Gertie
Published in Issue #11 Translated from Hebrew by Binyamin Shalom subscribe to unlock the full storyEver since my grandfather, Opa, came to live with us his room has been out of bounds. I am afraid of him and avoid being alone with him. He has the habit of carrying the black rubber flyswatter with him from room to room or from the porch out to the garden, and he strikes his own arms and knees fiercely, at the slightest notion that a fly might have landed there. Sometimes he hits the mark, sometimes he misses. But he receives the blows that he suffers at his own hands as some sort of heavenly punishment, a sort of ridiculous version of the biblical “let my soul perish among the Philistines”. At this moment the flyswatter, the Fliegenklappe, lies orphaned and alone on the nightstand, as though sleeping itself by the side of the alarm clock and the heavy platinum pocket watch that is connected by day via a fancy chain to his woolen pants.
On top of the engraved dresser in the corner of the room lie several albums. Some wicked demon urges me at this precise moment to randomly choose one of the photo albums. Its binding is made of wood and there are two copper ducks fastened to it. One of them has lost its beak during the course of its travels. I take the album and steal out of the room, taking care to close the door behind me ever so silently. I am not able to fall asleep from all the excitement. Taking something without asking...
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