Voices of a Summer Day
“I am just going to BREATHE.Federov permitted himself a sigh, half-troubled, half-ironic, remembering November, walking barefooted on the wide deserted peaceful beach, remembering November. His brother was breathing all right on this sunny afternoon in September, 1964, but anybody who could shout over the telephone, “My blood, my balls, and the marrow of my bones,” could hardly pretend he wasn’t being bothered by anything.Wars do not teach as much as one would like to believe. The guns fall quie...t but the soul still trembles.Federov could see the wide veranda of the Club now. It was deserted, except for two small figures, shapeless bundles of sweaters, skirts, scarves, under a striped parasol.Federov had never been inside the Club and had never swum off its beach, although the beach, from the high tide line seaward, was public. The Club, except for two or three tame token specimens who were extraordinarily rich or extraordinarily well connected, wasn’t for Jews.Israel, Israel, my name is Israel and I want you to get that man out of my house.And, Tell them I’m not a Jew—the voice of his Uncle George, the hoarse, workingman’s voice—I’m an American.MoreLess
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