“I live in that building,” said one of the Oneg Shabbat archivists, a dark-haired middle-aged woman. “I watched the wedding from my window. I painted . . . I painted a few watercolors of it,” she said, almost embarrassed. And then I remembered who she was, the artist who had painted lovely pictures of her toddler daughter. She removed a few images from a folder and passed them around; they were pale and spare, a small crowd in a courtyard, a distant bride, the sun shining in the cold. A group dancing in a circle, furiously, to keep warm and spread joy.
