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704 pages, Paperback
First published August 6, 2013
Across from the gateway, in a house thrown open to the public eye by a bombed-away wall, a woman woke to her doll's house existence. She stretched, sang a snatch of Wehrmacht song, put a pot of water on the cooker; and, in the coarsest of Viennese dialects, tilting the "a" in arse into a drawn-out, listing oh-ah-rse, she cursed in lazy succession first the Germans, then the Allies, then the Jews, all of whom stood invited to insert into their backsides some unidentified object she seemed to think was clinging to her palm as she thrice performed a shoving motion in front of her broad hips.
It was her back that was twisted: not hunched, but spun like a twist of hair around a finger. It was as though she’d been caught in a perpetual pirouette, one hip higher than the other, the right shoulder leading, an odd sideways prancing to her ever-shuffling feet. If she could but unscrew herself: throw her chest out, gain some range of movement in that stiff and leaning neck; tuck in the shoulder blade that stuck out like a broken flipper.
"You remember, Robert, when we were children, Dad would take us fishing sometimes. He insisted we clean our own fish. First you slit them open with a narrow knife. From asshole to gills, so to speak. And then --" Wolfgang hooked two fingers, mimed the process of wrenching out the guts, then wiped his hand upon his tie. "I remember you didn't like it at first. You may even have cried. But after a while --" He shrugged, sour, amused. "You got to be pretty good at it, little brother. The blood didn't bother you at all."
"We are a people," she intoned, playful and serious all at once, "who have already forgiven themselves."