Tunes for Bears to Dance To Read Online Free PDF

could not hold food in his stomach.”
    “Why is he living in the crazy house?” Henry asked, lowering his voice, hoping Mr. Levine could not hear him ask such a question.
    “Not only his body suffered,” George Graham said, also speaking low. “His mind and his nerves were shattered. He still has terrible nightmares. Thehospital here is helping him to adjust, to start a new life.”
    As they watched, the did man tippled his cap, to no one in particular. “Know why he does that?” the giant asked. “Another remnant of Nazi cruelty. The guards in the camps played cruel games. Made the prisoners do exercises, like push-ups, for hours at a time. Outdoors, in the wind and the rain. In heat or cold. Sometimes all night long. They also made the prisoners tip their hats at the sight of a guard. Made them repeat the gesture for hours on end. If they did not tip their hats or whatever they wore on their heads, they were knocked down, kicked, and beaten. Tipping the hat became reflex action. So now he tips his hat and doesn’t even know he does it.”
    Mr. Levine worked on, lost in his miniature world.
    “This is his real cure, better medicine than the hospital,” George Graham said. “He’s bringing his village, and the people who lived there, to life again. His wife and children. His friends and neighbors. Even the village bully everybody hated, the fat one with the red jacket. During the time Mr. Levine works here, he’s back in the village again. Sometimes, at the end of the day, he sits quietly, gazing at the village, touching the figures. I think at those moments he is at home again with those he loved, walking the streets, courting the girl who would become his wife. Once when I called to him that it wastime to leave, he didn’t hear me. I sat in the shadows watching him. He sat there for two hours, and I knew he was home again, in another time and place….”
    Even now, as the giant talked, Mr. Levine put down his tool and the carved figure and, sighing, looked down at the village. Henry and the giant sat there, also silent and still, watching him. The three of them sat like that for a long time until someone called that it was time to close the center for the day.

J ackie Antonelli stood at the corner of their street, near the Welcome Bar, hands in his pockets. Since Mr. Hairston’s refusal to hire him Jackie sent glowering looks Henry’s way whenever they met, as if he blamed Henry for not getting the job.
    “Still living next door to the crazy house?” Jackie called.
    Henry looked up to see the smirk on his face. It was a stupid question and Henry did not bother to answer, stepping around Jackie.
    “Know who belongs in the crazy house?” Jackie called, hunching his shoulders the way tough guys did in the movies.
    “Who?” Henry asked, although he was not interested.
    “Your father, that’s who!” Jackie said, voice flatand deadly. Then in singsong fashion: “Your father doesn’t work. Your father doesn’t leave the house. Your father should be in the crazy house.”
    Henry flew at him, reaching for Jackie’s throat, engulfed by a rage he had never known, a rage that brought blood to his eyes. Jackie fell back, a muffled scream coming from his mouth, and Henry fell with him, the jolt loosening his grip on the boy’s throat. Jackie’s arms flailed at the air, his legs kicked, his entire body thrashed and twisted, while Henry pummeled him.
    “Quit that, stop that,” came a rough voice from somewhere. Strong hands pulled the boys apart, sending Henry reeling away.
    Jackie scrambled to his feet, massaging his throat “What are you—a madman?” he yelled hoarsely.
    The man who had separated them was a veteran who still wore his khaki uniform, faded and patched up now. He hung around the Welcome Bar day and night. He had stormed the beaches of France on D day and people said he had never slept a wink since then, awake twenty-four hours a day.
    His eyes red and binary, breathing heavily as if he