By Michael Lieberman
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Additional resources for A history of the sweetness of the world
After the war I escaped to Palestine. Yes, I am Ukrainian by birth, but there the similarity ends. Most of what I did is in your archives you can read themjust minor roles, I helped Begin blow the King David, and other odds and ends. Last year I slipped from my cell and joined the boys in Tunis; Page 22 my role with al Wazir was minor, but in open court I hold my tongue; anyway you know it from your records. So now let's have some sport. Suppose we steal the King's Arabians and blind them. I have fifty good ideas how.
If I knew his story in detail? Nine hours of ''Shoah" is a man singing, a Jew, in soft focus in a small boat on a small river in the morning. He is drifting by mounds of coarse hair and shoes in my living room. A Jew in a boat. A Jew in a boat singing in Polish is beyond oscilloscopes. I am humming a song I cannot hear, a melody I do not know, accompanying a man remembering a youth he does not remember. He is impounded on a reel of tape, trying to moor a past in the present. With a warble older than the song, he frames a sweetness measured only in angstroms.
When Father Alfonso baptizes my daughter tomorrow, he thought, she will receive this body. Azules, murmured Rolando, blue. His eyes are blue, this man-bird. He thought of buzzards, the yellow-eyed owls. Only anglos have blue eyes. Jesus should have had blue eyes. What use, he wondered. Where to store themthe church, the barn, the Reardons' house, his own house. Azules, he had seen these eyes glazed on Indian pots, strange animals, half human. Before he could remove his knife, Becky Reardon knelt down, kissed the lids and repeated, Azules.