it.”
“That’s not one thing, that’s two.”
“Then I’m a lucky man,” he said.
T here came a night when the old man broke through into the root cellar. From then on he led a secret life. Solitary confinement by day, prison kitchen by night. In the early hours ofeach morning, this brave man made his way into the prison kitchen. Careful never to take more than would be noticed, he built up his strength with raw turnips, raw potatoes, and leftover bread. He used the prison sink to bathe in. He shaved with a kitchen knife and the light of the moon. He did calisthenics to keep his muscles strong. Every night he stretched and stretched to stay limber.
When he had completed his nightly foray, the old man covered his tunnel opening with a wooden crate full of potatoes and headed back to the hole.
He never gave up.
He did not allow himself to think beyond the moment. He did not allow himself to think of the day beyond the present day, the weeks stretching into months, into years, into a lifetime.
He never once thought: my youth has passed me by and I will die in this hole, an old, old man.
He thought instead of his tin snips, his forge, his solder iron, and his mother in a dark room, singing.
After ten years they opened the wooden cover to the hole and brought him up into the light of day. Blinking and squinting at the sunlight that he had not seen more than a glimpse of for a decade, Georg Kominsky regained his freedom. He lives on in the hearts and minds of his fellow prisoners, a symbol of the human spirit determined to survive at all odds.
“W hat would you like to do tonight?” the old man said one Wednesday night when I arrived. I looked out the window above the old man’s sink. The choir members hadn’t even turned the lights on in the Twin Churches. We had two hours.
“I would like to have some hot chocolate,” I said.
I got out one of my hot chocolate packets from the cupboard. In the beginning, the old man bought me hot chocolate packets from Jewell’s. But when I figured out that he was poor I insisted on bringing my own. I used to get hot chocolate packets free at the bank, at the little refreshment table in the corner where the armchairs are. There’s a coffeemaker and a small wicker basket of tea bags, coffee bags, and hot chocolate packets. There are wooden stirrers and fake cream, which must be spelled creme or kreme. You cannot use the word
cream
if it’s not real cream. That’s the law.
They frown on nongrownups who avail themselves of the little refreshment table, but I used to take the packets anyway.
“It’s for a good cause,” I said once to the bank lady when I saw her giving me the once-over.
The old man was a good cause.
I don’t go in the bank anymore.
I put hot water on the miniature stove and waited for it to boil. It’s a fallacy that a watched pot never boils. I’ve proved it wrong many a time. While I was watching the pot and thinking about the young Georg Kominsky tunneling for ten years through dirt, the old man washed the supper dishes. The old man could stand in one place and reach the sink, the stove, the refrigerator, and the dish cupboard. He had just enough dishes. Two mugs. Three plates. Three bowls. Three forks. Three spoons. One table knife and one little sharp knife. He didn’t need any more knives because the old man rarely ate anything that required cutting. You might think that having three plates and bowls is having one too many, but you would be wrong. What about the serving plate and the serving bowl? You’ve got to have an extra to serve from.
The old man had white plates with orange borders. Sad to say, orange is my least favorite color. The only way I like orange is as it occurs in nature, for example, orange poppies in gardens, orange tiger lilies by the side of the road, orange and black Monarch butterflies, orange Indian paintbrush in the field. When orange occurs elsewhere, as in borders on white plates, it is abhorrent. It is a crime
“That’s not one thing, that’s two.”
“Then I’m a lucky man,” he said.
T here came a night when the old man broke through into the root cellar. From then on he led a secret life. Solitary confinement by day, prison kitchen by night. In the early hours ofeach morning, this brave man made his way into the prison kitchen. Careful never to take more than would be noticed, he built up his strength with raw turnips, raw potatoes, and leftover bread. He used the prison sink to bathe in. He shaved with a kitchen knife and the light of the moon. He did calisthenics to keep his muscles strong. Every night he stretched and stretched to stay limber.
When he had completed his nightly foray, the old man covered his tunnel opening with a wooden crate full of potatoes and headed back to the hole.
He never gave up.
He did not allow himself to think beyond the moment. He did not allow himself to think of the day beyond the present day, the weeks stretching into months, into years, into a lifetime.
He never once thought: my youth has passed me by and I will die in this hole, an old, old man.
He thought instead of his tin snips, his forge, his solder iron, and his mother in a dark room, singing.
After ten years they opened the wooden cover to the hole and brought him up into the light of day. Blinking and squinting at the sunlight that he had not seen more than a glimpse of for a decade, Georg Kominsky regained his freedom. He lives on in the hearts and minds of his fellow prisoners, a symbol of the human spirit determined to survive at all odds.
“W hat would you like to do tonight?” the old man said one Wednesday night when I arrived. I looked out the window above the old man’s sink. The choir members hadn’t even turned the lights on in the Twin Churches. We had two hours.
“I would like to have some hot chocolate,” I said.
I got out one of my hot chocolate packets from the cupboard. In the beginning, the old man bought me hot chocolate packets from Jewell’s. But when I figured out that he was poor I insisted on bringing my own. I used to get hot chocolate packets free at the bank, at the little refreshment table in the corner where the armchairs are. There’s a coffeemaker and a small wicker basket of tea bags, coffee bags, and hot chocolate packets. There are wooden stirrers and fake cream, which must be spelled creme or kreme. You cannot use the word
cream
if it’s not real cream. That’s the law.
They frown on nongrownups who avail themselves of the little refreshment table, but I used to take the packets anyway.
“It’s for a good cause,” I said once to the bank lady when I saw her giving me the once-over.
The old man was a good cause.
I don’t go in the bank anymore.
I put hot water on the miniature stove and waited for it to boil. It’s a fallacy that a watched pot never boils. I’ve proved it wrong many a time. While I was watching the pot and thinking about the young Georg Kominsky tunneling for ten years through dirt, the old man washed the supper dishes. The old man could stand in one place and reach the sink, the stove, the refrigerator, and the dish cupboard. He had just enough dishes. Two mugs. Three plates. Three bowls. Three forks. Three spoons. One table knife and one little sharp knife. He didn’t need any more knives because the old man rarely ate anything that required cutting. You might think that having three plates and bowls is having one too many, but you would be wrong. What about the serving plate and the serving bowl? You’ve got to have an extra to serve from.
The old man had white plates with orange borders. Sad to say, orange is my least favorite color. The only way I like orange is as it occurs in nature, for example, orange poppies in gardens, orange tiger lilies by the side of the road, orange and black Monarch butterflies, orange Indian paintbrush in the field. When orange occurs elsewhere, as in borders on white plates, it is abhorrent. It is a crime
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