What's In A Name Read Free Page B

you made in coming out into the rain, coming to a bookstore and sitting through my poor remarks.”
    â€œOh, no,” the old man protested. “I found your remarks quite persuasive.”
    â€œPlease, let’s have dinner,” Altman said cheerfully, then added an unexpectedly poignant truth, “Sometimes I grow tired of eating alone.”
    â€œI wouldn’t want to impose upon your time,” the old man said hesitantly.
    â€œOh, no, not at all,” Altman said.
    â€œWell, if you’re sure,” the old man said, then pressed the package to his chest and began to rise. “If you’re sure I’m not imposing.”
    â€œNot at all, I assure you.”
    Altman saw that the poor fellow was having trouble getting to his feet, and so he reached over and tucked his hand under his shoulder.
    â€œEasy does it,” he said with a quick laugh. “Old bones are not easily commanded, are they?” He reached for the package, thinking that it might be easier for the old man to get to his feet without it, but rather than release it, he clung to it all the more tightly.
    â€œIt’s all right,” the old man said, “I’m used to carrying it.”
    â€œReally?” Altman asked. “You carry it everywhere?”
    â€œIt is the only thing I ever… created,” the old man said.
    Ah, so I was right, Altman thought, it was a lullaby.
    Altman watched as the man drew on the black raincoat he’d earlier hung over the back of his chair. It was frayed at the sleeves and worn in the shoulders, proof once again that the poor fellow was of little means, so that Altman suddenly felt quite proud of himself for asking this old schoolmate to dinner, whoever he was. They were different certainly, he thought, and yet they’d both fled the ravages of postwar Germany, then helplessly watched as misfortune after misfortune had fallen upon their native land.
    â€œTo the right,” he said to one who now seemed truly his fellow countryman, “the restaurant is only a couple of blocks away.”
    The rain had briefly fallen during Altman’s talk, and the sidewalk was still wet and slippery. As they walked, Altman noticed that the old man had a slight limp.
    â€œFrom the war?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” the old man answered. “My job. My legs were broken on my job.”
    â€œWhere did you work?”
    â€œThe shipyards,” the old man answered. “The Brooklyn shipyards.”
    â€œWhat was your job?”
    â€œI loaded cargo.”
    â€œAnd something fell on you?” Altman asked.
    â€œA big crate,” the old man said. “Of guns. It was marked ‘Steel Rods,’ but the crate was full of guns. Hundreds of guns. Cartons of ammunition, too.”
    â€œGoing where?”
    â€œPalestine.”
    â€œAh, yes,” Altman said. “So much trouble there.”
    They reached the corner, where they were stopped by the traffic signal.
    â€œI told the shipyard master,” the old man continued, “and some people came and they took the guns away.” He shrugged. “I’m sure they just sent them in another crate.”
    â€œHave you found other guns?”
    The old man looked up and smiled softly. “They are always going there,” he added. “To the Jews.”
    Altman nodded. He was well versed in the region’s current troubles. After all, they’d been going on for over fifty years, and there was no solution in sight. Each year brought more conflict, a struggle that he suspected would never find resolution.
    The light turned and the two of them moved forward, Altman at a pace far slower that he would normally have taken, the man limping along beside him. He could not imagine living such a life, and this made it all the more important for him to give this poor chap a decent dinner and some kindly conversation.
    They reached the restaurant a few minutes later. Everyone knew Altman and