THE GREEN KING (part 58)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
He make no
effort to find out anything more during the next part of the trip. Out of Linz,
they drove for over four hours, while one of the women occasionally sang
softly, in Yiddish, her face hidden. There was a stop, a very short one, to
satisfy natural needs. Day was breaking, and it lit mountains Reb couldn’t
indentify – nor could Bainish, who didn’t know Austria at all. But one of the
men spoke in Polish about the Klamm Pass, which is to the north of Badgastein.
Bainish said,
laughing softly: ‘He also speak Polish, don’t bother…’
They road for
more two hours, the harsh early light of the Austrian summer filtering through
the gaps in the canvas cover.
They spent the
daytime hours of the seventh on an isolated farm not far from lgls. Back on the
road at nightfall, they crossed Innsbruck around eleven o’clock, and Reb heard
two men who must have been soldiers speaking French, one of whom had a
melodious southern accent. After that, he knew the road they followed – the
railroad tunnel of Mittenwald and the surging noises of the Inn, which he
remembered perfectly. During the summer of 1938, his school (where was two
years ahead of his age group) had organized a trip to Saint Anton.
He thought
their final destination might be Switzerland, but at Landeck, the truck turned
left. One hour later, it stopped. After discharging its human load, it turned
around and began the descent.
The followed,
on foot, a young boy who had appeared from the night and who, in German, told
them to remain absolutely quite. After what was perhaps a three hour climb
through the forest, they reached a barely illuminated inn. They didn’t enter
through the front door, but used a ladder, leading them to the large Tyrolian
balcony on the second floor. A group of twenty other emigrants was already
there, so anxious to be silent that they had removed their shoes, in order not
to alert the guest below…
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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