Fingers Pointing Somewhere Else by Daniela Fischerova, Neil Bermel Read Free Book Online Page B

Hana. I spend a long time drying my face with a washcloth. My hot skin itches, as if an electric current were buzzing through the air.
    The letter takes me by surprise; I had completely forgotten about Hana. I remove a folded sheet covered in writing and can barely focus on it.
    Two, three pages, an ordinary vacation letter. Swimming, the country house at Strakonice, colds, trips, mushroom picking. Do you already have your assignment done for September? Not me. Then I turn to the last page.
    â€œAnd I also wanted to write you and say how much it bothers me that we ended what was a beautiful friendship. Maybe you already have another friend, but I still love you and will love you till I die.”
    All of it in tiny, perfectly formed handwriting, good enough for the American government. Just outside the window, lightning flashes. Fear instantly pins me to the wall. Scarcely a second later the thunder hits.

    Sometimes it seems everything’s just a fiction. A substitute for something that doesn’t exist. In spite of this, each life has moments it can vouch for. This is one of them.
    Outside it’s pouring. In bed, flashlight in hand, I’m writing a letter. I love Hana so awfully much that there is no room for wonder. I didn’t know it this morning, but now the whole past is nothing but a pedestal for my love. In the feeble glow of my flashlight, lines pour forth from me onto every page.
    I love you. Till I die I will love only you. The mountain hurricane carries me through the air. Five pages spill, foaming, over the margins.
    When I finish writing it is midnight. The house is asleep. I run along the balcony in the pouring rain and try to guess where Strakonice might be. Then I stand there in sheer triumph and project myself south-southwest. This is no fiction. It is no gesture. It is love itself. For it is high time the truth be told: if only I could experience such love again!

    In the morning, Sasha is allowed outside. For the first time she roams the garden alone. I stay home, reading. Sometimes I peer out under the curtains and watch her wandering the paths. Only when I should be chopping carrots do I run out to see her.
    â€œHi. Were you sleeping?”
    â€œNo, why?”
    â€œâ€˜Cause you’re later than usual.”
    â€œSo?”
    We sit, swinging our legs, on the edge of a basin full of wet branches. Sasha brushes lightly against my ankle.
    â€œAre we going to play?”
    â€œPlay what?”
    â€œThe usual.”
    The sun makes a burning cap on my head. I twist my ankle around my other leg.
    â€œI can’t today.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI have a vacation assignment to do.”
    â€œAn assignment? Over the summer?”
    â€œOnly the best students have to do them. Like me and my friend Hana.”
    Sasha kicks at the basin wall. A yellow powder drifts down from the crack.
    â€œWe both write pretty well. We wrote to President Eisenhower together.”
    â€œSo then will you come down?”
    â€œAnd we also wrote to the American government. To make sure there isn’t a war. My friend has the prettiest handwriting in the whole class. And I do the best essays.”
    Sasha falls silent. Mr. Zámsky comes trudging down the path. As soon as he spots us, he heads off. Suddenly a black spark of hatred flashes through me.
    â€œWhy do you keep kicking our wall?” I say. “You’re going to wreck it!”
    Sasha jumps down off the rim. I deliberately take my time picking bits of gravel out of the grass, but she doesn’t turn around. I have to go home for lunch anyway.

    Sasha left Prague two days later. We said a listless good-bye. Mr. Zámsky left with her. I never sent the letter to Hana. I carried it around with me for a few days and then left it in the pocket of my windbreaker.
    As for the Mountain of Mountains, Mount Everest got the furthest, but even he never made it to the summit. His transmitter went dead. He must have wiped