In darkness, the soft, plaintive wailing of a cantor is suddenly broken off by bursts of gunfire, flashes of explosions and the deafening drone of jetfighters overhead. The stage lights come up. Hair streaked with gray, legs thick with phlebitis, a dowdy woman sits slumped over the table next to a telephone. She wears a shapeless housecoat. Behind her looms a great stone wall, incised with menorahs and Stars of David -- a bunker, perhaps, or more likely the Wailing Wall. Slowly she lights a cigarette and looks out at us, her face ashen and lined. "I'm at the end of my story," she exhales with frayed voice. Weary, yes. Defeated, no.... More >>>