... four or five generations back we've got records.
"Нью-Йорк," Anzu echoes, and it's clear the mere sound of English is unknown to him. And he, who can easily trace his family back to at least Dovyd HaReuveni's doomed bid to bring about the time of the Third Temple, is briefly rendered speechless. Oh yes, Zivia did just say she's Ashkenazi, but the combination of an unknown place-name and four or five ...
Nu, he's not stupid. But this is not the time to interrogate each other about oy, now what and which petty prince got embarrassed over his debts this time.
"I know not the name, dearest," he says, and bites his lip. "Which nu, really, means little. There's long been a suspicion that there's a couple of plena aware of us, that we have no idea exist. The consequences of a shattered world, nu?" He shrugs.
"I say I'm from Vilna," he goes on; he's looking past Zivia's shoulder, concentrating on his expression, on his tone of voice—hoping that she's likely met others like him and minds not the lack of eye-contact, "my family is too, though ah, taking the medium view, we're from wherever it is Dovyd HaReuveni came from. He took a retinue with him, including a family of Levites, and that is my mama's yikhus," he's gesturing now, as if drawing the words from the surrounding air, "and my papa's ancestress married a Warsaw Levite, one Horowitz." He pauses, cocks his head to one side, smiling.
"But I do go on, darling," he says. "It's hardly interesting, really. Tell me ... what's thy city like?"
Of course she comes from a city. It's an assumption he makes almost unconsciously—she would've said, if she were from the wilderness like his husband.
no subject
... four or five generations back we've got records.
"Нью-Йорк," Anzu echoes, and it's clear the mere sound of English is unknown to him. And he, who can easily trace his family back to at least Dovyd HaReuveni's doomed bid to bring about the time of the Third Temple, is briefly rendered speechless. Oh yes, Zivia did just say she's Ashkenazi, but the combination of an unknown place-name and four or five ...
Nu, he's not stupid. But this is not the time to interrogate each other about oy, now what and which petty prince got embarrassed over his debts this time.
"I know not the name, dearest," he says, and bites his lip. "Which nu, really, means little. There's long been a suspicion that there's a couple of plena aware of us, that we have no idea exist. The consequences of a shattered world, nu?" He shrugs.
"I say I'm from Vilna," he goes on; he's looking past Zivia's shoulder, concentrating on his expression, on his tone of voice—hoping that she's likely met others like him and minds not the lack of eye-contact, "my family is too, though ah, taking the medium view, we're from wherever it is Dovyd HaReuveni came from. He took a retinue with him, including a family of Levites, and that is my mama's yikhus," he's gesturing now, as if drawing the words from the surrounding air, "and my papa's ancestress married a Warsaw Levite, one Horowitz." He pauses, cocks his head to one side, smiling.
"But I do go on, darling," he says. "It's hardly interesting, really. Tell me ... what's thy city like?"
Of course she comes from a city. It's an assumption he makes almost unconsciously—she would've said, if she were from the wilderness like his husband.