Steven Kas: A Gift From Uncle Louis

A gift from Uncle Louis. He gave me a star. Uncle Louis, that is. The very night my sister was born, the 14th day of August 1935. I was crying badly, as he was dragging me to my grandmother's house against my will. My mother sent me away, she was lying in bed. She kissed me. I found it strange, - not much kissing went on in our house when I was growing up. It scared me, as much as the idea scared me to spend the night in my grandmother's house. I didn't like her. She was cold, very strict, a neversmiling bitter old woman. I know she made my mother cry too, my mother the stranger from the big city... and above all a Catholic in a village were a Jew was more tolerated than a "papist". At our house Baba Neni, the midwife was feeding the stove fire under a huge pot of boiling water, my father was sitting under the mulberry tree, smoking one cigarette after the other. He didn't pay to much attention to my loud lamentation. I never spent the night away from my mother before, I felt abandoned, rejected, an instant orphan. I was holding Uncle Louis index finger. He was a very tall man and we walked on sadly into the night. Around the church yard, the bellringer's house stood in the dark, a hazy light of a kerosene lamp shone through the tiny window. As we passed the dog barked viciously and then as suddenly as he started, abruptly quit and threw himself at the front of the door. A few yards away from the house, where grannies' property began with it's tall corn and pumpkin patches, Uncle Louis stopped, leaned on the fence post, resting. He'd run out of breath... well, he was a very sick man. The doctors pierced his lung by accident when they tried to

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drain the water off his chest and it collapsed. He existed with half a lung, always struggling to take deep breaths and moving as little as possible. He worked now and then, just a few hours at a time, but mostly he sat in my father's barber shop fooling around, telling tall stories and entertaining the populace with his never ending arrays of practical jokes. He was a very fine cabinet maker an artist of his trade. All his life, he was working on the Landowner's library. Making huge delicate, inlaid bookcases, fancy tables, chairs and an occasional coffin for the baron's departing relatives. Posterity was short changed though, the hand carved caskets had rotten in the ground and the gorgeous library was chopped up, by the Russian soldiers for firewood, to feed the camp stoves cooking borscht for the liberators. So much for Uncle Louis' lifetime achievement. As I say, he was leaning on the fence post with me standing beside him and sobbing dutifully. - For god's sake. Stop it. If you promise to behave, by tomorrow you'll have a little brother or sister. Which one you rather have? A brother or a sister? -I don't want either. Well, it's to late now. Look, if you quit whining I will give you something. Something, nobody else has. Now that's a different story. To get something from Uncle Louis is not just a promise. He always brought something. - Hey, Pityu.- he used to call me, just like my mother. - come here. - Out of his pocket a few hazelnuts, an apple or a handful of cherries came into my temporary possession. I remember, everything about him or from him smelled of sawdust and glue. It made a big difference to me. All the men, including my father smelled of tobacco. Not him. Sawdust and carpenters

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glue... a cherished scent of my childhood, set him apart from the frighteningly serious manly world; my father, the pastor, the store keeper, the teachers, the village clerk. Everybody, I so immensely distrusted. I held back my tears, took a deep breath trying to control my sobbing, I wanted my "somethingnobody-else-got". - Now, - he said - I'll give you a star. A star of your own. I looked at him with anticipation, I imagined a shining star for my cap,like the gendarme has, or a big brass one clinging on the baron's horses pulling his Sunday carriage. But no. He pointed to the sky. - Look, do you see that big bright star? - Yaaah. No. That's not it. That probably belong to somebody very important. But hold up your fist like this. - He showed me. - Hold your fist up, arms straight. Now, open your thumb and your little finger. Close your right eye and place your thumb at the big star and where your little finger points, that is your star. I know it is kind of small and not very bright, but for a kid your size it is a perfect star. No matter where you're going to be, if you ever feel like crying, if you're ever lonely, or hopelessly lost, just look up to the sky... there it will be, always, your very own star. It will watch out for you. I was holding up my fist and for sure at the point of my little finger, there was a star. I had stopped crying, we stood there for a while, looking at the sky. Here and there a star parted from the rest and fell to the horizon... one, two, three.. more and more. I looked at my star with a bit of a panic. Boy I just got it and I might loose it? But it was holding. A faint, flickering little heavenly "something". Next morning, by the time I got home I had a baby sister. A big fat, purple crying machine. My mother was pale and weak, but other wise she was all

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right. Nothing really had changed. A little while later school started. My first day in first grade was a very important turning point in my life. I liked school, it turn out to be my element, I felt comfortably at home in the classroom... for the next seventeen years. One day, I told my father; - Guess what. I got a star of my own, Uncle Louis gave it to me. My father looked to his brother, angry as always when he was into something wayward. - Louis, for god's sake, don't fool the kid. Don't put stupid ideas into his head. A star. It is so typical of you. I was a bit disappointed with my father's reaction, but on the other hand I knew how much he disapproved his antics. For Uncle Louis nothing was sacred, he didn't like authority at all. For the butt of his jokes the village intelligencia was just as good a target as the swineherd. My father always considered himself as a member of the "upper class". First of all, he was a barber, which we all know is a "clean" profession. He was also the village "coroner" authorized to certify a stiff; A Stiff. But above all he was the supreme commander of the volunteer fire brigade. So, he personally felt insulted when Uncle Louis spread the rumours, that the Justice of the Peace planned to plough over the village grazing land to grow watermelons. As the result, fifty or so angry peasants showed up at the village hall demanding a piece of the action. All this time Uncle Louis was reading the morning paper in the barber shop. My father running in demanding to know; - Louis, have you anything to do with this? - I might have said something about growing melons as a good business idea... and that stupid judge agreed.- Uncle Louis laughed mischievously. And this was just one of the minor incidents, so my father was understandably embarrassed by his actions. But Uncle Louis? He just smiled, maybe because he knew that his 4

