The Fingers on the Hill

1

You were younger then than I am now. You sat on the board and gripped the metal chains. I stood behind you and pushed the swing. Why was I so excited? And why do I still remember this? Maybe because till now there was only must or should, and a swing is neither. Maybe because of the evening that caught us by surprise, and we hadn’t yet found a place to sleep, and my little brother said: “If only Daddy was here now,” and my sister put her hand on his mouth (“Don’t say that.”) On a nearby tree two squirrels danced, and I hoped that one day I would be able to talk to you.

2

Every morning starts with a battle, even in Zilberman’s grocery store, where he fights for the remnants of the yellow cheese. He knows that another two months will pass before Mr. Zilberman gets the new package of cheese, wrapped in shiny red wax, and Daddy has to have yellow cheese for Saturday. “More important than the fish,” he will say to Mr. Zilberman, and the other will answer: “But Mrs. Michaelov was here first, she too wants yellow cheese.” Mrs. Michaelov will nod her head, and the rolled up knot of hair on her head will threaten to fall down, but no, she will look at the white fingerless hand and say “No that’s fine, let him, after all it’s not a matter of life and death.”

(“Cut it without the end part for me, from here,” Daddy will...