just climbed into the van, I found the old lady and her book. I do not remember which book it was, just remember that it was Italian. I looked at her and laughed, complicit. Watch a Latin language between both stroke Semitic is like meeting a cousin or a close relative. The old lady laughed, kind, from deep yellow eyes surrounded by wrinkles kindness. I sat behind her. I saw his gray hair, his book open, her scarf of something that occurred to me silk. I felt comfortable.
Climbing Mount Zion, a burning smell filled the van. Should be the brakes, I thought, although there was no reason to stop on a rise. Anyway, I do not worry. The smell brought me fond memories: my country vans, a bus of the 50 bowl down before landing in Caracas, a "picture-by-post" in Mochima curves. But the smell of Italian old lady did not bring any fond memories and very nervous the driver said in perfect Hebrew smelled something burning. The driver provided a mechanistic explanation that I had not been able to understand even if he had given in English. It's all good, I thought, and followed with my memories.
Another passenger, long skirt and head covering, the old woman said that her voice was known. Are not you the teacher are you? The old lady nodded and began to remember old times at a boarding school for girls. The old lady had been a teacher, but I was unclear why. Perhaps history? , or literature? The lady had been his student and brilliant voice of joy remember names and anecdotes. At one point the old woman said she had published a book. The lady wanted to buy it, but the old lady said it was not getting anywhere, he had been a self-edit, which was only achieved in a very small library that was an old friend. What is the book? - Wanted to know the lady. It is my testimony about the Holocaust, "said the old lady and I took a chill. I remembered his gentle smile, his Italian book, the imaginary relationship between us. She had been there as a child, before coming to Israel - and said he had told in these pages. There was also told how he had to live with "it." Incredibly, he had to publish herself. Now the book was lost in a tiny bookstore in southern Israel which is to say nothing. A testimony full of oblivion.
we came to Jerusalem, when we got off the truck, yellow eyes looked at him again. I smiled and she said with a smile. I wanted to speak, but did not dare. I am a voyeur in this language.
