Now The Windows, Blinded By The Glare

...."the Sound Of A Barrel Organ Rising From The Deepest Golden Vein Of The Day; Two Or Three Bars Of A Chorus, Played On A Distant Piano Over And Over Again, Melting In The Sun On The White Pavement, Lost In The Fire Of High Noon.

The Days Hardened With Cold And Boredom Like Last Year's Loaves Of Bread. One Began To Cut Them With Blunt Knives Without Appetite, With A Lazy Indifference.

This Enraged The Other Nazi So Much That The Next Morning He Came To Our House And He Shot My Father.

Yet What Is To Be Done With Events That Have No Place Of Their Own In Time; Events That Have Occurred Too Late, After The Whole Of Time Has Been Distributed, Divided, And Allotted; Events That Have Been Left In The Cold, Unregistered, Hanging In The Air, Homeless, And Errant?

In Our Town There Was A Gestapo Officer Who Loved To Play Chess. After The Occupation Began, He Found Out That My Father Was The Chess Master Of The Region, And So He Had Him To His House Every Night.