בִּרְחוֹבbi-r-KHOVאַלֶנְבִּיA-len-biיֵשׁYESHמַשֶּׁהוּMA-she-huמְיֻחָדme-yu-KHADבְּשַׁבָּתbe-sha-BATבַּבֹּקֶר,ba-BO-ker,כְּשֶׁהַכֹּלkshe-ha-KOLשָׁקֵטsha-KETוְרָגוּעַ.ve-ra-GU-a.הַבֹּקֶר,ha-BO-ker,כִּמְעַטkim-ATבְּמִקְרֶה,be-mik-RE,מָצָאתִיma-TSA-tiחֲנוּתkha-NUTסְפָרִיםsfa-RIMקְטַנָּהkta-NAשֶׁלֹּאshe-LOרָאִיתִיra-I-tiאַףAFפַּעַם.PA-am.כְּשֶׁפָּתַחְתִּיkshe-pa-TAKH-tiאֶתetהַדֶּלֶת,ha-DE-let,הֵרַחְתִּיhe-RAKH-tiמִיָּדmi-YADרֵיחַRE-akhשֶׁלshelנְיָרne-YARיָשָׁןya-SHANוּסְפָרִיםu-sfa-RIMעַתִּיקִים.a-ti-KIM.מֵאֲחוֹרֵיme-a-kho-REIדֶּלְפֵּקdel-PEKעֵץetsיָשַׁבya-SHAVאִישׁishמְבֻגָּרme-vu-GARעִםimזָקָןza-KANאָפֹרa-FORוּמִשְׁקָפַיִםu-mish-ka-FA-yimעֲגֻלִּיםa-gu-LIMוְקָרָאve-ka-RAסֵפֶר.SE-fer.שָׁאַלְתִּיsha-AL-tiאוֹתוֹo-TOאִםimיֵשׁYESHלוֹLOאוּלַיu-LAIסֵפֶרSE-ferשִׁירָהshi-RAשֶׁלshelיְהוּדָהye-hu-DAעַמִּיחַי.a-MI-khai.בְּלִיBLIלוֹמַרlo-MARמִלָּה,mi-LA,הוּאHUעָלָהa-LAעַלalסֻלָּםsu-LAMגָּבוֹהַּga-VO-ahוְהוֹצִיאve-ho-TSIסֵפֶרSE-ferמְשֻׁמָּשׁme-shu-MASHמֵהַמַּדָּףme-ha-ma-DAFהָעֶלְיוֹן.ha-el-YON."זֶה"ZEהָיָהha-YAשֶׁלshelסָבָּאSA-baשֶׁלִּי,"she-LI,"הוּאHUאָמַרa-MARבְּשֶׁקֶט.be-SHE-ket."הוּא"HUהֵבִיאhe-VIאוֹתוֹo-TOאִתּוֹi-TOמִבֶּרְלִיןmi-ber-LINבִּשְׁנַתbish-NATשְׁלוֹשִׁיםshlo-SHIMוָתֵשַׁע."va-TE-sha."קָנִיתִיka-NI-tiאֶתetהַסֵּפֶרha-SE-ferמִיָּדmi-YADוְהִבְטַחְתִּיve-hiv-TAKH-tiלְעַצְמִיle-atz-MIלַחֲזֹרla-kha-ZORלְכָאןle-KHANבַּחֹדֶשׁba-KHO-deshהַבָּא.ha-BA.
There's something special about Allenby Street on Saturday morning, when everything is quiet and calm. This morning, almost by chance, I found a small bookstore I had never seen before. When I opened the door, I immediately smelled old paper and ancient books. Behind a wooden counter sat an elderly man with a gray beard and round glasses, reading a book. I asked him if he might have a poetry book by Yehuda Amichai. Without saying a word, he climbed a tall ladder and pulled out a worn book from the top shelf. "This belonged to my grandfather," he said quietly. "He brought it with him from Berlin in '39." I bought the book right away and promised myself I'd come back next month.