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Wariat ida fink12/17/2023 ![]() ![]() (He had no idea all the swans in England belong to the ruling king or queen.) Or he was an MP and patrolled streets in some little European town or city. Later he had a story about killing one of the royal swans in London (to eat) because he was tired of K-rations. However, when I first asked him 'what he did' during the war, he said he served ice cream to German POWS in a prison camp. My father was a GI during WWII he was at Normandy he was among the GIs who liberated the camps. I've read Primo Levi and Art Spiegelman Elie Weisel and others. Now I've read a lot of Holocaust literature, starting with 'Anne Frank' when I was quite young. ![]() She wanted to preserve the privacy of these individuals. A series of short stories based on actual events, that is, the event gave rise to the story, but the author, Ida Fink, never names names. You know that if someone should ring the doorbell one day when Mummy is at work, everything will depend on you? And what do you say when they ask where your parents are? " The boy says, "Mummy is at work. And he's got to stamp his feet louder." The mother says to the boy "You're doing a wonderful job. He says "I still need more time, he has to look for them longer. In a minute or so, the father reappears from the bathroom. He pulls out drawers, slams doors and yells "Just a minute, I can't find them, I don't know where Mummy put them!" Then more stamping about and finally "I found them!" That's it, that's the key game. And then, "Just a minute, I have to find the keys." Then he runs back into the main room and runs about making a lot of noise with his feet. The mother calls out "Ding dong!" imitating the doorbell. The problem is not the boy, it's the father who just isn't quick enough. They have been playing it every night for two weeks and the boy still hasn't got it right. They finish dinner, it's late, 10 at night, but before the boy goes to bed he has to play the Key Game. In "The Key Game" there's a couple and their three year old boy. These bitter glimpses of the Holocaust in Poland ring like small folorn bells tolling us all to hell. ![]()
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