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D on't sell summer short. Yeah, it's hot. It's sweaty. It's humid. It polluted. It's the dog days and sometimes it's the pits. But, it does have
some redeeming qualities: Barbecues. Pools. Summer camp. Trips to the beach and jaunts to the mountains. Gallons of lemonade, buckets of ice
cream — and time to swing in hammocks or spread out in chaise lounges with a well-crafted, finely parsed, powerful, gripping, compelling
book. (But not one that's too thoughtful. After all, it iJ summer.) Ever since we first learned the Euro-American rhythms of life — school from
September to June, goof off from June through August --we've saved summer for freeing our minds from the more disciplined tethers that tie
it down the rest of the year. Yet, in any time of year — and especially in summer — books are a fine way to pass the time; to be entertained, in-
formed, inspired, transfixed; to enter another time or another place or someone else's thought patterns and see the world through a whole new
lens, whether it's rose-colored or crystal clear. In the following pages, in honor of summer, we present excerpts from three new books. The
first, a story by Victor Perera, is autobiographical, wry and poignant. It's from "Tropical Synagogues: Short Stories by Jewish-American Writ-
ers," which gives us a rare glimpse of Jewish life south of the border. Next comes Peter Lefcourt's whimsical imaginings from "Di and I" about
a Jewish Yank's affair with a dispirited Princess Diana. And finally comes a taut, almost-minimalist train ride to a Nazi hell from "The Stories of
Stephen Dixon." Three voices. Three themes. One season. Pour yourself a drink. Find yourself a hammock. Dive into some fine writing.
Most. of all, remember that summer comes but once a year. And if you can't spoil yourself now, you never will.
— Arthur J. Magda
Kindergarten
Who knows what evil
lurks in the heart of
five-year-olds?
VICTOR PERERA SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS
(/)
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38
y earliest images
are geometrical:
the narrow bars of
the bedstead that
I amazed everyone
by squeezing
through one windy night when I was
frightened by a sheet flapping on a
clothesline and wanted my mother; the
perfect rectangle of Parque Central, with
its octagonal tiled benches, encircled
fountains, chequered flagstones. And
across the way the twin towers of the
cathedral, housing a dark mystery of
candles and painted idols that would for-
ever be barred to me.
In my pedal-car I explored the lim-
its of my universe, always certain that
beyond our doorstep and the park's four
borders lay unnamed terrors. I was es-
pecially fond of a wooded labyrinth in
the park's northern end, a dark, sinu-
ous place where I could act out my hero-
ic reveries unseen by Chata, the Indian
girl with long braids and sweet-smelling
skirts who looked after me. To my five-
year-old's eyes, Chata seemed a rare
beauty; she dressed in the vivid, hand-
woven huipil blouse and skirt of her re-
gion, and had unusually fine olive skin.
Chata had an admirer, a tall Indian
laborer named Ramiro who courted her
in the afternoons and on weekends,
when Chata would take me to the park.
Chats kept-Ramiro on tenterhooks, en-
couraging iiig7 advances and then re-
buffing him Nii7ith a toss of her head.
I was some weeks short of five, and
small for my age, the first time Chata
took me to school and abandoned me in
the hands of a tall, gaunt woman with
hard eyes and a pursed mouth. Her
name was Miss Hale, and I detected
from her accent that she was foreign.
The room she led me into was musty
and dim. I was presented to my class-
mates, most of whom seemed strange to
me, and very large. Even their names,
Octavio, Gunter Michael, Loretta, had
a foreign ring. From my earliest con-
sciousness, I had known I was a for-
eignerin this strange place, Guatemala.
Now; in the kindergarten room of the
English-American School, I felt an alien
among aliens.
"My mother says you are a Jew." It
was Arturo, a thickset boy with hooded
eyes. Within a week, he and Gunter, a
tall blond boy who made in his pants,
established themselves as the class bul-
lies. We were at recess, which meant I
could play with my new friends, plump-
cheeked Grace Samayoa and Michel
Monterassi, who was French and wore
sandals on his stockinged feet and a
round blue cap. I sensed the question
was critical and I must reply with care.
"Yes," I said.