Every Christmas, year after year, a glossy calendar would arrive from the life insurance company, and every year it would be almost the only spot of color in the tiny Brooklyn tenement apartment. To six of the seven kids of the immigrant Hirshhorn family living in the apartment at the time, it was just something that told the date; but to the second youngest child, it was a good deal more. When the calendar had served its purpose, he would cut out reproductions of sugary landscapes and tearful Landseer dogs and pin them on...
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