THE GREEN KING (part 16)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
After sometime,
urged by Settiniaz (at least this was the reason he gave himself), Tarras
thought again about the boy who had been buried alive, whose name he still did
not know. The little group of prisoners who had come to complain about him to
Major Strachan hadn’t appeared again, and three of its more ardent members
French Jewish – had left the camp and returned to French. So the charges had in
effect been dropped. Nevertheless, a file had been opened, requiring a
decision. Tarras decided to handle the questioning himself. Many years later,
facing the gaze of Reb Klimrod, but in far different circumstances, he would
remember the impression left on him by this first meeting.
The boy was
walking now, without a limb. You couldn’t say he had gained weight – the
expression would be grotesque applied to this kind of survivor – but at least
his colouring had improved and he seemed less emaciated.
‘We can speak
German,’ Tarras said.
The grey gaze
met of the American and, with a deliberate slowness, circled the room.
‘Your office?’.
He spoke in
German. Tarras nodded. He felt strange, almost shy, and this new sensation
amused him.
‘Before,’ said
the boy, ‘this was the office of the SS commander.’
‘And your came
here often?’.
The boy was
looking the photographs on the wall. He moved to closer to them.
‘Where were the
others taken?’.
‘Dachau,’ said
Tarras. ‘That’s in Bavaria. What is your name?’.
Silence. The
boy was now behind him, still examining the photographs. He’s doing this on
purpose, thought Tarras suddenly; he refuses to sit across from me, and now he
wants to force me to turn around, to show me he intends to lead this
discussion.
TO BE CONTINUED
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I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
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