Livia E. Bitton-Jackson · 234 pages
Rating: (17.9K votes)
“My hope is that learning about past evils will help us to avoid them in the future.”
“My stories are of gas chambers, shootings, electrified fences, torture, scorching sun, mental abuse, and constant threat of death.
But they are also stories of faith, hope, triumph, and love. They are stories of perseverance, loyalty, courage in the face of overwhelming odds, and of never giving up!”
“What is death all about? What is life all about?”
“Reading my personal accountI believe you feel-you-will know that the Holocaust was neither a legend nor Hollywood fiction but a lesson for the future! ”
“Goldene Haar!'' he exclaims and takes one of my long braids into his hand. I am not certain I heard right. Did he say ''golden hair'' about my braids?
Are you Jewish? The question startles me. ''Yes, I am Jewish.'' How old are you?
I am thirteen.'' ''You are tall for your age. Is this your mother?'' He touches Mommy lightly on the shoulder. ''You go with your mother.”
“A legend can just as well be founded in the future as in the past."
"It's called a 'prophecy,'" Urruah said. "You may have heard of the concept.”
“But at the corner I stopped to take my last look at the crew of the Narcissus. They were swaying irresolute and noisy on the broad flagstones before the Mint. They were bound for the Black Horse, where men, in fur caps with brutal faces and in shirt sleeves, dispense out of varnished barrels the illusions of strength, mirth, happiness; the illusion of splendor and poetry of life, to the paid-off crews of southern-going ships.”
“State your HURRAAARRGLAB,” went the monarch.
“Mr. Wonderful,” said the advisor, daintily wiping the king’s mouth with a hanky. “What do we keep telling you about your interrogation methods? The information’s never reliable and it really hurts our image.”
“It’s all right,” I sighed. “This is my actual face.”
“I opened the curtain and entered the confessional, a dark wooden booth built into the side wall of the church. As I knelt on the small worn bench, I could hear a boy's halting confession through the wall, his prescribed penance inaudible as the panel slid open on my side and the priest directed his attention to me.
"Yes, my child," he inquired softly.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my First Confession."
"Yes, my child, and what sins have you committed?"
....
"I talked in church twenty times, I disobeyed my mother five times, I wished harm to others several times, I told a fib three times, I talked back to my teacher twice." I held my breath.
"And to whom did you wish harm?"
My scheme had failed. He had picked out the one group of sins that most troubled me. Speaking as softly as I could, I made my admission.
"I wished harm to Allie Reynolds."
"The Yankee pitcher?" he asked, surprise and concern in his voice. "And how did you wish to harm him?"
"I wanted him to break his arm."
"And how often did you make this wish?"
"Every night," I admitted, "before going to bed, in my prayers."
"And were there others?"
"Oh, yes," I admitted. "I wished that Robin Roberts of the Phillies would fall down the steps of his stoop, and that Richie Ashburn would break his hand."
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes, I wished that Enos Slaughter of the Cards would break his ankle, that Phil Rizzuto of the Yanks would fracture a rib, and that Alvin Dark of the Giants would hurt his knee." But, I hastened to add, "I wished that all these injuries would go away once the baseball season ended."
...
"Are there any other sins, my child?"
"No, Father."
"For your penance, say two Hail Mary's, three Our Fathers, and," he added with a chuckle, "say a special prayer for the Dodgers. ...”
“I'm a moldy moldy man
I'm moldy thru and thru
I'm a moldy moldy man
You would not think it true
I'm moldy til my eyeballs
I'm moldy til my toe
I will not dance I shyballs
I'm such a humble Joe.”
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