driver.
Rakiya – Stories of Bulgaria
I am proud to announce the
publication of my new book, Rakiya –
Stories of Bulgaria (GenZ Publishing, June 17,
2024). In the eleven stories of Rakiya, you'll meet a mother
pickpocketing tourists in order to support her daughter. An elderly war veteran
ashamed of his actions during the Holocaust. Two brothers hunting a killer
bear. A Syrian refugee working in a Sofia bakery. A femme fatale disappearing
at an international writers’ conference. And two neighbors competing to see who
makes the best alcoholic drink.
In Rakiya you'll hear
the voices of native Bulgarians as well as see the country through the eyes of
those visiting Bulgaria for the first time. You'll experience Bulgaria's unique
rich history and traditions and explore the country's picturesque villages and
stunning nature. You'll get a virtual taste of Bulgarian cuisine topped off
with the country's traditional alcoholic drink – rakiya.
If I had
not accepted the relocation offer and had not worked for two years in Sofia at
age 52, I would never have become a published author!
Order
your copy of Rakiya –
Stories of Bulgaria today!
"Shuman's vivid descriptions of Bulgaria's beautiful landscapes and cultural traditions are a testament to his deep love and understanding of the country. Through his evocative prose, readers are transported to a land rich in beauty and history, gaining insights into the everyday lives and struggles of its people."
"Rakiya: Stories of Bulgaria" is a masterful collection that will appeal to anyone interested in exploring new cultures through literature. Ellis Shuman's storytelling is both poignant and powerful, making this book a must-read.'
Posted by Betty Taylor
Business in the carpet department was slow; in
fact, it was non-existent. Ziv sat behind his desk from the moment the store
opened in the morning until it closed for the night, and looked out at the furniture
displays with little to distract him.
Occasionally, shoppers walked into Ziv’s
section of the floor and admired the classic handmade Persian carpets bearing
certificates of authenticity, or the multi-colored Boho-chic area rugs with
their handwoven geometric designs hanging from ceiling-high racks, but few expressed
real interest. For long hours, Ziv remained motionless and undisturbed. His
shift passed slowly, and he had to prevent himself from yawning and stay
presentable at all times.
“It’s minimum wage, but you’ll earn
substantial commissions,” the store manager had promised Ziv on his first day
of work, three months earlier. “Our carpets are of the highest quality and
sales will be good.”
But there were no sales. Ziv knew that the
imported carpets were over-priced and apparently the customers were aware of
this as well. Of all the departments in the store, Ziv’s was the least
successful, yet Management insisted it was to be manned full time. As long as
Ziv was available for shoppers, whenever they had questions to ask, and as long
as Ziv didn’t complain, he would keep his job, and for this he was grateful.
When he finished work, Ziv boarded the bus for
the journey to his small apartment in a quiet Ramat Gan neighborhood. He
climbed three flights of stairs and unlocked his door. Immediately Charlie, his
ginger-colored cat, rubbed against his legs, purring in eager anticipation of
leftovers from the night before. Ziv couldn’t afford canned or packaged cat
food, but Charlie didn’t seem to mind. Before feeding him, Ziv picked up the
animal with affection, but Charlie had a mean streak and scratched Ziv’s cheek,
drawing blood.
As Ziv stared into a mirror, holding a tissue
to the wound, he wondered where his life had gone off track. He had grown up in
a middle-class neighborhood with caring parents and three older siblings, but
he had lost touch with them after his army service. They refused to support him
when repeated failures in mathematics studies caused him to drop out of university.
“Get a hold on yourself,” his father said to him the last time Ziv had visited
home. “We love you, but it’s time for you to start your own life,” his mother
said.
He hadn’t seen them since.
The war had been raging for
40 days when Eli reported to the orchards. Seven in the morning and he was the
first one. The only one. Was he in the right place? Was he in his right mind to
have driven an hour and a half from his relatively safe home in Tel Aviv to
this remote orchard in the relatively unsafe south? All was quiet at this
hour—no rockets, artillery, or jets overhead—but everything could change
without a moment’s notice, and he was a bit nervous.
“It’s completely safe
there,” he had reassured Batya the previous night when he announced his
intention to volunteer at the kibbutz. “There have been no rocket alerts or
incidents in that area.”
“Still, you’ll be very
close to Gaza,” she replied, a worried look on her face. “You should go to some
farm near Netanya instead.”
“I’m going where I’m most
needed,” he insisted.
