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The Yell

Moshe Prigan

    I found a book that stunned me. I dug my fingernails into its pages, scanned every word, photo and map. I could smell the horses; hear the barks of the soldiers of the S.S. Cavalry Brigade, in doeskin breeches and hobnailed jackboots, roaming the scattered villages like a flock of hyenas. I found the name of my mother’s village. I fondled the word with the tip of my finger as if I was trying to give it life. They’ve all been shot by six troopers. Hermann, Gunther, Horst, Kurt, Otto and Fritz. In the photo they’re in loose and relaxed sitting positions on their horses, smiling. Gunther and Otto were killed later in Smolensk. Then the commander’s name popped up. I cut his picture out of the book. It took me several months to find out his address. I decided to go to Germany and kill him.
    Two days before the flight I met Mrs. Rosenfeld, the cook in our community center for the poor. A number was tattooed on her arm. She was seventeen when she tossed, every couple of days, a bag of fresh meat over the kennel fence. The babies’ screams excited the S.S. dogs.
    “I’m going to Germany,” I said.
    “Business or pleasure?”
    I looked at her arm while she was pouring me a glass of steaming tea from the off-white samovar.
    “I’ve found the man who murdered the family of my mother.”
    She sat down at the table across from me and looked motionless at the glass of tea. Then she raised her eyes, leaned forward and gave me a long look that had me pinned in place.
    “Stop it. Leave it behind,” she yelled. “Live.”

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