My Eng class just finished reading Tim O'Brien's "The Thing's They Carried." The protagonist, Jimmy Cross, carries a pebble, given to him by a woman he is infatuated with. For Cross, who is in Vietnam, the pebble symbolizes home, Martha, all things pure and light. In contrast, he also carries a stone in his belly--the weight of his guilt when a soldier under his leadership, is shot.
This story always remains in my mind for days after a class studies it. There's the universality of the things we all carry--physically weighted like the pebble, physically felt, like guilt. I felt the hardness of emotion this morning, listening to the awful news of the Orthodox Jewish boy, Leiby Kletzky.
I wished I had been in Borough Park, seen him standing, innocently on the sidewalk, and whisked him away from the impending horror. That I would be in Borough Park is highly unlikely; maybe I'm there once a year or so to meet my Orthodox cousin for lunch. But, in my imagining, my cousin had called to arrange lunch; what great fortune that I was there, attuned to every breath, every nuance, every hair out of place. This became so real in my mind, the stone in my belly dissipated, until I understood where this was all going.
My grandfather, killed in the camps, was Leibich. I had wished as a child to have been his savior--to bring back the lightness to my father, that he felt once long ago, before I knew him. My father was a serious man; but sometimes he'd forget whatever it was that made him solemn; his sweet laughter would fall to the ground like pebbles on the earth.
This Sunday is my brother's unveiling. He is another Leibich. In keeping with tradition, I'll place pebbles on his stone.
Followers
