One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping by Barry Denenberg Read Free Book Online Page A

had this big map of the world up in
     
front of the class and was pointing to one country after another asking anyone if they could name each country and tell him what they all have in common. Mr. Erickson said that what they all have in com-mon is that the Jews who live there are considered a plague and not wanted because they are inferior in every way to the Aryan race, which is a superior race
and destined to rule the world.
Sophy wanted to say something but was too afraid.
She said it is awful being in Mr. Erickson’s class and that I am lucky to be in Mrs. Thompson’s.
     
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1938
I finally agreed to accompany Uncle Daniel to his favorite coffeehouse. He’s been asking for weeks and weeks and my feeble excuses were getting pretty obvious and, besides, he usually behaves himself better when it’s just the two of us. I must admit I do enjoy seeing all the strange and interesting people who con-gregate there, but of course the real reason I decided to go was that Daddy asked me to: “Your uncle likes to show everyone how beautiful his niece is,” so how could I say no?
     
Uncle Daniel practically lives at the coffeehouse. He gets his meals there, takes his phone calls, and his friends stop by and leave messages. The only thing he does at his apartment is sleep and I’m not even sure about that.
The coffeehouse is always filled with men who look like they have nothing better to do than sit around talking and drinking café au lait .
Every time I come I see this one man who sits by himself, scribbling away furiously in his notebook and glowering at anyone who comes even remotely near his table.
If he doesn’t want to be bothered, why doesn’t he just write at home? I suppose it’s because he feels lonely there. If it were me, I would write at home.
He wears a black patch over one eye. It was suppos-edly injured in a fencing duel with a rival writer who insulted him in print.
A small glass of green liquid is always in front of him. Once he was so absorbed in his writing that he put his cigarette out in the glass — I was hoping he would drink it but at the last minute he noticed.
I asked Uncle Daniel what it was and he said, “Ab-sinthe,” and ordered me a glass before I could stop him.
     
It didn’t taste nearly as good as it looked — quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. It wasn’t cool and re-freshing — it was bitter, burned my throat, and tasted like licorice of all things.
Uncle Daniel and his writer friends have their own table right under the skylight next to where the chess players gather.
I like to watch them play, even though I only understand which way the pieces move and not much more.
Daddy and Max play every Tuesday night, but they’re too incredibly boring to watch. Sometimes I think it’s not really a chess game but a contest to see who can take the longest time considering where to move without actually moving.
The chess players at the coffeehouse move much faster, and each time they make a move they smack down their buttons on top of this double clock device that sits between them.
When I was smaller I would just turn around in my seat and peek, but one day a man winked at me and motioned for me to come over. I swiveled around that instant and pretended that I hadn’t seen him. But a couple of minutes later, when I thought for sure the
     
coast would be clear, he was still watching me and again motioned me over, patting the seat next to him. I’m usually pretty shy with strangers, but he looked like a nice man so I went over.
He said I was welcome to watch them play any time I wished and he called me “young lady,” which made me blush, although I don’t think he noticed.
When someone makes a move that the onlookers think is either really brilliant or really stupid they oooh and aaah or shake their heads in disbelief. It’s really very funny.
The chess players are a lot more fun than Uncle Daniel and his friends. All they ever talk about is themselves.
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