I thought of the countless refugees trekking toward freedom. When we fled from Lithuania she rushed me to Insterburg and, through a friend, arranged for me to work in the hospital. I paused in the center of the frozen road and watched the stubby old cobbler shuffle ahead of me. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me they probably belonged to your mother. But the style is one made for an older woman. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. Your boots, they are expensive, well made.
“The shoes always tell the story,” said the shoe poet.
He spoke of the with such love and emotion that a woman in our group had crowned him, “the shoe poet.” Them woman disappeared a day later but the nickname survived.
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