himself and plead.
“All right,” I say, lifting him with one hand by the hair.
“That’s a little painful, Herr Jude.”
I curl my arm around his ear, pressing the other ear against the side of my hip.
“It’s difficult for me to hear this way.”
I rotate his head, so that both ears are now uncovered.
“Is that better?”
The head shakes itself. “I can’t seem to get comfortable.”
In its panic, his body left a melee of footprints in the snow. The pattern crosses and recrosses itself so many times that it’s virtually impossible to follow.
28
Searching through the fields, we come upon a portion of the trail that branches off into the trees. Although the footprints here remain equally chaotic—here and there, more often than I can count, they lead directly into a heavy solid tree!—one can discern in their looping meanderings the arc of a general direction. And so this is the trail we take, the head and I, moving deeper into the woods.
There is no use in calling out, the body cannot hear us. Surely panic and confusion will exhaust it. Otherwise, I shall never overtake it, oldand weary as I am. Its strides are too vigorous and muscular from its military training. Also the head is heavy and I must continually shift it from arm to arm, in order to sustain its weight. Although these reshiftings slow us down, the head endures them patiently. How else are we to continue? Keeping my hand, like a strap, beneath its chin, I can feel it swallowing periodically. The sensation is unnerving, needless to say, but what am I to do? Carrying it on my shoulder is out of the question. I couldn’t bear having it so near. Kicking it along in front of me, although pragmatic, seems needlessly cruel and surely the head would protest. I’ve left my satchel back in the hollow tree trunk where I slept (was it only a night ago?) before the wolves disturbed me. If only I had thought to snatch it—although why would I have?—the head would now ride in comfort and any time I tired of its rantings, I could close the flap over it, pinning the wooden peg through the leather loop, sealing it in.
Instead, I’m forced to lug it through these woods like an invalid lugging a medicine ball at a spa!
At other times, and at the head’s behest, I carry it backwards so that it may observe the trail behind us, in case the body, in its blind stumblings, doubled back, and we have inadvertently passed it.
These winter days are short and, soon, it’s impossible to see further and we are forced to give up our search and stop to rest for the night. I lay the head, not gently, on the ground. My arms ache.
“Brrrr,” the head’s teeth chatter. “It’s so very cold!”
“Yes, it’s cold,” I say, leaning the gun against a tree. “Of course, it’s cold.” I sit upon the frigid ground.
“You couldn’t perhaps hold me on your lap, could you, Herr Jude?”
“On my lap?”
“Because the ground is frozen.”
I am tired and cross after so many exertions on the head’s behalf and so I refuse.
“You at least have clothes,” it persists, whining. “How can I spend all night up to my neck in the snow!”
“You should have thought of that before you joined the army! Before you attacked me!” I turn my back on him.
“Heartless,” it mutters. “All of you.”
“What was that!” I snap, standing. I point a warning finger at the uneven part in its hair.
It apologizes quickly.
“You apologize,” I say. “Of course, you apologize! But only when it’s in your advantage to do so! Everything you say is corrupt! I can’t stand listening to you any longer.” And I move as far away from him as I can.
“Don’t leave me here, Herr Jude!” The head rolls after me, knocking into my feet. I nearly trip over him in the fading light.
“I’m frightened!” he shouts these words up at me, spitting snow from his mouth. His hair is wet, from perspiration or from his travels in the frost, it’s impossible to tell. He bites into
“All right,” I say, lifting him with one hand by the hair.
“That’s a little painful, Herr Jude.”
I curl my arm around his ear, pressing the other ear against the side of my hip.
“It’s difficult for me to hear this way.”
I rotate his head, so that both ears are now uncovered.
“Is that better?”
The head shakes itself. “I can’t seem to get comfortable.”
In its panic, his body left a melee of footprints in the snow. The pattern crosses and recrosses itself so many times that it’s virtually impossible to follow.
28
Searching through the fields, we come upon a portion of the trail that branches off into the trees. Although the footprints here remain equally chaotic—here and there, more often than I can count, they lead directly into a heavy solid tree!—one can discern in their looping meanderings the arc of a general direction. And so this is the trail we take, the head and I, moving deeper into the woods.
There is no use in calling out, the body cannot hear us. Surely panic and confusion will exhaust it. Otherwise, I shall never overtake it, oldand weary as I am. Its strides are too vigorous and muscular from its military training. Also the head is heavy and I must continually shift it from arm to arm, in order to sustain its weight. Although these reshiftings slow us down, the head endures them patiently. How else are we to continue? Keeping my hand, like a strap, beneath its chin, I can feel it swallowing periodically. The sensation is unnerving, needless to say, but what am I to do? Carrying it on my shoulder is out of the question. I couldn’t bear having it so near. Kicking it along in front of me, although pragmatic, seems needlessly cruel and surely the head would protest. I’ve left my satchel back in the hollow tree trunk where I slept (was it only a night ago?) before the wolves disturbed me. If only I had thought to snatch it—although why would I have?—the head would now ride in comfort and any time I tired of its rantings, I could close the flap over it, pinning the wooden peg through the leather loop, sealing it in.
Instead, I’m forced to lug it through these woods like an invalid lugging a medicine ball at a spa!
At other times, and at the head’s behest, I carry it backwards so that it may observe the trail behind us, in case the body, in its blind stumblings, doubled back, and we have inadvertently passed it.
These winter days are short and, soon, it’s impossible to see further and we are forced to give up our search and stop to rest for the night. I lay the head, not gently, on the ground. My arms ache.
“Brrrr,” the head’s teeth chatter. “It’s so very cold!”
“Yes, it’s cold,” I say, leaning the gun against a tree. “Of course, it’s cold.” I sit upon the frigid ground.
“You couldn’t perhaps hold me on your lap, could you, Herr Jude?”
“On my lap?”
“Because the ground is frozen.”
I am tired and cross after so many exertions on the head’s behalf and so I refuse.
“You at least have clothes,” it persists, whining. “How can I spend all night up to my neck in the snow!”
“You should have thought of that before you joined the army! Before you attacked me!” I turn my back on him.
“Heartless,” it mutters. “All of you.”
“What was that!” I snap, standing. I point a warning finger at the uneven part in its hair.
It apologizes quickly.
“You apologize,” I say. “Of course, you apologize! But only when it’s in your advantage to do so! Everything you say is corrupt! I can’t stand listening to you any longer.” And I move as far away from him as I can.
“Don’t leave me here, Herr Jude!” The head rolls after me, knocking into my feet. I nearly trip over him in the fading light.
“I’m frightened!” he shouts these words up at me, spitting snow from his mouth. His hair is wet, from perspiration or from his travels in the frost, it’s impossible to tell. He bites into
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