This was lovingly restored, as best it could be, by my cousin, Irwin. My father must have been in his early twenties then. He came over from Russia in steerage with his mother and five sisters, the only siblings who survived a pogrom. His father had come to the Bronx ten years ahead to save passage to bring his family over. All-day he candled eggs, checking for blood spots, never knowing that his family’s blood had been spilled in their shtetl.