MICHAL GOVRJN
573
the word spoken from the stage, received with a sigh. Like the clandestine
grasping of Catholicism.
Childhood memories extend between Medi terranean summers and
alleys in northern cities, woven in the dreams of Polish romantic literary
heroes, shrouded in the sounds of the language, and open accounts of the
blood of the dead. Life in a pre-time is always present, in the double look
at all the places. Always through the other place I belong to, where you
don't come on journeys. A wiped-out place, condemned to delusion,
where I will never be able to rest the wandering of existences.
With relief, I finally board the train. Sleeping cars that came from
Moscow with a conductor in an undershirt and a stifling of sweat and
orange peels. A twenty-four-hour trip to Paris, like a day of fasting. To
another world? At midnight, the train passes the East Berlin station. Signs
in Gothic script: "Welcome
to
the Democratic Capi tal." On the platform
is a white line three feet from the cars. Soldiers in riding boots with
German shepherds and submachine guns are standing at regular intervals.
A patrol of two soldiers goes through the train. Another patrol checks
between the wheels with flashlights, and another one marches on the roofs
of the cars. Maybe someone has succeeded in escaping. A white line, sol–
diers, and a train. Only the si te of madness or freedom has changed.
Back in Paris. The clear sky, department-store advertising instead of
propaganda slogans. Quiet. The silence of the room. And that drawn orbit
of life where you two are so close at hand. "Flesh of my flesh."
Beloved father and mother, I press you to my heart, and once again am
gathered in your arms.
Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara Harshav
WE MOURN THE PASSING OF
HARRY KAHN
A
LONG-TERM MEMBER
OF OUR ADVISORY BOARD
AND A GOOD FRIEND
