I memorize Czernowitz with all my senses :
The smell of new lilac on the fences but also horse dung in fresh snow.
The taste of Prut water swallowed diving , of blood from my nose after
getting beaten up , of lemonade after Schwitz.
Milk still warm from the udder, home made Powidla.
Semmel filled with Schinken , fried Karbonadel.
Strawberries in Schmetten.
I can also remember things that have never happened.
Like for instance the tuba playing Chopin's Funeral March
at the mass funeral of C. Calotescu coming down our street.
The same street we trod going into the Ghetto.
Many times I envisioned that scene.
Some private vendetta of mine.
Hardy
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Received on 2010-01-09 07:14:31
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.2.0 : 2010-07-03 14:34:39 PDT