child.
âWhat are you afraid of?â asks the Jew.
David does not answer. He stares at the Jew. His gaze wavers.
Sabana returns to Davidâs side.
â¢
A gain the cry of a dog. In the field. A strange cry, a strangled bark, a whine.
âDiane,â says David.
âYou were still sleeping?â Sabana asks.
David sits up with difficulty.
âI heard you from far off,â he says to her, âas if you were on the other side of the park.â
âWith the dogs.â
He listens.
âDiane. Itâs Diane.â He starts as if seeing Sabana for the first time by his side. âOh, there you are.â
âShe is dreaming, the dogs are dreaming,â Sabana says.
âNo,â says David.
âOr Gringo is trying to kill her.â
David starts and then suddenly calms.
âNo. No.â
âThey didnât say anything about killing the dogs,â says Sabana.
âNo,â says David.
Sabana turns from David. She goes to the door opening out onto the park. She looks out into the darkness. The cries cease.
âThis dog of the Jewâs, Diane,â she murmurs, âhas love in her voice.â
âYes,â says David. âA kind of smile in her eyes.â
âA dog for you to play with,â she says.
âYes.â
âBut theyâll kill her,â Sabana says. âThey want only guard dogs here. There are a hundred of them in the field of the dead. The princes of Staadt.â
David listens to the soft, quiet voice of Sabana. Her hands quivering.
âThey eat everyday,â she says. âThey sleep. They train at sunrise. Sometimes, they put them in the police tanks going to the Jewish neighborhoods. Gringo showers them with praise, throws flowers on them, gives them medals, hangs them on their collars.â
She takes a few steps toward David, then stops before reaching him. They look at one another. She says:
âSometimes they are free, they release them, they say: âYou are free, go kill.â When the Jews pass through the barbed wire on the other side of the field, where the ponds are, we say to them: Go kill.â
ââYou are free,ââ repeats the Jew.
David rises. His eyes are flat, opaque. He searches for his gun. Sabana doesnât seem to have noticed him moving. She says:
âYou are free.â
David releases his gun. He looks at Sabana, standing before him. His hands tremble. He smiles at Sabana, a tight and empty smile:
âI donât understand,â he says.
âYou didnât shoot,â she says.
Silence.
In the park, that same sad howl.
âDiane,â says the Jew.
David turns to look at the Jew, then at Sabana. His gaze focuses and sharpens.
âShe cries from despair,â says Sabana.
âA dog?â David asks.
âOne can never knowâ says the Jew.
âA dog crying from despair?â David murmurs to himself.
âWho can ever know,â says Abahn.
â¢
S ilence.
âWhat time is it?â asks David.
The voice of Abahn:
âNearly day.â
David sits up straight, frightened. He looks toward the road for the first time. He trembles.
âNo, itâs still night,â says the Jew.
âThereâs no more shooting near the ponds,â says Sabana. âTheyâve left again.â
âI donât understand,â David murmurs.
They are silent.
This time, in the park, a long plaintive cry. David straightens, says to the Jew:
âTheyâre hurting Diane.â
The Jew, like him, is listening to the cry. David turns toward Abahn.
âIs she crying out because of the night? The cold?â asks Abahn.
âI donât know,â says the Jew.
âFrom fear, I think,â says David.
âThat sheâll be killed?â
âThat there will be killing,â says Sabana slowly. She falls silent. She has gone back to sleep.
â¢
T he silence.
Sabana leaves David, moving
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