point out. “No worse, no better off.”
“True,” it agrees. “Still, before, I had my eyeglasses and so perhaps I didn’t feel quite so bad.”
It’s not many more steps before I hear a soft tinkling underneath the sole of my left shoe.
“Ah, well,” he says, trying to conceal his unhappiness.
Balancing the head on my thigh, I bend down and search cautiously with my hand. I lift the spectacles, covered now with scales of transparent snow. One lens is shattered and the golden frame is bent and ruined.
“They were buried,” I say.
“Yes,” he says tightly.
“I must’ve stepped on them,” I say.
“I realize that,” he says. “But straighten them out, if you can. And perhaps they’ll not be entirely worthless.”
I place the head between two forking tree roots, securing it there.
“Ah-h-h,” it says. “The snow is very cold, Herr Jude.”
“But I don’t know what else to do with you,” I say.
“It’s perfectly all right.” And he smiles gamely, squinting at my hands as they begin to probe and work the metal rims.
“I have an additional pair in my breast pocket,” the head won’t ceaseits endless chattering. “They wouldn’t allow me into battle otherwise. Without them, I’m as good as blind. I’m hoping you didn’t smash those as well when you pummeled me in the chest.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I say. I can’t help growing cross with this garrulous head. “You should never have poked your gun into my back!”
He smiles grimly. “I’m not prepared to argue the theoretics of warfare here and now with a dead Jew.” He spits this last word off his tongue as though it were an annoying scrap of tobacco. “If it weren’t for you,” he says, “I’d still be at the conservatory, working on my compositions.” He stretches his lower lip into a frown.
“If it weren’t for me?”
“For your people.”
“And what did we have to do with it?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been denied everything, because of you, including a heroic death.”
On their own, my hands clench into fists, and a shard of the broken lens pierces my folding palm.
“I tell you this in the strictest confidence,” the head continues. “I wasn’t killed in battle. No. I died ingloriously. A big peasant snuck up behind me and cut off my head. With an axe.” He laughs bitterly. “Lord knows what my family will think, my mother. I barely had time to cry out.”
I consider kicking him down the hill again, so tired am I of his blathering.
Instead I say, “Your glasses are beyond repair, I’m afraid.”
I conceal from his blurred vision my bleeding palm and the crumpled golden rims, tucking both into my pocket.
“I was afraid of that,” he says.
I stand and look to the horizon.
“Well,” I say, drying my palms with a handkerchief. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”
“You’re not leaving me, are you?”
I sigh.
“I’m completely dependent on you. You know that,” he says.
Even his voice sickens me.
“I’m sorry I pointed my gun at you, Herr Jude,” he cries, “but the woods are full of wolves.”
“Yes, it’s true,” I say, my hands smarting in my pockets. “How, I’m sure, they’d love to nibble at your ears!”
“Herr Jude, stop it! You’re scaring me!” The head rolls around in little circles of fear. “Don’t be cruel! It isn’t fair of you to take advantage! You mustn’t leave me here!”
He looks blindly up at me, squinting past my knees, begging for my help. He’s pathetic! I’m certain he’d have me on the ground before him, groveling for my life, given half the chance.
I feel like kicking him in the teeth.
And yet I can’t help feeling vaguely sorry for him. Poring over his musical charts, a student, late into the night, certainly he never imagined that the tired head, which he lovingly cradles in the cup of his hands, would one day be thrown about the countryside by an enragedand vengeful Jew. How difficult it must be for him to humble
“True,” it agrees. “Still, before, I had my eyeglasses and so perhaps I didn’t feel quite so bad.”
It’s not many more steps before I hear a soft tinkling underneath the sole of my left shoe.
“Ah, well,” he says, trying to conceal his unhappiness.
Balancing the head on my thigh, I bend down and search cautiously with my hand. I lift the spectacles, covered now with scales of transparent snow. One lens is shattered and the golden frame is bent and ruined.
“They were buried,” I say.
“Yes,” he says tightly.
“I must’ve stepped on them,” I say.
“I realize that,” he says. “But straighten them out, if you can. And perhaps they’ll not be entirely worthless.”
I place the head between two forking tree roots, securing it there.
“Ah-h-h,” it says. “The snow is very cold, Herr Jude.”
“But I don’t know what else to do with you,” I say.
“It’s perfectly all right.” And he smiles gamely, squinting at my hands as they begin to probe and work the metal rims.
“I have an additional pair in my breast pocket,” the head won’t ceaseits endless chattering. “They wouldn’t allow me into battle otherwise. Without them, I’m as good as blind. I’m hoping you didn’t smash those as well when you pummeled me in the chest.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I say. I can’t help growing cross with this garrulous head. “You should never have poked your gun into my back!”
He smiles grimly. “I’m not prepared to argue the theoretics of warfare here and now with a dead Jew.” He spits this last word off his tongue as though it were an annoying scrap of tobacco. “If it weren’t for you,” he says, “I’d still be at the conservatory, working on my compositions.” He stretches his lower lip into a frown.
“If it weren’t for me?”
“For your people.”
“And what did we have to do with it?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been denied everything, because of you, including a heroic death.”
On their own, my hands clench into fists, and a shard of the broken lens pierces my folding palm.
“I tell you this in the strictest confidence,” the head continues. “I wasn’t killed in battle. No. I died ingloriously. A big peasant snuck up behind me and cut off my head. With an axe.” He laughs bitterly. “Lord knows what my family will think, my mother. I barely had time to cry out.”
I consider kicking him down the hill again, so tired am I of his blathering.
Instead I say, “Your glasses are beyond repair, I’m afraid.”
I conceal from his blurred vision my bleeding palm and the crumpled golden rims, tucking both into my pocket.
“I was afraid of that,” he says.
I stand and look to the horizon.
“Well,” I say, drying my palms with a handkerchief. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”
“You’re not leaving me, are you?”
I sigh.
“I’m completely dependent on you. You know that,” he says.
Even his voice sickens me.
“I’m sorry I pointed my gun at you, Herr Jude,” he cries, “but the woods are full of wolves.”
“Yes, it’s true,” I say, my hands smarting in my pockets. “How, I’m sure, they’d love to nibble at your ears!”
“Herr Jude, stop it! You’re scaring me!” The head rolls around in little circles of fear. “Don’t be cruel! It isn’t fair of you to take advantage! You mustn’t leave me here!”
He looks blindly up at me, squinting past my knees, begging for my help. He’s pathetic! I’m certain he’d have me on the ground before him, groveling for my life, given half the chance.
I feel like kicking him in the teeth.
And yet I can’t help feeling vaguely sorry for him. Poring over his musical charts, a student, late into the night, certainly he never imagined that the tired head, which he lovingly cradles in the cup of his hands, would one day be thrown about the countryside by an enragedand vengeful Jew. How difficult it must be for him to humble
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