And that was that. He woke
up before his alarm rang, put on the hiking boots he hadn’t worn since his
hiking trip in the Bulgarian mountains ten years earlier. He took two pitot out
of the freezer and made cheese sandwiches for his lunch. After packing a bottle
of mineral water in his bag, he was ready to go.
“I should be back in the
early afternoon,” he whispered to Batya as he kissed her on the forehead.
“As long as you come back
in one piece,” she replied without opening her eyes.
They needed him; he told
himself repeatedly as he drove south. Thai and Nepalese workers had fled from
the country in the aftermath of that horrific Saturday the previous month. Who
would work in the fields? Who would pick the crops? Volunteers, that’s who! And
he had stepped up to the plate. He was sixty-five years old, but damn if he
couldn’t help save Israeli agriculture.
"Harei
at mekudeshet li…"
"Mekudeshet!"
"Mazal
tov!"
Moments later,
after stamping his foot to break the glass, the groom kissed his bride and their
families rushed to crowd around them under the simple cloth huppah
canopy. The grey-bearded rabbi stepped back, his role in the short ceremony of
sanctifying their union completed, and the DJ raised the music to an
ear-splitting level.
"Aren’t
you going to congratulate them?" Miri asked.
"Not yet,"
I said, holding back as the wedding guests surged past, getting in line to hug
the new couple, to plant air kisses on their cheeks, to shake their hands.
"I'm not sure he'll remember me. We haven't seen each other since
childhood."
"Of
course, he remembers you! He invited you to the wedding, after all. Go up there
already."
I hesitated.
Too many people, too much noise—the typical hubbub of an Israeli garden wedding.
I would approach the groom when things got quieter, when I'd have a chance to say
more to him than a perfunctory "Mazal tov!"
Read the rest of the story on TheMockingOwl Roost: Unexpected Delights, page 37 of the PDF.
Photo by Andreas Rønningen on Unsplash
TCHA!-TCHA!-TCHA!-TCHA!-TCHA!
A deafening hammering. A piercing drilling. Incessant,
irregular, and irritating, to say the least. It stopped and started, continued
for several minutes, and then, unexpectedly, there was a lull until it started
up again. It seemed like it would never end. And it was all coming from the
floor above her head.
She couldn’t begin to imagine what was happening up
there. Were they tearing down walls, or building new ones? Were they tiling or wiring
or installing or cementing or plastering or who knows what? What she did know
was that the work was loud, so very loud, and there was dust everywhere.
“Imma, you need to move out,” Shelly insisted. “There’s
no way you can stay in your house with all that construction work going on
overhead.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “It won’t go on forever.”
“Are you wearing those earphones I gave you?” Benny
asked her. “Imma, you'll lose your hearing if you don’t take precautions!”
“I can hear just fine,” she replied, although there
were times when she could literally not hear herself think.
“Live somewhere else for the duration,” Shelly said.
“You can stay with me,” Benny said, although she wasn’t
sure he was sincere with his invitation.
“I’m not leaving my home. I refuse, even for this! I’ll
manage, Benny. I’ll survive, Shelly. After all, it’s an annoyance only part of
the day.”
Part of the day? It started at seven in the morning and
lasted until four in the afternoon. It didn’t help if she turned the radio up
to full volume. Occasionally she went outside, walked down the street, visited Esther
next door, but no matter where she went, the noise followed her, ringing in her
ears. Even at night, when the workers were long gone and their drills and
hammers were silent, she could still hear the pounding and the banging in her
head.
TCHA!-TCHA!-TCHA!-TCHA!-TCHA!
“I’ll manage,” she tried to convince herself as she lay
in her bed. She knew Shelly and Benny had her best interests in mind when they
said she should be move out for the duration of the building, but she was
stubborn and insisted on staying. Maybe not moving out was a mistake, but she
would never admit it. They may be right, but she refused to be wrong. Still, thoughts
of how the mess of construction was interfering with her daily routine, along
with the constant ringing in her ears, kept her awake for long hours.
Read the rest of the story on New English Review.
“There’s
a tiger in the playground!”
“That’s
nice, Shmuel.”
“No
really, Imma. It was coming toward me, but I didn’t run. I wasn’t scared at
all!”
“That
sounds very exciting! You’re so brave! Now, go wash up and call your brothers.
It’s almost time for Havdalah.”
The
tiger was like an enormous cat wearing a mask. A colorful Purim mask. Amber
eyes stared at him as the large animal swayed back and forth with feline grace,
its tail whisking in its wake. Its ears stood at attention; its paws were huge.
Shmuel couldn’t see, but he could imagine, the beast’s razor-sharp teeth, and
the thin white whiskers under its triangular pink nose. Such a pretty face!
