[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
brother,” she said, quietly. Suddenly, a low sigh rushed out from somewhere deep
inside her. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh God, yes. My brother, but I can’t
remember what he looked like.”
“Was this him?” I asked, and showed her the picture. “What happened to
him? Tell me, Mother.”
She could barely speak. “Karl,” she whispered. “My baby brother.” “What
happened?” I persisted.
Her words, when at last they came, were not directed toward me. “After Karl
was born, my mother was so busy caring for him that she hardly had time left for
me.” She still caressed my hair, then stopped, as if seeing for the first time that I was
in the room with her.
“What happened?” I pressed again, angry she had forgotten her brother as she
would later forget my son.
“They came for us, and we hid. I was behind an open door, and Lena
crouched below the wood bin. My mother held Karl inside a closet that was hidden
by a large bookcase. The Germans searched the room. ‘Juden, Raus’ — Jews come
out, they said. Karl began to whimper, and the Germans knew to look behind the
bookcase. I watched them pull my mother out by the hair. They did not see me.
Then my beloved Lena gave herself up to be with my mother. I never saw them again
after that.”
She began to weep. I held her, not wanting to let go or even change my
position, though my legs began to cramp.
“I had wanted him dead so many times,” she said in a whisper, “but once it
happened, I asked God to take me instead. Even that small favor was not granted to
me.”
I held Ruth until my arms trembled from holding on so tight. I gave my mother
the handkerchief. “This was Karl’s,” I said, certain that was true. “All he wanted was
to be remembered. You can give him that.” I believed this fervently, and my mother
believed it too, for she immediately relaxed, as if she had let go of something heavy.
I sat on the floor and gripped the fabric of my mother’s robe, clinging to it
with a fierceness I had never known. I knew that if I lost my hold on Mother, I might
sever the only thread still connecting me to the past.
* * * *
“Clinging to a Thread” is the first of several stories we have on hand from
Leslie What. Leslie’s fiction has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine,
and regional publications. She is a stringer for the Eugene Weekly, and is currently
writing a comic novel
Leslie is the child of a Holocaust survivor. “I started this story two years
ago,” she writes, “after looking through a box of linen tablecloths, sheets and
pillowcases brought over from Germany after the War. As I touched the fabric I was
overwhelmed with the symbolism of having touched something used by people I
knew only from photographs. I really did feel the physical presence of someone
from the past.” [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl exclamation.htw.pl
brother,” she said, quietly. Suddenly, a low sigh rushed out from somewhere deep
inside her. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh God, yes. My brother, but I can’t
remember what he looked like.”
“Was this him?” I asked, and showed her the picture. “What happened to
him? Tell me, Mother.”
She could barely speak. “Karl,” she whispered. “My baby brother.” “What
happened?” I persisted.
Her words, when at last they came, were not directed toward me. “After Karl
was born, my mother was so busy caring for him that she hardly had time left for
me.” She still caressed my hair, then stopped, as if seeing for the first time that I was
in the room with her.
“What happened?” I pressed again, angry she had forgotten her brother as she
would later forget my son.
“They came for us, and we hid. I was behind an open door, and Lena
crouched below the wood bin. My mother held Karl inside a closet that was hidden
by a large bookcase. The Germans searched the room. ‘Juden, Raus’ — Jews come
out, they said. Karl began to whimper, and the Germans knew to look behind the
bookcase. I watched them pull my mother out by the hair. They did not see me.
Then my beloved Lena gave herself up to be with my mother. I never saw them again
after that.”
She began to weep. I held her, not wanting to let go or even change my
position, though my legs began to cramp.
“I had wanted him dead so many times,” she said in a whisper, “but once it
happened, I asked God to take me instead. Even that small favor was not granted to
me.”
I held Ruth until my arms trembled from holding on so tight. I gave my mother
the handkerchief. “This was Karl’s,” I said, certain that was true. “All he wanted was
to be remembered. You can give him that.” I believed this fervently, and my mother
believed it too, for she immediately relaxed, as if she had let go of something heavy.
I sat on the floor and gripped the fabric of my mother’s robe, clinging to it
with a fierceness I had never known. I knew that if I lost my hold on Mother, I might
sever the only thread still connecting me to the past.
* * * *
“Clinging to a Thread” is the first of several stories we have on hand from
Leslie What. Leslie’s fiction has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine,
and regional publications. She is a stringer for the Eugene Weekly, and is currently
writing a comic novel
Leslie is the child of a Holocaust survivor. “I started this story two years
ago,” she writes, “after looking through a box of linen tablecloths, sheets and
pillowcases brought over from Germany after the War. As I touched the fabric I was
overwhelmed with the symbolism of having touched something used by people I
knew only from photographs. I really did feel the physical presence of someone
from the past.” [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]