Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Marat Baskin

Then, as in a dream, I followed her beating heart to the recovery room, and the nurses followed me; they didn’t stop me. Finally, Peggy, the red-haired Irish nurse, took my hand: “Doctor, the operation is over, everything’s fine.” I stopped. The moor has done his duty, the moor can go. “You’re right,” I said. “Now I can rest.” As the great Maimonides used to say, thank you, Gotunyu, that you gave me a chance to save a life! My day’s work was done, so I was free to go home. But I could barely keep my eyes open, and as l didn’t want to risk falling asleep at the wheel, I decided to take a short nap in my chair. I don’t remember how long I slept, when suddenly I felt someone patting me on my head. It felt just the way papa used to do it when I was little. I opened my eyes --and I saw my grandfather. I knew it was him, although I never met him. When he was killed in the ghetto, I wasn’t born yet. I knew it was my grandfather Shloyme. And strange though it may seem, I was not at all surprised at his being there. I knew it was a dream, and you don’t get surprised at things in a dream. Grandpa stood beside me in ragged patched sweater, boots, and a cap with earflaps.


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