THE GREEN KING (part 55)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
‘I would like
to speak with you.’
The words had
been in Hebrew. Barazini turned and at first didn’t see anyone. The hallway of
the hospital seemed deserted. Then he saw the long, thin figure huddled in the
corner by a pillar, near the door he had just come through. The face didn’t
look familiar. The eyes, on the other hand, struck him by their extraordinary
intensity.
‘Who are you?’
‘Reb Michael
Klimrod. I am in the bed next to Yoel Bainish.’
His Hebrew was
absolutely pure but he spoke slowly, with an almost untraceable accent, like
the French have. And he hesitated on certain words, in the manner of someone
using an almost forgotten language. He must have seen the question in
Barazini’s eyes, for he added: ‘My mother was Jewish. Hannah Itzkowich, from
Lvov. She was at Belzec, as were my sisters. My father taught me French, she
taught me Hebrew and Yiddish. I also speak Italian and a little Spanish. And
I’m learning English.’
He moved, very
slowly, and his large thin hand appeared from behind his back, holding
Whitman’s leaves of Grass. But his eye hadn’t moved and remained locked with
those of the Palestinian, with a rather annoying steadiness.
Somewhat
disconcerted, the first question that came to Barazini’s mind was: ‘How old are
you?.’
‘I will be
seventeen in September. The Eighteenth.’
Barazini had a
feeling at that moment that he couldn’t describe.
‘And what do
you want from me?’
‘I would like
to leave with Bainish, and the others, if they are any.’
Klomrod youth
didn’t trouble Barazini. Seventeen was, for many of the fighters in Eretz
Israel – the land of Israel – almost old, at least it was in the clandestine
groups, Irgun and Stern. His discomfort was caused by something else. For a few
seconds, he envisioned a British infiltration attempt – this an already
happened – to hinder the massive exodus the London politicians feared.
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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