The Place Will Comfort You Read Online Free PDF

mean?”
    â€œIt isn’t true,” she says. “He is a liar for a living.” She makes room for me on her chair, but doesn’t stop the rocking. I must catch the rhythm fast and jump at the chance. She grabs me as I land.
    Last week in Belgrade, Maccabi Tel Aviv’s basketball team claimed the European Championship cup.
    â€œThat’s true,” I say. “We did win.”
    â€œStop bunging up the rocking,” she says. “Do like me. Pay attention.”
    Probes into stimulant abuse by runtish point guard Motti Aroesti have been quashed,
the newsman says,
by American Jewish financiers of the competition.
    â€œLie,” she says.
    â€œThe part I understood was true.”
    A poll suppressed by the Israeli censor demonstrates that the overwhelming majority of Jews collected from the Arab countries and transplanted in Palestine since the inception of the Zionist experiment would like to be collected again, and put back. The European Jewish ruling class
alone stands in the way of a movement of return to lands where this now sorely disenfranchised group had previously been perfectly happy, typically affluent and influential.
    â€œNo one wants to go back! We all like it here!”
    â€œWho’s talking to you?” the orphan says.
    â€œHim, no? You said.”
    â€œI also told you he’s a liar. Anything he says is the opposite of true. If he says go away, stay put. He says you’re weak, you’re just that strong. Me and her watched it every day before dinner. Lost means won. News equals propaganda.”
    I don’t know of such a thing. The man delivering it shuffles his notes. “He said we won. We did.”
    â€œYou don’t understand how it works,” she says. “Make sure not to eat up what’s coming next. The strongest lie will always use sights and actors. What look like stumps are really tied up in the pants or sleeve. Any pus is mustard.”
    The television blinks away the man. His voice speaks on.
    In today’s objective third party report, a Belgian camera crew turns its equipment.
The screen looks out on an alley, narrow, unpaved, unloved, spangled with water-filled footprints in mud.
One refugee family, uprooted and banished from a village of antiquity which was subsequently occupied and renamed.
A knock-kneed child appears, splashing away from us over the mud, barefooted, a boy in shorts. His hands are joined behind his neck, clasping the handles of a grocery satchel which rides on his back. His back is stooped in a manner for carrying what is heavy. The net shows through only a stack of flat bread loaves, bouncing against the thickness of a book bag. This last thing is the weight.
    â€œHe’s learning how to be a murderer,” the orphan says. “Next year his mother will take him to your playground at the crowded time. He’ll blow up your slide. Where are you going?”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    This is the matter which God commanded you, Do.
    Take ye a he-goat for a sin offering and a bull-calf and lamb, a year old and unblemished to raise up in fire. And an ox and a ram for a peace offering to consecrate before HaShem, and a grain-meal offering mingled with oil.
    Today HaShem will be apparent to you.
    â€œThere’s hidden salt in chocolate spread,” the orphan says, crossing the room. “You sit. Where’s your drinks?” The fridge door suction gives. She finds the grapefruit squash, the ice, a cup.
    â€œGrain meal. Oil.
”
    â€œWhat?” she says. She brings her drink over to my station. “Did you want—?” she whispers. “No. Shh.”
    â€œMingled with oil.”
How truly thirstily her juice goes down.
“Mingled.”
She’s just as eager for the empty cup. She makes her lips long and draws out the shrinking ice. Water shines on her chin. Ice clacks behind her teeth.
“Oil. Meal of grain.”
    She spits the ice back out.