Elza’s soul is a horse. Patient and loyal. It has been harnessed for a long journey. It has moved slowly and resolutely past both short term resting places and comfortable, long-term homing places. Elza’s soul is a deported refugee cart. It knows where the beginning of the road is but not where the road leads. Elza’s soul is a constant yoke, a gift from God, whom she has never met. Not even for a moment, not even by chance, not even at night washing pills down with water as Elisheba has. Elza is still waiting for a sign showing her the continuation of the road. Without it, her soul cannot be unyoked. Elza thinks that this waiting is the only justification for the long and lonely journey of her soul. Elza’s soul is a yellow earth flower in the kingdom of today. It has its own laws for growth and its own affirmed time – a yellow flower is a yellow flower is a yellow flower. It grows by itself by the roadside, horse-drawn carriages race past her, not realizing that a sign can be so insignificant. Insignificantly it points out – that the road upward and the road downward are one and the same. “That’s all for today.” With the precision of a stop watch, Nabuco closes the little book. She puts it back in Elza’s hands, once more organizes the blanket around Elza’s knees. Then she pushes Elza’s “coach” homeward. The same frames speed up past

Elza’s eyes.

… people, buildings, dogs, sidewalk cafes, squirrels, golden coin leaves of the maidenhair tree, pigeons, short Puerto Rican flower vendors, faded rose petals in gutters, discounted book piles on sidewalks, antique tea services, fresh chocolate cakes, mannequins – transparent virtual lovers with shaved heads in shop windows …

Elza hurries by. Elza is Elza is Elza. When the horse-drawn carriage stops at the insignificant sign, Elza and her soul will understand without need for words.

The White Handkerchief

The morning mist drifts as yet slowly over Vanetten. Soon, very soon, the sun will cut through it. That’s how it is at least until Martinmas, the day that marks the end of the period of all souls. After that the mist vanishes somewhere; it turns colder and sometimes the first snow falls even before Christmas.

Alone, he does his morning chores in the large, empty house. Only Bagar, the large black tomcat, rubs himself against his legs. Bagar came to them from the woods. In the beginning he was timid and kept to the machine shop, devouring the food left for him only at night. Then slowly he grew friendlier until finally he became a regular house cat.

“Komm, Bagar, komm.”

He talks to the tomcat in German. Alzheimer’s has made his German wife’s mind childlike and she is now in an old folks’ home. The home is not far, only about ten miles from Vanetten.