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Francis and John Janovski’s father had given them the gift

of a wooden tram, which at times was also a cigarette box,

into which father’s hand sometimes snaked, in order to

smoke some white cylinder. The other white cylinders

stood in the tram and rode from the sideboard to the table,

which counted as a trip from Tower Hill to Forest Park. The

spilt tobacco could be tickets, which covered the scene,

until Francis gathered them up and fed them to the fish in

the aquarium.

But soon enough the Jankovski boys forgot the tram, and it

got covered with dust, yet hidden in circling blood was

friendship between the boys, which the father valued most



Janovski was a cabinet maker for a furniture

workshop; between the vaporizing faces of workmen and

cardboard signs, a world full of wonders was created. At

home the boys listened to their father.

“Every great master has a friend or even several friends,

who are wrapped in mist and forgetfulness, but they are the

real ones – dissolved in the heart!”


Janovski said, and at

that moment his ears quivered, becoming red as rosebuds.

“Can a person be a friend?” asked John.