An
anemic red sun pushed itself
Over
the shoulders of the horizon.
I,
walking the water-line, my mind unfocused,
Saw
a short old man standing like a lawn statue,
Fishing
with a kid’s rod, watching the horizon.
He
wore a black yarmulke and an oversized
Wool
sweater that hung on him
As
if there’d been more of him at one time.
I
approached. He turned his head,
Looked
at me with dead fish eyes
And
turned back to the sea.
I
felt compelled to talk to him.
“How’s the fishing,” was all I could think
of to say.
He
shrugged without looking at me and,
With
what seemed a German accent, replied,
“Same
as usual. Lousy.”
“What are you trying to catch?”
He
didn’t respond. I started to repeat my question
When
he said, “Lox. I’m trying to catch a
lox,
But
the bagel is the hard part.”
I
laughed.
“It’s
no laughing matter. I’m hungry.”
“There are easier ways…” Now looking at
me
He
interrupted, “You think so. Life isn’t so easy.
You
couldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not. Try me.”
“When
I was seven I watched the Gestapo
Take
my parents and sisters away.”
“But not you?”
“I
was hiding in the cupboard under the stairs.”
He
fell silent, then, “I didn’t help them.”
“But you were only seven.”
“I
heard my mother cry out my name
As
they yelled at her to move. All I did was hide.”
“But you were only seven.”
“Even
a seven year old can hear. Can know.
Can
remember.
I
should have gone with them.”
“Let me take you to the diner.
You can have lox and bagels
And tell me how you survived.”
“Okay,
I’ll go with you.
But
I’d rather have
A
three egg omelet."
