THE GREEN KING (part 17)
----------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------
The Photographer
from Salzburg
Fine. He said
softly: ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Klimrod. Reb
Michael Klimrod.’
‘Born in
Austria?’.
‘Vienna.’
‘Date of
birth?’.
‘September 18,
1928.’
‘Klimrod is not
a Jewish name as far as I know.’
‘My mother’s
name was Itzkowitz.’
‘Halbjude
then,’ said Tarras, who had already taken note of the two first names, one
Christian, the other common in Jewish families, in Poland especially.
Silence. The
boy started walking again, following the wall, going behind and, circling
Tarras, reappearing at his left. He moved slowly, lingering in front of each
photographs.
Tarras turned
his head slightly and saw then that the boy’s legs were trembling. A tremendous
feeling of pity swept over him. This poor brat can hardly stand up! He watched
Klimrod from the back, the bare feet in laceless boots probably too small for him,
as were the pants and shirt, hopelessly short and floating on his thin, awkward
body, which had been twisted time and time again by torture but which, still,
by sheer strength of will, hadn’t lost an inch of its height. Tarras also
notice his hands, long and fine, blotched by old scars of cigarette burn and
quicklime; these hand hung alongside his body, unclenched, and Tarras knew from
experience that this false nonchalance indicated a kind of self control few
adult men could achieve, himself included.
TO BE CONTINUED
____________________________________
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
Tidak ada komentar:
Posting Komentar