What's In A Name Read Free

fiery core.
    â€œAnd you started to collect rare books,” the old man added as he finally released Altman’s hand.
    â€œYes,” Altman said.
    The old man smiled. “You became a bibliophile. That is the word, yes? You were always good with words. Back at the Reaschule, you were always reading.”
    â€œWas I?”
    â€œEnglish, always reading English,” the old man said. “You are also maybe an Anglophile?”
    Before Altman could answer, the old man laughed. “So many big words I have now.” He chuckled softly, though it seemed to Altman that it was less a laugh than a disguised rebuke.
    â€œAt the Realschule, I was always good with speaking,” the old man said. “I wanted to be a debater, but the bully stopped me.”
    â€œWho was this bully?” Altman asked. “I don’t remember a bully. I never saw anyone physically attack a…”
    The old man stepped back slightly. “Oh, it was not physical,” he said. “It was all with words. You would understand this, since you are a bibliophile. You would understand the power of words, yes? You collect words, isn’t that so? You collect words in books.”
    â€œI do,” Altman said cautiously, as if he were being accused of having such an interest, one he’d never thought it necessary to defend. And yet this old man did make him feel defensive. Suddenly, he thought he knew why.
    â€œAm I the bully?” he asked. “Did I bully you in some way?”
    â€œNo, never,” the old man said softly, then with a curious darkening of his tone. “I was invisible to you.”
    There it was again, Altman thought, a vague accusation. “I’m sorry if I… never noticed you.”
    And it was clear that Altman hadn’t noticed this poor fellow. In fact, even now he found that other than those of his closest friends, he couldn’t recall any of his fellow students at the Realschule. He remembered the faces of certain boys and girls, but that was all. Save for Magda, of course. He would always remember Magda.
    â€œI would not have expected you to notice me,” the old man said softly. “You were from a fine family. For you, the Realschule in Linz was just…” He looked at Altman to finish his sentence.
    â€œTemporary,” Altman said. “I was only sent there for a year while my father arranged our family’s move to Vienna.”
    â€œWhere you stayed until the war?”
    â€œYes, and where my father stayed even after the war,” Altman said. “At least for a few years.”
    â€œYour family moved to Vienna, yes,” the old man said. “This was mentioned at the time.” He smiled. “And so, of course, the Realschule was for you something—as you say—temporary.”
    â€œStill, I’m sorry,” Altman told him. “So do forgive me for not recalling you.”
    â€œOf course,” the old man replied.
    â€œGood night, then,” Altman said.
    With that, he started to move on down the aisle, but in a movement far quicker than Altman would have expected from such a pale and sickly old gentleman, the man again grabbed his hand.
    â€œWe both still have our German accents, Ziggy,” he said.
    â€œTime cannot obliterate everything,” Altman told him as he gently pulled his hand free.
    â€œAnd never the things of youth,” the old man agreed. “The things that made us. Particularly our crimes, yes?”
    â€œOur crimes?” Altman asked, then added, “Yes, I suppose so.”
    The man suddenly appeared embarrassed. “Forgive me for troubling you, Zig…” he stopped, straightened himself like a low ranking soldier before an officer, then said, “Herr Altman.”
    â€œNo trouble at all,” Altman said, then moved on down the aisle, empty seats on both sides. At the end of it, and for a reason he could not fathom, he stopped and turned back toward