By Norman Manea
My excitement so as to add one other ebook of Norman Manea's at the tracker! think how excited i used to be to discover books by way of this writer that I have been hoping to find....
like numerous different goods, given those tags of holocaust and shoah...i've without doubt forgotten to tag a few uploads with this. whereas it bargains with those occasions, this book--like so much the others--deal to no small measure with the postwar interval as well.
A number of brief tales stemming from the Romanian author's detention in a Nazi focus camp as a baby conjures up a feeling of the horror and absurdity of warfare and Romanian politics.
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Extra resources for October, Eight O'Clock and Other Stories
The evenings. Beautiful evenings. Fields, fields, stretching as far as the eye could see. ” “Yes. A desert all around. Grows. I don’t know. Silence. The fields went on forever. ” 46 N orman M anea The cousin paused. “I see. You were terrified by the vastness of it all. ” “They prayed, they whispered. Some cried. ” The conversations were followed by long walks, during which the teacher found out everything he wanted to know. Sometimes he wrote, things in a notebook with a shiny blue cover that he would whisk out from his shirt pocket.
They lifted him up and stood him on a chair. The crowd’s excitement grew. Then they abandoned him in front of the seething multitude. He was not afraid that he would forget the order of the words or the proper intonation. He was terrified W eddings 49 that the chair might fail him, that it would overturn and pitch him forward into the pit. They were waiting for him in total silence. He felt their eagerness, their ravenous hunger. Pulling himself together, he met them head-on. “We, who haven’t known the meaning of childhood, nour ished by cold and fear, under the mantle of war, we turn, today .
They also brought him a small glass of wine. The musicians, he noticed, were given larger ones. It was his habit to withdraw into a corner near the orchestra. Forgotten near the instrument cases, lost in the melodies, he would slide back into the past, among once-familiar faces: Grandfather’s, before the sickness struck him, as he laid his large old hand on his shoulder . . the doctor’s as, in tears, he stood by the bridge during that first night of plundering, after they had been attacked and dragged off the freight cars, their clothing, their rings, everything they still owned taken away from them.