Since yesterday there was unrest in the alley. Old Mendel is puzzled and puffs on his short pipe more often than usual as he looks out the window. He hadn't seen these people here before. Where are they going? Why are they stopping with the workers hurrying to finish the foundation for the haberdasher Greulich's new house? Where did these ragged youngsters come from? Why are they looking at our corridors like that? Where did they get the money for five of them to go to the pub?
Old Mendel shakes his head, sucking on his small, full-bent, cherrywood pipe. He knows this quiet alley so well, its physiognomy, its movement, its voices, its pulse.
He knows from which corner the sun will peak out on a nice day, how many children will trot to the kindergarten in the morning, run to school, how many emaciated girls in dark kerchiefs,...
