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Authors: Jonathan Safran Foer
Tags: Fiction
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schoolyard. It was always behind something.
I wondered if she told him. I wondered if she could feel me watching them, if that made it more exciting for her. Why did I ask to watch? Why did she agree?
I had gone to him when I was trying to learn more about the forced laborer. I had gone to everyone.
To Anna's sweet little sister, Here is the letter you asked for. I am almost two meters in height. My eyes are brown. I have been told that my hands are big. I want to be a sculptor, and I want to marry your sister. Those are my only dreams. I could write more, but that is all that matters. Your friend, Thomas
I walked into a bakery seven years later and there he was. He had dogs at his feet and a bird in a cage beside him. The seven years were not seven years. They were not seven hundred years. Their length could not be measured in years, just as an ocean could not explain the distance we had traveled, just as the dead can never be counted. I wanted to run away from him, and I wanted to go right up next to him. I went right up next to him. Are you Thomas? I asked. He shook his head no. You are, I said. I know you are. He shook his head no. From Dresden.
He opened his right hand, which had NO tattooed on it. I remember you. I used to watch you kiss my sister. He took out a little book and wrote, I don't speak. I'm sorry. That made me cry. He wiped away my tears. But he did not admit to being who he was. He never did.
We spent the afternoon together. The whole time I wanted to touch him. I felt so deeply for this person that I had not seen in so long. Seven years before, he had been a giant, and now he seemed small. I wanted to give him the money that the agency had given me. I did not need to tell him my story, but I needed to listen to his. I wanted to protect him, which I was sure I could do, even if I could not protect myself.
I asked, Did you become a sculptor, like you dreamed? He showed me his right hand and there was silence. We had everything to say to each other, but no ways to say it. He wrote, Are you OK? I told him, My eyes are crummy. He wrote, But are you OK? I told him, That's a very complicated question. He wrote, That's a very simple answer. I asked, Are you OK?
He wrote, Some mornings I wake up feeling grateful. We talked for hours, but we just kept repeating those same things over and over.
Our cups emptied. The day emptied.
I was more alone than if I had been alone. We were about to go in different directions. We did not know how to do anything else. It's getting late, I said.
He showed me his left hand, which had YES tattooed on it. I said, I should probably go home.
He flipped back through his book and pointed at, Are you OK? I nodded yes.
I started to walk off. I was going to walk to the Hudson River and keep walking. I would carry the biggest stone I could bear and let my lungs fill with water.
But then I heard him clapping his hands behind me. I turned around and he motioned for me to come to him. I wanted to run away from him, and I wanted to go to him. I went to him.
He asked if I would pose for him. He wrote his question in German, and it wasn't until then that I realized he had been writing in English all afternoon, and that I had been speaking English. Yes, I said in German. Yes. We made arrangements for the next day. His apartment was like a zoo. There were animals everywhere. Dogs and cats. A dozen birdcages. Fish tanks. Glass boxes with snakes and lizards and insects. Mice in cages, so the cats wouldn't get them. Like Noah's ark. But he kept one corner clean and bright. He said he was saving the space. For what? For sculptures.
I wanted to know from what, or from whom, but I did not ask. He led me by the hand. We talked for half an hour about what he wanted to make. I told him I would do whatever he needed. We drank coffee.
He wrote that he had not made a sculpture in America. Why not?
I haven't been able to. Why not?
We never talked about the past. He opened the flue, although I
I wondered if she told him. I wondered if she could feel me watching them, if that made it more exciting for her. Why did I ask to watch? Why did she agree?
I had gone to him when I was trying to learn more about the forced laborer. I had gone to everyone.
To Anna's sweet little sister, Here is the letter you asked for. I am almost two meters in height. My eyes are brown. I have been told that my hands are big. I want to be a sculptor, and I want to marry your sister. Those are my only dreams. I could write more, but that is all that matters. Your friend, Thomas
I walked into a bakery seven years later and there he was. He had dogs at his feet and a bird in a cage beside him. The seven years were not seven years. They were not seven hundred years. Their length could not be measured in years, just as an ocean could not explain the distance we had traveled, just as the dead can never be counted. I wanted to run away from him, and I wanted to go right up next to him. I went right up next to him. Are you Thomas? I asked. He shook his head no. You are, I said. I know you are. He shook his head no. From Dresden.
He opened his right hand, which had NO tattooed on it. I remember you. I used to watch you kiss my sister. He took out a little book and wrote, I don't speak. I'm sorry. That made me cry. He wiped away my tears. But he did not admit to being who he was. He never did.
We spent the afternoon together. The whole time I wanted to touch him. I felt so deeply for this person that I had not seen in so long. Seven years before, he had been a giant, and now he seemed small. I wanted to give him the money that the agency had given me. I did not need to tell him my story, but I needed to listen to his. I wanted to protect him, which I was sure I could do, even if I could not protect myself.
I asked, Did you become a sculptor, like you dreamed? He showed me his right hand and there was silence. We had everything to say to each other, but no ways to say it. He wrote, Are you OK? I told him, My eyes are crummy. He wrote, But are you OK? I told him, That's a very complicated question. He wrote, That's a very simple answer. I asked, Are you OK?
He wrote, Some mornings I wake up feeling grateful. We talked for hours, but we just kept repeating those same things over and over.
Our cups emptied. The day emptied.
I was more alone than if I had been alone. We were about to go in different directions. We did not know how to do anything else. It's getting late, I said.
He showed me his left hand, which had YES tattooed on it. I said, I should probably go home.
He flipped back through his book and pointed at, Are you OK? I nodded yes.
I started to walk off. I was going to walk to the Hudson River and keep walking. I would carry the biggest stone I could bear and let my lungs fill with water.
But then I heard him clapping his hands behind me. I turned around and he motioned for me to come to him. I wanted to run away from him, and I wanted to go to him. I went to him.
He asked if I would pose for him. He wrote his question in German, and it wasn't until then that I realized he had been writing in English all afternoon, and that I had been speaking English. Yes, I said in German. Yes. We made arrangements for the next day. His apartment was like a zoo. There were animals everywhere. Dogs and cats. A dozen birdcages. Fish tanks. Glass boxes with snakes and lizards and insects. Mice in cages, so the cats wouldn't get them. Like Noah's ark. But he kept one corner clean and bright. He said he was saving the space. For what? For sculptures.
I wanted to know from what, or from whom, but I did not ask. He led me by the hand. We talked for half an hour about what he wanted to make. I told him I would do whatever he needed. We drank coffee.
He wrote that he had not made a sculpture in America. Why not?
I haven't been able to. Why not?
We never talked about the past. He opened the flue, although I
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