walked alongside us for a block chattering about things he had read in a book on crows and ravens. He asked me if mine talked.
I told him it did not.
"Ravens are real smart," he said, oblivious to the fact that Hamilton was not a raven. "You're supposed to be able to teach them how to talk. Say something, Hammy. Say,
pretty bird
."
"Dresden," Hamilton said.
The boy clapped and smiled.
A few blocks later, having left the kids behind, Hamilton said it again.
When the kids weren't following us home from school a bunch of other crows might, and Hamilton would keep up a running conversation with them from my shoulder. But those were crow-noises. They weren't words like "Dresden."
Plus, each time he said it, it was clearer.
The third time, I finally bit.
"Okay. What about Dresden?"
He cocked his head at me but didn't say anything else. When we stopped at the station to see Carla I tried to show off his new trick, but he wouldn't perform.
The next morning he was more talkative. I had begun keeping the screen off the window in the living room so he could come and go freely. I don't know where he went at night, but in the mornings I would fix myself some oatmeal and set some raisins out on the table for him, and within a few minutes he'd fly in and hop onto the back of a chair.
"The Russians," he said, proudly, as if he'd been practicing. "Dresden."
I pointed out that Dresden was in Germany.
He talked like a crow: harsh and loud, heavy on the r's and the vowels, having trouble with his s's and n's.
I was not sure why I took it as such a matter of course that my adopted crow would first of all begin to speak, and second of all try to explain something to me about Dresden. It seemed like there were only a few options: ignore it, imagine I was going crazy, or take it in stride. The first had worked with the lions, but Hamilton was louder and wouldn't leave me alone. The second really served no purpose.
"Dresden," he said again, bobbing his head in what I took to be agreement. "The Russians."
"The Germans," I insisted. "Eat your raisins."
He muttered something I could not understand and hopped down to the table.
But it got me thinking. I knew enough to know that the Russians had cause to be in a lot of German cities at the end of the Second World War. I did not know enough geography though to know whether Dresden was in the east or the west, and I didn't know enough history to know why it was important.
He finished his raisins and muttered the word I couldn't understand, louder this time. He kept repeating it as I gathered my things and headed out the door. I didn't bike anymore now that I had a crow riding my shoulder each morning.
"You've got to practice more," I told him. "I can't understand what you're saying."
When we passed the kids coming home from school the next day, the same kid as before wanted to know if Hamilton could talk yet.
"Pretty bird," the crow said, and then, when the kid's jaw dropped, "Leave me alone."
He wouldn't stop chattering about Dresden. "Carla, Carla," he croaked as we walked up to the gas station. Again though, once we were there he would not show off. I asked Carla about Dresden.
"Like, have I been there?" She shook her head.
"Neither have I. But do you know anything about it?"
"Not really." She paused. "They had a museum exhibit a while back that was supposed to be a bunch of art and stuff from there. Dan and I went. I guess Dresden was the art capital of Germany or something before the war. They called it the Paris of Germany."
Hamilton croaked.
"What happened with the Russians?"
She shrugged.
The Russians were coming from the east, and the people of Dresden didn't want their art and sculpture -- what remained after the firebombing -- carried off or destroyed. Carla was right, and the city had been called "the Paris of Germany" for good reason. Its museums were packed with pieces assembled over hundreds of years.
When the Russians arrived, the museums that still stood
I told him it did not.
"Ravens are real smart," he said, oblivious to the fact that Hamilton was not a raven. "You're supposed to be able to teach them how to talk. Say something, Hammy. Say,
pretty bird
."
"Dresden," Hamilton said.
The boy clapped and smiled.
A few blocks later, having left the kids behind, Hamilton said it again.
When the kids weren't following us home from school a bunch of other crows might, and Hamilton would keep up a running conversation with them from my shoulder. But those were crow-noises. They weren't words like "Dresden."
Plus, each time he said it, it was clearer.
The third time, I finally bit.
"Okay. What about Dresden?"
He cocked his head at me but didn't say anything else. When we stopped at the station to see Carla I tried to show off his new trick, but he wouldn't perform.
The next morning he was more talkative. I had begun keeping the screen off the window in the living room so he could come and go freely. I don't know where he went at night, but in the mornings I would fix myself some oatmeal and set some raisins out on the table for him, and within a few minutes he'd fly in and hop onto the back of a chair.
"The Russians," he said, proudly, as if he'd been practicing. "Dresden."
I pointed out that Dresden was in Germany.
He talked like a crow: harsh and loud, heavy on the r's and the vowels, having trouble with his s's and n's.
I was not sure why I took it as such a matter of course that my adopted crow would first of all begin to speak, and second of all try to explain something to me about Dresden. It seemed like there were only a few options: ignore it, imagine I was going crazy, or take it in stride. The first had worked with the lions, but Hamilton was louder and wouldn't leave me alone. The second really served no purpose.
"Dresden," he said again, bobbing his head in what I took to be agreement. "The Russians."
"The Germans," I insisted. "Eat your raisins."
He muttered something I could not understand and hopped down to the table.
But it got me thinking. I knew enough to know that the Russians had cause to be in a lot of German cities at the end of the Second World War. I did not know enough geography though to know whether Dresden was in the east or the west, and I didn't know enough history to know why it was important.
He finished his raisins and muttered the word I couldn't understand, louder this time. He kept repeating it as I gathered my things and headed out the door. I didn't bike anymore now that I had a crow riding my shoulder each morning.
"You've got to practice more," I told him. "I can't understand what you're saying."
When we passed the kids coming home from school the next day, the same kid as before wanted to know if Hamilton could talk yet.
"Pretty bird," the crow said, and then, when the kid's jaw dropped, "Leave me alone."
He wouldn't stop chattering about Dresden. "Carla, Carla," he croaked as we walked up to the gas station. Again though, once we were there he would not show off. I asked Carla about Dresden.
"Like, have I been there?" She shook her head.
"Neither have I. But do you know anything about it?"
"Not really." She paused. "They had a museum exhibit a while back that was supposed to be a bunch of art and stuff from there. Dan and I went. I guess Dresden was the art capital of Germany or something before the war. They called it the Paris of Germany."
Hamilton croaked.
"What happened with the Russians?"
She shrugged.
The Russians were coming from the east, and the people of Dresden didn't want their art and sculpture -- what remained after the firebombing -- carried off or destroyed. Carla was right, and the city had been called "the Paris of Germany" for good reason. Its museums were packed with pieces assembled over hundreds of years.
When the Russians arrived, the museums that still stood
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