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Comments about Menachem Rephun
This train moves back and forth down the long track of history, invisible to the eye, a slender thread and a pendulum of glass. At each station the doors slide open to invite the freezing air. What year is this, I ask the woman next to me, my own voice rising amid the great multitude, I am afraid, I held on to her so tight but we were lost at the station. She does not answer, for who can measure time here, what season this is, whether the train moves forward or back? Through the rain and shadowed glass, there pass before me a thousand faces like Sabbath candles ...