Slice Of Life

Our present passions do not just come from nothing.

Perhaps, they were what we desired the most but never got in our past lives.

Deep desires we don’t remember. Deep desires we never forgot.

2011, United States

People who barely knew Jerome thought of him as a nice guy, fun and generous. He was an immigrant and an inventor. He didn’t just create for sake of creating; he was practical. His ideas had to fly. Literally. He was never in pursuit of being notorious, but he did not escape being published in science magazines. People who knew him better though, admitted that he was a bit selfish but fun to hang out with nonetheless.

At first, woman easily fell for him. There were the restaurants, champagne, presents, nice car, nice house, and nice paycheck. Then, they hated him: no calls, no responsibilities, and no commitment. They smiled when accidentally running into him. They would chat politely, but would label him as “a wrong guy” as they walked off. It did seem like Jerome had been running away from relationships for his whole life. He held his freedom above anything and anybody. He didn’t know why it was of such a great importance to him. He never asked. It just was. Every time, just as a relationship progressed toward a possibility of “happily ever after”, he let a woman go. It was his choice, though he made it look like hers. After all, he was a gentleman to the end.

Afterwards, he would disappear for a few days or even weeks. His cell phone would be silenced and his house- marble, granite and glass throughout- would stand empty. His friends reached out for him but it was useless. When he would finally come back, he would keep on living as of nothing had happened.

He never told anyone of those days he spent alone. Of days, just like back in his childhood, riding a bike downhill. He never revealed the meaning of feeling a cool wind against his body and breathing in the scent of the worn out rubber handles as he squeezed them with his bare hands. He never confessed to the days spent on a deserted field playing ball and how much it meant to run, to kick, to fall, to taste his own sweat as it was running down his face. If he ever told anyone about those stolen days, they would think he was silly. He never explained that this was the only way he could wipe off the pain of losing, the pain of letting someone he loved go. The pain that was a payment for maintaining his freedom.

Freedom, which was of such a great importance to him. For no obvious reason.

October, 1939, Poland

Golden light was pouring onto the dark wooden floor through a big window, which stood wide open. The white shear curtains surrounding it welcomed the sunshine into the spacious room. The afternoon silence of the old brick house was intruded only by the monotonous voice announcing the news of Poland’s defeat from the “Zenith Stratosphere” radio, barely heard from the first floor.

A twelve-year old boy was sitting in a wheelchair near the window. An open Haftarah was resting on a plaid pattern blanket, covering his useless legs. Wind played in his curly blond hair, which was escaping from underneath his kippah. Jacob’s eyes were aimed toward the outside where a gang of boys was yelling, running into each other as they chased after the ball. He was following their every move: their legs kicking the ball, knees sliding on the grass, the sweat dripping down their foreheads.

"It’s over. Do you hear me? It’s over, mom.” Jacob heard his brother’s voice from downstairs. “We lost. What would Germans come over here for? “

“She is right.” He recognized his sister’s soft voice. “They closed the Synagogue.”

“Stop it, the both of you. Jacob is studying for Bar Mitzvah.”

The door got shut. Jacob’s fingers clutched the blanket. His knuckles turned white.

He didn’t cry. He just set there, staring at the boys playing ball, his lips silently repeating the Hebrew verses.

One day, he will be free to run around just like them.

One day…