my shoe leather to keep me near, and I am forced to shake him off with a few sharp kicks. He bounces a short distance across the field once or twice before knocking into a rough spruce.
“Was that necessary?” it shrieks.
“You, I’ll see in the morning,” I say and turn away from him to make my bed against a sheltered oak, but the little sounds of his weeping are more than I can bear.
Standing, I rip the woolen scarf from my neck.
“Such nonsense!” I exclaim.
He sniffs, “Thank you, Herr Jude,” as I wrap the scarf in loops around the puckered circle of his neck. “I only hope my body has found someone equally as kind.”
“At least you can be certain it hasn’t hanged itself from a tree in despair!”
The head is silent for a moment.
“There’s no reason to be so cruel.”
“Please.” I finish tucking it in. “I have no idea why I am helping you. Don’t make it worse for me by constantly speaking!”
I’m about to drift off to sleep, when I feel the head nudging against my arm.
“Herr Jude,” it whispers, snuggling against me.
“What
now?
” I manage to say through a drowsy veil.
“Are you sleeping, Herr Jude?”
Annoyed, I turn over to peer at it through the darkness. It has rolled next to me, pulling my scarf along in its teeth. Because my head is also on the ground, we are, once again, face to face.
“I couldn’t sleep,” it says.
“No?” I say.
“I can’t get comfortable.”
“I’m sorry,” I say
“I generally sleep on my stomach,” it says.
The stars shine through our canopy of bare trees. The head sighs, rolling back, so that its eyes may search the Heavens.
“As a boy, when I couldn’t sleep, my grandfather would take me in his lap,” this the head confides to me. “He worked making Mercedes Benzes. I’d sit in his lap, he’d bring me hot cocoa. The smells of the oil and the grease from his work would mingle with the chocolate and the honey.” The head sighs. “Ah, what I wouldn’t do right now for a cup of hot cocoa!”
“It would run out the bottom of your neck and spill all over the ground,” I say, sitting up stiffly and yawning.
29
“Herr Jude,” the head whispers to me. Without my realizing it, it has inched its way into my lap, as though it were a child. “I have a story to tell you.”
Where, I wonder, are my fellow Jews? Where are they lodging for the night? And what sins have I committed that I am parted from them and must sleep instead with this sentimental murderer, forced to hear tales of its boyhood and its youth?
“Once upon a time,” it begins.
And there’s no dissuading him.
“We were chasing two Jews through the woods. Not like you, Herr Jude, but the other kind, the funny-looking ones.”
I ask him to clarify.
“With the long coats and the funny hats and the corkscrew sideburns sticking out from in front of their ears. It was comical just to see them run, they look so much like penguins.”
How painful it is to listen to this head.
“What do you call them?”
How little he knows!
“We had rounded up a whole pack of them, but these two … Hasids …” he tries the word out for himself, “… had somehow managed to escape. That they thought they could flee from us was pure folly, of course. We had our dogs. We had our torches. They made for quite a spooky effect, the light rippling through the trees, the dogs sniffing and pawing. We fanned out, some of the fellows and myself, to surround them, but after a bit, I seemed to be the only one still on their trail. I have no idea to this day what happened to the others. Again and again, I found and lost them, my two penguins, the woods were so knotted, so thick. Finally, I caught them. They were right in front of me, not more than a stone’s throw away. They had reached a river and it was impossible to cross.”
Poor mamzers, I think.
“I’m about to shout out to them, to order them to stop, to surrender, when what do we notice right there on the bank? All
“Was that necessary?” it shrieks.
“You, I’ll see in the morning,” I say and turn away from him to make my bed against a sheltered oak, but the little sounds of his weeping are more than I can bear.
Standing, I rip the woolen scarf from my neck.
“Such nonsense!” I exclaim.
He sniffs, “Thank you, Herr Jude,” as I wrap the scarf in loops around the puckered circle of his neck. “I only hope my body has found someone equally as kind.”
“At least you can be certain it hasn’t hanged itself from a tree in despair!”
The head is silent for a moment.
“There’s no reason to be so cruel.”
“Please.” I finish tucking it in. “I have no idea why I am helping you. Don’t make it worse for me by constantly speaking!”
I’m about to drift off to sleep, when I feel the head nudging against my arm.
“Herr Jude,” it whispers, snuggling against me.
“What
now?
” I manage to say through a drowsy veil.
“Are you sleeping, Herr Jude?”
Annoyed, I turn over to peer at it through the darkness. It has rolled next to me, pulling my scarf along in its teeth. Because my head is also on the ground, we are, once again, face to face.
“I couldn’t sleep,” it says.
“No?” I say.
“I can’t get comfortable.”
“I’m sorry,” I say
“I generally sleep on my stomach,” it says.
The stars shine through our canopy of bare trees. The head sighs, rolling back, so that its eyes may search the Heavens.
“As a boy, when I couldn’t sleep, my grandfather would take me in his lap,” this the head confides to me. “He worked making Mercedes Benzes. I’d sit in his lap, he’d bring me hot cocoa. The smells of the oil and the grease from his work would mingle with the chocolate and the honey.” The head sighs. “Ah, what I wouldn’t do right now for a cup of hot cocoa!”
“It would run out the bottom of your neck and spill all over the ground,” I say, sitting up stiffly and yawning.
29
“Herr Jude,” the head whispers to me. Without my realizing it, it has inched its way into my lap, as though it were a child. “I have a story to tell you.”
Where, I wonder, are my fellow Jews? Where are they lodging for the night? And what sins have I committed that I am parted from them and must sleep instead with this sentimental murderer, forced to hear tales of its boyhood and its youth?
“Once upon a time,” it begins.
And there’s no dissuading him.
“We were chasing two Jews through the woods. Not like you, Herr Jude, but the other kind, the funny-looking ones.”
I ask him to clarify.
“With the long coats and the funny hats and the corkscrew sideburns sticking out from in front of their ears. It was comical just to see them run, they look so much like penguins.”
How painful it is to listen to this head.
“What do you call them?”
How little he knows!
“We had rounded up a whole pack of them, but these two … Hasids …” he tries the word out for himself, “… had somehow managed to escape. That they thought they could flee from us was pure folly, of course. We had our dogs. We had our torches. They made for quite a spooky effect, the light rippling through the trees, the dogs sniffing and pawing. We fanned out, some of the fellows and myself, to surround them, but after a bit, I seemed to be the only one still on their trail. I have no idea to this day what happened to the others. Again and again, I found and lost them, my two penguins, the woods were so knotted, so thick. Finally, I caught them. They were right in front of me, not more than a stone’s throw away. They had reached a river and it was impossible to cross.”
Poor mamzers, I think.
“I’m about to shout out to them, to order them to stop, to surrender, when what do we notice right there on the bank? All
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