Lombard Street had changed. Last time I was there was in the ’70s, and it was a run down, groady shambles, full of businesses hanging on by a thread. Now it was rather desolate. Baltimore City called it Jonestown, and hoped for the best. I walked down Baltimore Street, past the Shot Tower and main Post Office, until I came to Lloyd Street, and the oldest Synagogue in Maryland. Rabbi Ezra ben Ezra was waiting on the steps. His white shirt was rumpled, his black pants were shiny in the seat, and his yarmulke was an antique. He was missing the top of his left ear, and two small fingers from his left hand. An Egyptian machine gun had done that, in the Gaza Strip.
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