[...] the predominant language of the neighborhood, although I spoke Russian with my parents.
Even though I was on my feet, eyes barely open, I remained disoriented until the second jolt. That tremor brought me to my senses and my heart started pounding. I grew accustomed to the darkness, and I realized that everybody was barefoot, in his or her pajamas, nightgowns, or underwear.
     “Are you alright?” asked Grandpa Zeilig as he and Grandma Hannah hurried toward us. “That last shock might have done some damage to our houses.”
     Mama’s parents lived next door, our houses separated by a courtyard. The room fronting the street housed their restaurant. Grandpa, in his seventies with short gray facial hair and large strong hands, towered over Grandma. Her long white hair framed her gentle features. Our neighbors converged in the center of the cobblestone road.
“We must stay away from the houses and electric poles.” Papa pulled me by my hand. “They might fall.” Barefoot, wearing pajamas, his slim profile, slight belly, and bushy black hair were outlined by the lights of our windows and open front door.
     That 1940 summer night in Beltz, a midsized, formerly Romanian city of about 100,000 residents, was warm. Everyone stayed in the street until dawn, fearing another quake or dangerous aftershocks.
     I was a nine-year-old husky boy with blue eyes, a freckled face, and light brown curly hair, cut short. Barefoot and wearing shorts, I felt the same fear as everyone else. This was the first earthquake I’d ever experienced. For weeks afterwards, our neighbors talked about it, and how fortunate we were that no one was injured.
     One year later, on June 22, 1941, at about 4:00 in the morning, we awakened again to strong earth tremors and muffled rumbling. The memory of the previous summer remained fresh in our minds. Papa, Mama, and I again fled into the street.
     As we stood together, we felt another tremor. Once again, [...]