days were numbered and for a condemned man everybody forgives. The star business rested for a while, till one day I told my friend about it. - You got a star, what it is good for? You can't see it in the daylight at night you're asleep... BIG DEAL!!! I gave it a thought, and I had to admit there was a lot of truth in what my fried said and in time I forgot about the whole star affair, just like all the other kid stuff; a broken coloured glass to look through, a willow-twig whistle which didn't whistle anymore or a bug in a jar. Uncle Louis died in 1937, as I said before, his handiwork perished in the fire of history, he's got no offspring, brothers and sisters are all gone, his memory faded even for me, who really, really loved him. Until! Until, twenty one years later almost to the day, when I was supposed to die at dawn. Somebody should explain to me, why it is that you must have to die at dawn? First of all you worry to death all night, you can't sleep, the air is damp, you're chilled to the bone. Over all you look awful. Is this is the way you want to face one of the most important events of your life? But seriously. I was a bad boy and the soldiers, specially the General didn't like it and he decided that the best solution to the problem, would be if I just died. I strongly disagreed, I could have listed a dozen different alternatives to the "D" word, but in a military court you are not invited to express a dissenting opinion. You just say; Yes Sir, if you feel like talking at all. I, like Uncle Louis - didn't have to much respect for the higher authorities and that disrespect once more proved to be disastrous to my wellbeing. If you have big mouth and let's say you are yakking in front of a bunch of your friends, - under a certain social order you might be reprimanded, but as the number of your listeners grow while you are bad-mouthing, the chances for you to get 5

hurt really bad, dramatically increases. In my case it was wall to wall people in the town square and that is bad and made the soldiers, especially the General very angry. Justice was served with unceremonious speed and harshness. In the name of the people and the state etc. etc. I find you guilty... and get him out of here! Ten minutes later I found myself in a cell in the military barracks. No belt, no shoe laces, my earthly possession tied in a hanky and left behind at the desk of the Officer on Duty. The seriousness of my situation slowly sank in. Does anybody know where I am? What time it is? How much time have I got? The events threaded on each other's heels, the day blurred into one confusing mass. I noticed an eye through the peephole, watching me. As I went closer to the door, the soldier standing guard outside stepped back as I looked out. - What will happen to you? - he whispered. - You will shoot me... - hearing my own voice pronouncing the sentence frightened me. I sat on the edge of the cot and cried. I felt very sorry for myself. I was young, full of ambitions, plans for fame and success, my wife and my baby daughter were out there somewhere... Am I a martyr of some sort? Martyrs don't cry. They are brave and defiant, they shout in the face of their tormentors, screaming; Long live the... whatever. And I'm? Sitting here without any trace of that kind of bravery. Crying and not wanting to die, impetuously questioning the accuracy of the history books or my own worthiness of the title of a martyr. I noticed something strange, like somebody has erected a huge, impenetrable brick wall between me and tomorrow. I couldn't see anything on the other side, I couldn't see or imagine the world without me in it. Just the present, a very short present

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and the past. - Finally I do something according the book; Relive my life. I remembered my father who struggled all his life and never really made it, his unspoken, shrouded love for his family, my mother the indestructible fighter for her brood, my brothers and sisters will have to do without me. The tender touches of my wife, my baby, and way back, the uncomplicated life in the village, the intimacy of a guarded tiny world... and Uncle Louis. And I remembered his words; - "if you ever feel like crying, if you're lonely or hopelessly lost, just look up the sky, there will be always your very own star. It will watch out for you..." I stepped up on to the cot to reach the small opening under the ceiling to look out to find my star. The rain stopped, the sky slowly cleared and as I held up my fist, at the point of my little finger there it was. My Star. That huge brick wall suddenly crumbled. Some sort of foolish calm came over me. Everything will be all right, all right... I kept repeating to myself... and fell asleep. The door swung open and a young lieutenant told me to follow him. He was visibly nervous, shaking. As I walked out of the cell, something hit me... What he called me? Citizen K. A Citizen? Not a scumbucket? Like last night. Out in the hall a half a dozen young soldiers were standing with their rifles, unshaven, unkempt sipping black coffee from their metal cups, nervously looking at me. Is this my firing squad? This sorry looking bunch of kids? The question popped into my mind when the Duty Officer spoke; Mr. K. you are free to go, matter of fact we will take you back to town. - and he handed over my things in the handkerchief. "I'm going to live, I'm going to live" I screamed silently and my knees are almost gave way... No thanks, I'll find my way back. - I just wanted to get the hell out of there. - We can't let you do that Sir. - he 7

said, - You see, they are holding the General and I'm afraid something might happen to him unless WE take you back in town. I don't remember how I managed to conceal my sudden delirium. They holding the General? Who is holding the General? So, somebody knew where I was and now they want an exchange. A three star General for an insignificant nobody who's got only a faint flickering little star. Wow! That's something. On the way back to the town, sitting in the back of the open jeep, I couldn't take my eye off my star. From the distance, one could hear the muffled roar of a large crowd. I hold up my fist, thumb and little fingers extended, not because I needed to find my star, but more like a salute. A salute to my Uncle Louis.

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