The shoemaker sat in the cellar’s dusk beside his bench, and
       sewing-machine, his large, blackened hands, finger tips
       flattened and broad, busy.
Through the grating in the sidewalk over his window, paper
       and dust were falling year by year.

At evening Passover would begin. The sunny street was
       crowded. The shoemake could see the feet of those who
       walked over the grating.
He had one pair of shoes to finish and he would be through.
His friend came in, a man with a long, black beard, in shabby,
       dirty clothes, but with shoes newly cobbled and blacked.
“Beautiful outside, really the world is beautiful.”

A pot of fish was boiling on the stove. Sometimes the water
       bubbled over and hissed. The smell of the fish filled the cellar.
“It must be beautiful in the park now. After our fish we’ll take
       a walk in the park.” The shoemaker nodded.
The shoemaker hurried his work on the last shoe. The pot on
       the stove bubbled and hissed. His friend walked up and
down the cellar in shoes newly cobbled and blacked.