The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories by Etgar Keret Read Free Book Online

House was very beautiful and posh, all made of black marble, like millionaire’s houses. It was full of sad black-and-white pictures and lists of people and countries and dead folks. We walked past the pictures in pairs and the teacher said, “Don’t touch!” But I did touch one picture, made of cardboard, showing a thin pale man who was crying and holding a sandwich in his hand. The tears came streaming down his cheeks like the lines you see on the street, and my partner,Orit Salem, said she would tell the teacher that I touched it, and I said I didn’t care, she could tell whoever she wanted, even the principal, I don’t give a damn. It’s my grandpa and I’m touching whatever I want.
    After the pictures they led us into a big hall and showed us a movie about little children who were shoved into a truck and then suffocated by gas. Then an old skinny man got on the stage and told us what bastards and murderers the Nazis were and how he took revenge on them, and even strangled a soldier with his own hands until he died. Jerby, who was sitting next to me, said the old man was lying; the way he looks, there’s no way he can make any soldier bite the dust. But I looked the old man in the eye and believed him. He had so much anger in his eyes, that all the violent rage of iron-pumping hoods I’ve seen seemed like small change in comparison.
    Finally, when he finished telling us what he had done during the Holocaust, the old man said that what we had just heard was relevant not only to the past but also for what goes on now, because the Germans still exist and still have a state. He said he was never going to forgive them, and that he hoped we, too, would never ever go visit their country. Because when he went with his parents to Germany fifty years ago everything looked nice, but it ended in hell. People have short memories, he said, especially when bad things are concerned. People tend to forget, he said, but you won’t forget. Every time you see a German, you’ll remember what I told you. Every time you see German products, be it television (since most televisions here aremade by German manufacturers) or anything else, you’ll always remember that underneath the elegant wrapping are hidden parts and tubes made of bones and skin and flesh of dead Jews.
    On the way out Jerby again said that he’d bet anything the old man never strangled anybody in his life, and I thought to myself it was a good job that at home we had an Amcor refrigerator. Who needs trouble?
    Two weeks later my parents came back from a trip abroad and brought me sneakers. My older brother had secretly told my Mum that that’s what I wanted and she got me the best pair in the world. Mum smiled when she gave me the present. She was sure I had no idea what was inside. But I immediately recognized the Adidas logo on the bag. I took out the shoebox and said thank you. The box was rectangular, like a coffin, and inside lay two white shoes with three blue stripes and the inscription “Adidas” on their side; I didn’t have to open the box to know what they looked like. “Let’s put them on,” my mother said and took out the wrapping paper, “to make sure they fit.” She was smiling all the time, and had no idea what was going on. “They’re from Germany, you know,” I told her, squeezing her hand tightly. “Of course, I know.” Mum smiled. “Adidas is the best brand in the world.” Grandpa was from Germany too. I tried to give her a hint. “Grandpa was from Poland,” Mum corrected me. For a moment she became sad, but soon recovered. She put one shoe on my foot and started to tie the laces. I kept quiet. I realized there was nothing doing. Mum didn’t have a clue. She had never beento Volhynia House. Nobody ever explained it to her. For her shoes were just shoes and Germany was Poland. I let her put the shoes on me and kept silent. There was