we were expelled from Egyptâ¦â Listen, I was never expelled from Egypt. For better or for worse, I canât carry that load with me. I donât believe in that kind of we . Organized groups are just a bunch of excuses. Only the action of an individual holds a moral meaning, at least in this life. Frankly, the other kind doesnât convince me. Itâs true that the beautiful parts we were taught as children exist. The story of Sarah, for example, or the angel who held on to Abrahamâs arm, the music, the Psalmsâ¦
âI remember that on Yom Kippur, the day where itâs written that each man should forgive his neighbor, they dressed us in our best clothes. There was a photo on top of the bureau, of Karl and Oskar wearing baggy pants and new shirts. I was wearing a short dress with cherries all over it. Skinny legs. My hair was in a bun on top of my head, like a little gray cloud. Images are never forgotten. Photographyâs mystery.â
Knock-knock ⦠someone tapped lightly on the door. It had been a while since she last heard the pounding of the typewriter keys in the room next to hers. It must have been around one in the morning. When Ruth peeked in, she saw Gerta sitting with a notebook on her knees, all wrapped up in a blanket, with her third cigarette of insomnia hanging from the edge of her mouth.
âYouâre still awake?â
âI was about to go to sleep.â Gerta apologized like a little girl caught doing something wrong.
âYou shouldnât keep a diary,â said Ruth, pointing to the redcovered notebook that Gerta had placed on top of her nightstand. âYou never know into whose hands it may fall.â She was right: this went completely against the basic norms of keeping a low profile.
âRightâ¦â
âThen why do you do it?â
âDonât know,â Gerta said, shrugging. Then she put out her cigarette in a small, chipped plate. âIâm afraid of forgetting who I am.â
It was true. We all have a secret fear. A terror thatâs intimate, thatâs ours, differentiating us from the rest. A unique fear, precise.
Fear of not recognizing your own face in the mirror, of getting lost on a sleepless night in a foreign city after drinking several glasses of vodka. Fear of others, of being devastated by love or, worse, by loneliness. Fear as extreme consciousness of a reality that you only discover at a given moment, although itâs always been there. Fear of remembering what you did or what you were capable of doing. Fear as an end to innocence, rupturing a state of grace. Fear of the lake house with the tulips, fear of swimming too far from the edge, fear of dark and viscous waters on your skin when thereâs no longer a trace of firm earth beneath your feet. Fear with a capital F. F as in Fatal or to Finish Off . Fear of the constant fog of autumn over those remote neighborhoods through which she has to pass on Thursdays, with its deserted plazas and scant faces, a beggar here, a woman pushing a cart full of wood over on the other corner. And the sounds of her own footsteps, their tone soft, quick, and moist ⦠as if they werenât hers but those of someone following her from a distance, one, two, one, two ⦠that relentless, threatening feeling you carry with you in your neck all the way home, beret tightly in place, hands in pockets, that pressing need to run. Like when she was a little girl and had to cross the alleyway from the bakery to Jakobâs house, holding her breath as she climbed the stairs, two by two, until she rang the doorbell and the light went on, and she was in safe haven. Easy, sheâd say to herself while trying to slow down her pace. Take it easy. If she stood still for a moment, the echo would stop, if she started up again, the rhythm would pick up again, repeating itself: one, two, one, two, one, two, one two ⦠Once in a while she turned her head to look and there
âI remember that on Yom Kippur, the day where itâs written that each man should forgive his neighbor, they dressed us in our best clothes. There was a photo on top of the bureau, of Karl and Oskar wearing baggy pants and new shirts. I was wearing a short dress with cherries all over it. Skinny legs. My hair was in a bun on top of my head, like a little gray cloud. Images are never forgotten. Photographyâs mystery.â
Knock-knock ⦠someone tapped lightly on the door. It had been a while since she last heard the pounding of the typewriter keys in the room next to hers. It must have been around one in the morning. When Ruth peeked in, she saw Gerta sitting with a notebook on her knees, all wrapped up in a blanket, with her third cigarette of insomnia hanging from the edge of her mouth.
âYouâre still awake?â
âI was about to go to sleep.â Gerta apologized like a little girl caught doing something wrong.
âYou shouldnât keep a diary,â said Ruth, pointing to the redcovered notebook that Gerta had placed on top of her nightstand. âYou never know into whose hands it may fall.â She was right: this went completely against the basic norms of keeping a low profile.
âRightâ¦â
âThen why do you do it?â
âDonât know,â Gerta said, shrugging. Then she put out her cigarette in a small, chipped plate. âIâm afraid of forgetting who I am.â
It was true. We all have a secret fear. A terror thatâs intimate, thatâs ours, differentiating us from the rest. A unique fear, precise.
Fear of not recognizing your own face in the mirror, of getting lost on a sleepless night in a foreign city after drinking several glasses of vodka. Fear of others, of being devastated by love or, worse, by loneliness. Fear as extreme consciousness of a reality that you only discover at a given moment, although itâs always been there. Fear of remembering what you did or what you were capable of doing. Fear as an end to innocence, rupturing a state of grace. Fear of the lake house with the tulips, fear of swimming too far from the edge, fear of dark and viscous waters on your skin when thereâs no longer a trace of firm earth beneath your feet. Fear with a capital F. F as in Fatal or to Finish Off . Fear of the constant fog of autumn over those remote neighborhoods through which she has to pass on Thursdays, with its deserted plazas and scant faces, a beggar here, a woman pushing a cart full of wood over on the other corner. And the sounds of her own footsteps, their tone soft, quick, and moist ⦠as if they werenât hers but those of someone following her from a distance, one, two, one, two ⦠that relentless, threatening feeling you carry with you in your neck all the way home, beret tightly in place, hands in pockets, that pressing need to run. Like when she was a little girl and had to cross the alleyway from the bakery to Jakobâs house, holding her breath as she climbed the stairs, two by two, until she rang the doorbell and the light went on, and she was in safe haven. Easy, sheâd say to herself while trying to slow down her pace. Take it easy. If she stood still for a moment, the echo would stop, if she started up again, the rhythm would pick up again, repeating itself: one, two, one, two, one, two, one two ⦠Once in a while she turned her head to look and there
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