Devil's Workshop

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I’m on the run to the airport in Prague. Run, well, more like I’m walking along the roadside ditch, wrapped in a dizzying cloud, from my drinking.

I’ve been drinking a lot lately.

Now I’m walking along the highway. Every now and then I get down in the ditch and crawl so the cops won’t be able to spot me from their patrol car.

So they won’t catch me and ask me about the fire in Terezín.

Sometimes I throw myself down in the ditch, wedge myself in with my back pressed up against the dirt, and just stay there like that.

Little by little, I’m making my way to the airport in Prague.

There’s still some of Sara’s wine left in the bottle. I ate all the meat that they gave me.

At first I didn’t want to, but eventually I forced it down. I need the energy.

The moon’s almost full now.

The redbrick walls of Terezín are far behind me, the walls of my hometown.

The town that, as my dad used to say, was founded by the Empress Maria Theresa, since whose reign hundreds of thousands of soldiers from many an army have passed through its gates. The Empress Maria Theresa was fond of military parades, said my dad, a major of military music who loved the Terezín parades and their marching bands.

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