August 12, 1920.---Our little company slowly trudges along the unpaved, dusty road that runs almost in a straight line to the market place in the center of the city. The place seems deserted. The houses stand vacant, most of them windowless, their doors broken in and ajar --- an oppressive sight of destruction and desolation. All is silent about us; we feel as in a graveyard. Approaching the market place our group separates, each of us going his own way to learn for himself. A woman passes by, hesitates, and stops. She pushes the kerchief back from her forehead, and looks at me with wonderment in her sad old eyes. "Good morning," I address her in Jewish. "You are a stranger here," she says kindly. "You don't look like our folks." "Yes," I reply, "I am not long from America." "Ah, from Amerikeh," she sighs wistfully. "I have a son there. And do you know what is happening to us?" "Not very much, but I'd like to find out."...