July 29, 1991.

I am in a long field, dressed in protective clothing. I have to
shovel something which resembles a frozen field of ammonia. I
shovel and shovel but at one point, my palms are burned frozen.
It is extremely painful. I was wearing mittens but there was one
small area of my skin which remained bare. I am allowed to take
a break. I walk into a house and the people inside, a working
class family, speak Russian. I tell the woman to teach me. I
pick it up quickly. Some of it resembles German. And I manage
to make myself understood. An old scool girlfriend is sitting
there looking at me with a mean look in her eye. She sees I did
not make up the fact that I speak German and she seems to detest
me for it. She is jealous.

My hands still hurt. The old Russian woman looks through the
drawers of an ancient dresser and ruffles through old fashioned,
sheer scarves, multicolored, gaudy designs.


Previous
Next