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On the road to Lublin, plagued by birds that whistle like a Cossack's sword, three young lads from Mezritsh brave drought, visions, bad shoes, Russian soldiers, cohorts of abandoned women, burnt porridge, dead dogs, haemorrhoids, incessant sneezing, constipation, and bad jokes in order to seek their fortune.
Elya is the lad with the vision, and Elya has the map. Ziv and Kiva aren’t so sure. The water runs out long before they find the Village of Lakes. The food runs out well before the flaky crescent pastries of Prune Town. They never reach the Village of Girls (how disappointing); they do stumble into Russian Town, rumoured to be a dangerous place for Jews (it is). As three young boys set off from Mezritsh with a case of bristle brushes to sell in the great market town of Lublin, wearing shoes of uneven quality and possessed of decidedly unequal enthusiasms, they quickly find that nothing, not Elya’s jokes nor Kiva’s prayers nor Ziv’s sublime irritatingness, can keep the maw of history from closing bloodily around them. Absurd, riveting, alarming, hilarious, the dialogue devastatingly sharp and the pacing extraordinary, Lublin is the sort of journey into nothingness that changes everything it touches.
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