into people and trees,” thinking of her “as a fabulous bird who had fluttered off the pages of a picture book” and wondering how he, “born of a Hebrew and circumcised on the seventh [ sic ] day,” has become a bird catcher. Finally, he gathers up his courage and runs toward her. All those books I’d read in the evenings— Hungry and sick, my shirt unbuttoned— About birds from exotic places, About people from distant planets, About worlds where rich men play tennis, Drink lemonade, and kiss languid women,— All those things were moving before me, Wearing a dress and swinging a satchel . . . . He runs beside her “like a beggar, bowing deferentially” and “mumbling some nonsense.” She stops and tells him to leave her alone, pointing toward the intersection. And there, Fat-bellied and greasy with perspiration, Stands the policeman, Squeezed into high boots, Pumped up with vodka and stuffed full of bacon . . . . Then comes the February Revolution, and he becomes a deputy commissar, a catcher of horse thieves and burglars, “an angel of death with a flashlight and a revolver, surrounded by four sailors from a battleship.” My Hebrew pride sang out as clearly, As a tight string stretched out to its limit. I would have given much for my forefather In his long caftan, his hat with a fox tail From under which, like a silvery spiral, His earlock crawled out, and a thick cloud of dandruff Floated over the square of his beard,— For him to be able to spot his descendant In this strapping fellow who loomed like a tower