The
tiger crept past the swings and skirted the slide, slowly approaching. Shmuel
stood half hidden by the jungle gym. No one else was around to witness this
magnificent creature’s passage across the silent playground. He was by himself,
but he was not afraid. He was curious, nothing more than that!
“Shmuel
has such an imagination,” Shmuel’s mother said to Shmuel’s father when he
returned from shul.
“He
should put his imagination aside and concentrate on his studies.”
“He’s
just a boy.”
“Boys
should be studying. Instead, he ran off to the park to play with his friends. Where
are the children? We want to start.”
The
tiger had vertical stripes, just like the stripes on his pajamas. Just like the
stripes on Yermi’s pajamas, and on Moshe’s pajamas. They all had matching
striped pajamas, but their stripes were blue and white. The tiger’s stripes
were flaming orange and coal black. The stripes on its belly were white and
black, but those were harder to see in the twilight.
What
would it be like to stand next to the tiger, to touch its fur? Would it be
soft? Rough? Would the animal run away from him like the wild cats outside his
building that fled at his approach? What would the tiger do?
Shmuel’s
father set the spice box on the Havdalah tray. He picked it up and lit the
braided candle, and handed it to Shmuel's older sister. He filled the wine
goblet to the brim, lifted it, and cupped it in his right hand. And then he
began to sing.
Shmuel
closed his eyes when he was offered the aromatic spices. He sniffed, maybe
louder than he should, then opened his eyes as he passed the spice box to
Yermi. A thought crossed his mind. What did the tiger smell like? Did it have
an unpleasant odor or did it smell like a dog? Maybe a wet dog. Or a cow? Shmuel
had once petted a calf and a small lamb, and baby rabbits, too. Did the tiger
smell like them, or did wild animals have their own scent?
“Shmuel,
pay attention,” his mother whispered.
Her
voice was not angry, and he couldn’t help but smile at her. What would she
think if she saw the tiger? He was sure Yermi and Moshe would run away,
frightened, but maybe his sister wouldn’t fear the large animal, just like him.
Would he see the tiger tomorrow? Maybe it would be in the playground again when
he went to school!
As
his father poured the wine onto the tray and extinguished the flame, Shmuel
remembered the tiger glancing at him one last time before slinking into the
darkness. And then it was gone, leaving no trace of its having crossed the
playground.
“Shavua
tov!” his father said, before launching into a medley of Psalms to mark the
end of the holy Shabbat and the start of the new week.
Later,
after eating a light Melaveh Malkah meal, it was time for bed. Shmuel got into
his pajamas, the very same striped pajamas he had thought about when he saw the
tiger in the playground. He brushed his teeth, climbed into bed, and laughed at
something Yermi said. Moshe lay down in his crib, and his mother tucked them all
in. And then his father came into the room and hugged each of them in turn. The
three boys recited the Shema together, and the light was switched off.
“Pleasant
dreams,” Shmuel’s mother whispered. And to Shmuel, she added, “Don’t worry, no
tigers will come.”
“I’m
not worried, Imma!”
“That’s
right. You’re so brave!”
When
she came into the dining room, her husband had already returned to his Saturday
night studies. She regarded him silently, loving him more every time he stroked
his beard, every time he nodded, every time he adjusted his kippa. She moved a
chair into its place, but he didn’t look up.
“I’m
turning on the radio to see if anything happened over Shabbat.”
“What
could possibly happen? There’s only politics and security issues in this
country.”
“Shh!”
she said. The news broadcast had already begun.
“Jerusalem
District Police commander Moshe Barzani said this is the first time anything
like this has happened at the Biblical Zoo,” the announcer said. And then
Barzani’s voice could be heard. “Security forces and police are on the streets
in nearby neighborhoods, conducting an intensive search for the tiger that
escaped from the zoo earlier this evening.” The announcer broke in to state
that Barzani assured the public that they would soon catch the tiger. “And now,
on to other news,” he continued in his calm, reassuring voice.
Shmuel’s
mother looked up at her husband, but he hadn’t been paying attention to the
radio. Instead, he was rocking back and forth, concentrating on the holy texts.
She didn’t want to interrupt him. She would tell him later.
She
went to her sons’ room and looked in. Like his younger brothers, Shmuel was
fast asleep, lost in his dreams. She pulled up his blanket and kissed him on
his forehead. He didn’t wake up.
Originally published on JewTh!nk
“You need to come home. Now.”
