A Pigeon and a Boy [antikvár]

Chapter One And suddenly," said the elderly American man in the white shirt, "suddenly, a pigeon flew overhead, above that hell." Everyone fell silent. His unexpected Hebrew and the pigeon that had alighted from his mouth surprised all present, even those who could not understand what he was saying. 'iA pigeon? What pigeon?" The man—stout and suntanned as only Americans can be, with moccasins on his feet and a mane of white hair on his head—pointed to the turret of the monastery. Many years had passed, but there were a few things he still remembered about the terrible battle that had taken place here. 'And forgetting them," he declared, "is something I'll never be able to do." Not only the fatigue and the horror, not only the victory—'A victory that took both sides by surprise," he noted—but also the minor details, the ones whose importance becomes apparent only later: for one, the stray bullets—or perhaps they were intentional—that struck the bell of the monastery on occasion—"Right here, this very bell"— and then the bell would ring sharply, an odd sound that sank, then abated, but continued to resound in the darkness for a long while. 'And the pigeon?" "A strange sound. Sharp at first, and high-pitched, like even the bell was surprised; then it got weaker, in pain but not dead, until the next shot hit it. One of our wounded guys said, 'Bells are used to getting hit from the inside, not the outside.'" He smiled to himself as though he had only just understood. His