The Story of a Life Read Online Free PDF

no choice but to load a truck with his household belongings and come to the city. He stored his things in our large warehouse and leased out his estate for next to nothing.
    Uncle Felix lived near us in a rented apartment and would come see us once a week, sometimes twice. He no longer wore the splendid suits that he used to wear on the estate. Instead, he wore casual clothes that added a charming touch, complementing his silver hair. I never heard him complain or blame anyone. If Aunt Regina was mentioned, a slight cloud would pass across his forehead. Although they were very different, they had been close. It was not without amazement that my mother would point this out.
    My uncle transferred most of his art collection to us. The pictures changed the appearance of our house; it began to look a little bit like a museum. My mother was extremely proud of the collection and invited the few friends that we had to come see it.
    Uncle Felix kept his equanimity even when life became very hard. A Ukrainian estate landlord, an old acquaintance, wanted to hide him on his estate, but Uncle Felix refused. During the ghetto days, he lived with us in one room. The precious collection was with us, but we didn’t know how to save it. Finally, my uncle handed it over to the director of a local bank, who promised to keep it safe until the bad times were over. He came to collect the packages one night, a tall man with large hands. I knew we would never see this treasure again.
    Winter came and packed us even more tightly together.There was no firewood for heating, and no water. Uncle Felix, who had been an officer in the Austrian army, kept his erect bearing even during those dark days.
    Afterward, on the deportation march, for the entire length of the long route through the heart of the Ukrainian steppes, Uncle Felix helped to bury people so that they wouldn’t become carrion for the birds of prey. He himself died of typhus in a barn, and Father, who wanted to bury him, couldn’t find a spade. We laid him upon a pile of hay.

3
     
    IN THE SUMMER OF 1937, my mother and I traveled home on a night train. I don’t know why we left our vacation home in the village in such haste. We traveled in luxury, in a first-class compartment that was half empty. Mother read a book, and I leafed through a picture album. The mingled smells of cake and tobacco wafted into the compartment, and it was pleasant to flick through the album and to gaze around. Mother asked me if I was tired, and I said that I wasn’t.
    After that the lights were dimmed. Mother closed her book and dozed off. For a long time, I listened carefully to the tiny noises that rustled in the car. Then, from a dark end of the car, a tall and buxom waitress suddenly appeared. She squatted right down on her knees, looked at me, and asked what my name was. I told her.
    “And how old are you?”
    For some reason, this question amused me, but I told her I was five.
    “And where are you going?”
    “Home.”
    “A beautiful boy, bound for a beautiful city,” she said. Her words didn’t make me laugh, and yet I laughed anyway. In the midst of this, she held out her two large palms and said, “Why don’t you give me your hand? Wouldn’t you like to be my friend?”
    I put my hands on her open palms. She kissed them and said, “Beautiful hands.” A strange pleasantness flowed through my body.
    “Come with me and I’ll give you something good,” she said, holding me tight as she swung me upward. Her breasts were large and warm, but the height made me dizzy.
    At the end of the car, she had a cubicle. The cubicle contained a folding bed, a small dresser, and a closet.
    “Come, let’s find something nice for you. What would you like?” she asked, and put me down on her folding bed.
    “Halvah,” I said, for some reason.
    “Halvah,” she said, quite taken aback. “Only peasant children eat halvah. Children from good homes like the taste of more delicate