“I hear you,” I reply, holding the phone at a distance. Maya’s voice
comes across the line at a higher decibel level than usual. “Are you sure
you’re feeling contractions?”
“Daniel!” It is nearly a shout. “I know what this is and I know
that you have to be on the next flight.”
“Alright,” I say, wondering if this isn’t another case of false
labor, like the symptoms that sent us to the hospital prematurely just two weeks
ago. “I will order my ticket for tonight.”
“I don’t know if I can last that long!”
It is early afternoon so there’s plenty of time to make a
reservation. There is no doubt in my mind that there will be an empty seat on
the plane. Not many people fly from Sofia to Tel Aviv in the middle of the
week.
After ending the conversation with an ‘I love you’ on her side and
an “I love you, too’ from me, I turn back to my laptop and regard an Inbox
filled with urgent emails awaiting my attention. Contracts to review, shipments
that are late, and complaints about delayed payments. It is not easy managing
an international firm with offices in both Israel and Bulgaria. Maya complains
about my frequent flights to Sofia, and how that leaves her alone in our Tel
Aviv apartment dealing with the pregnancy on her own. Luckily there have been
no complications in the past nine months but as this will be our first child—a
boy—it is natural for her to be concerned. Especially during the last
trimester.
Maya understands why I work part of the time overseas, I tell
myself. Why I fly back and forth every other week. She realizes how important
it is to have my company succeed. It is a startup, admittedly, but one with
huge potential. Succeeding in this business will ensure our financial future. I
am not suggesting that we leave Israel, or that we relocate to Sofia, even
temporarily, as many other Israelis have done, but that I split my management
duties working out of two offices.
While I know that Maya supports me in this venture, and that she
backs me every step of the way, what has really bothered her is the fact that I
set up our second office in Bulgaria. Why Bulgaria? she asked me, repeatedly,
when I told her of the plan. Of all the countries to choose from, why had I
chosen an East European country with a communist past and a far from stellar
record as a member of the European Union. ‘Silicon Valley, I can understand,’
she had said to me. ‘England would even be acceptable.’
Bulgaria is only a two-hour flight from Israel, I told her. The
country offers excellent conditions for our second office, I explained. A
highly educated, multiple language-speaking workforce. A modern internet
infrastructure. Low labor costs and reasonable corporate tax requirements. In
short, we could get everything we needed in Sofia at a much cheaper price than
what we would have to pay in the United States or elsewhere.
While Maya had eventually acquiesced to my decision, things were
apparently different now that we are on the verge of starting our family—something
we have planned since the day we got married. Maya is more emotional than usual,
more judgmental. More prone to criticize my business decisions when they
interfere in our personal lives.
When I informed Maya that I would have to make one additional
flight to Bulgaria before the birth, she was both upset and somewhat
disappointed in me. I calmed her down with reassurances that I would be home
well before her due date. There was absolutely no way I could miss a planned
meeting with prospective investors in Sofia. I really had to go, I told her.
That was four days ago.
Readers
of two of my recent stories, especially my story "Forgiveness," have posted
their feedback on social media and in messages to me, and I'd like to share
their words. I hope you have a chance to read the story!
Published in June 2023, The Writing
Disorder
"It
is a poignant, so moving short piece of fiction and realism mixed in one
entity. I know the tales about our Jews and the courageous acts of the
representatives of the Christian Orthodox Church and the society in its
entirety. There have been movies dedicated to this part of the Bulgarian
history and at school we learnt about exactly what is described in the
letters."
* * *
"Very
interesting and thought provoking."
* * *
"Wow!"
* * *
"The
story brought tears to my eyes."
* * *
"It's
quite moving and makes me think of where my wife's family (from Dupnitsa and
Kyustendil) or those of Jewish Bulgarian friends (one Jewish family from
Dupnitsa particularly comes to mind) may have been in these moments."
* * *
"This
is great, Ellis, very well written. Thanks for sharing, I learned a bunch
too!"
* * *
"Great
story! I really enjoyed how effortlessly it takes you back in time."
* * *
"Powerful
story!! I knew nothing of Bulgaria and
its past history. A lot of research went into this one for sure!!! Well done."
* * *
"Thank
you for sharing the complicated history of Bulgaria during the Holocaust."
* * *
"Good
story. Is it fictional? I couldn’t tell. It’s not precise that all 48,000 Jews survived. Boris didn’t care about the Bulgarian Jews, who were abroad from September 1, 1939 on. They were all given to the Nazis and the BG government only asked for their names, so they could take over the property left."
* * *
"It's a deeply touching, if also harrowing, story! Especially since it's, after all, based on true events. Good work! The story has both a documentary feel and a very personal one, and you've managed to portray a very multi-faceted tragedy, as part of an even more multi-faceted history."
* * *
I
hope you have a chance to read "Forgiveness", a fictional account of
real historic events.
"Tickets! Tickets for inspection!"
The grey-haired woman in the third row squirms in her
seat, fumbles with her purse, and finally extracts her green Rav Kav bus card. Avshalom
senses she's hiding something. His suspicions are confirmed when he presses her
card to his handheld reader.
"You didn't pay," he tells her.
"What?" she asks in Russian.
"Rav Kav—empty," he replies in accented,
imperfect Russian. This surprises her, he can see. She isn't expecting a
religious, Sephardic, slightly overweight, somewhat disheveled ticket inspector
to answer her in her native tongue. "Get off bus," he says.
"But I paid!" Her face reddens in
embarrassment as she pushes past the commuters standing near the door. "I
paid!" She steps down to the sidewalk. The door whooshes closed behind her
and the bus pulls away from the stop.
Read the rest of the story on DoubleSpeak.
Photo by Bahnfrend and used under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license
The village was nestled
in green foothills not far from the Greek border. Quaint wooden farmhouses and
ramshackle barns. Cultivated fields of summer crops; fenced-off pastures
spotted with dairy cows and goats. Grassy meadows bordered by colorful
wildflowers. In the distance, snow-capped peaks below a cloudless blue sky. The
Rhodope Mountains, scenic and bucolic, home to some of Bulgaria’s oldest
citizens. One of them was waiting to see me.
“My grandfather is
ninety-five-years old,” Anna reminded me as we drove south on the narrow
highway. “He’s half blind, walks with a cane, and doesn’t hear very well, but
he still has his wits about him. He rises at the crack of dawn to milk his cow
and tends his vegetable garden in the afternoons. And he eats a lot of
yoghurt,” she added with a laugh.
“I can’t believe I’m
here, that I’ve flown all the way from Tel Aviv just to meet him.”
“He’s very eager to see
you.” Anna continued to talk excitedly as she drove, but I remained mostly silent,
keeping my eyes focused on the beautiful countryside.
I was looking forward to
meeting him as well, but I had a growing feeling of trepidation ahead of my
visit to his home. Why had I come to Bulgaria? Had I made a mistake? Was I on a
wild goose chase that would make me a laughingstock when I returned to my
office in a few days’ time? I shook my head, shocked at my impulsive decision
to come.
Anna slowed down when we
passed the sign announcing our arrival in Gela, the village that was our
destination. A minute later, she parked the car. I got out, took a deep breath
of the fresh mountain air, and followed her up a gravel path towards a wooden
farmhouse that had seen better days. We took off our shoes outside the door and
went inside.
It took several minutes
for my eyes to fully acclimate to the dark interior. Outside it was a warm June
day, but inside the farmhouse I shivered. The unlit fireplace at the side of an
open kitchen made me wonder how warm the room was in winter. The Rhodopes were
ski territory, I had learned. Visions of snow-covered slopes brought back
memories of the ski trip I took with friends after finishing my compulsory
service in the Israeli army.
“Sit here,” Anna said,
pointing at a low bench near the dining room table. “My mother is probably
shopping in Smolyan. I'll go see if my grandfather is awake.”
I sat down and looked
around the rustic, homey room. Watercolor paintings of green landscapes hung on
one wall; a window opened to real-life vistas of the same. All the furniture
was wooden, apparently homemade. I rested my hands on a colorful embroidered
tablecloth, kicked my backpack under the table, and fidgeted as I waited for
Anna’s grandfather. All I knew was that he had something to give me, and I
didn’t have a clue what it could be.
Read the rest of the story on The Writing Disorder.
My name is Giuseppe
Polo, son of Niccolò and Nicole Anna, born in the year of our Lord 1251 in the magnificent
city of Venice. Magnificent, I say, not only because of my city's Gothic-style palaces
and narrow canals winding through its districts like so many cobblestoned streets,
but also because of the power and influence of the Republic of Venice. Our
republic is prosperous, ruling many territories on the shores of the Aegean Sea
and beyond.
I was but a boy
of three, still weaning from my mother, when my illustrious father and uncle Maffeo
set forth as traveling merchants on a mission to the East. They sought spices
and silks, precious gems, and gold and silver utensils, anything that would
benefit our family business, but I believe the true intention of their journey
was something other than material wealth.
Read the rest of the story on Litro Magazine USA.
