Crawling didn’t work either, because the bones kept caving in an we were afraid that we would suffocate under the weight of all that death. So then we started to jump. An because we were a tribe, we tried to boost each other’s courage. Who ever said Jews stink? This place doesn’t smell like anything, let alone the appetizin aroma of garlic, shit! Yeah, shit, at least if it smelled like that! said one of us. Hey, what if we’re tanked? Why don’t we just pretend that we all drank some kina snake oil, one of us suggested. But David said: Nah, there’s no way to get this wasted. This is reality, an a pretty dumb one if you ask me. An at that moment, knights an gentlemen, we heavily an seriously detested David. An one of us biffed him with a shinbone an said harshly: Shut up! An we inched along toward the towers, trying not to catch the skulls’ empty glances so we wouldn’t go insane.
There were children’s skulls, my brothers, an there were piles of skulls smashed to bits, an there were skulls shot full of holes, an skulls that looked like they’d been crushed in a press, an skulls with small holes mended shut with barbwire, an one of us, O knights an skippers, cracked another joke: Guess that’s what you’d call his-and-hers skulls, ho! ho! but then started to vomit. An the one creeping in front of him didn’t hear him because he was weeping, an the one crawling behind him didn’t hear him because he was praying out loud. An, friends an brothers of mine, it wasn’t hell we were going through but whatever it is that comes after it. An we realized that our horror, now independent of our brains, outside of us, exterior, like some kina demon, was toying with us. We realized we’d never know if we were just terrified or actually insane, an it began not to matter. Every now an then one of us would fall down an flail around, dancing with the skeletons, till he caught hold of some bone he could use to pull himself back up on. Some of the bones were rotten an crumbling, but most of them looked as though they could’ve been put there yesterday. It was yesterday, I thought to myself. Wherever there weren’t whole skeletons, or at least heaps of bones, we carefully picked our way along broad pelvic bones, flat-footing cautiously across fragile rib cages, an then we figured out that the thick calf an thigh bones, the ones that came from men, were also pretty safe, an the shoulderblades were okay too, an eventually, O my brothers, we just about learned how to move. But the second we started to think so, one of us went plunging down into a chasm of skeletons, one of us, O bosses an sling shooters, an we looked at each other with eyes full of horror an left our brother behind an crawled on, hearing him scream an beg … an though tears began oozing into our hearts, where the water of the warpath flows, like worms … we crawled on … but then one of us went back … an tore off his threads an made a rope an tossed it down to our pseudodroog, an the rest of us stopped, improvising nests out of bones an waiting there inside them, or laboriously building skeleton bridges an making their way back … an the only music we had on that planet was the splinter an crack of bones in tune with our slow motion, an now an then a racket as a pile of skeletons caved in, an otherwise nothing but silence.
Finally we came to what we’d thought was a town, but then we saw it was the ovens that they’d used to burn the Jews. There were bones an skeletons surrounding them too, we made sure we were extra careful when it came to children’s bones, cause they just snapped, an we would’ve broken through, since there was nothing else beneath us. Here at least we could grab hold of the ovens’ sturdy grating, an the walls were solid too, the bricks seemed almost new even, not a single crack. It probably would’ve been easy enough to trigger the mechanism, fire it up, but except for us there was nothing to feed it. We all sat down, sprawling out around the nearest oven, because this was the end. But then, feeling pain, we started to move around again, though only slowly and with great effort. An the source of our pain, my brothers, was the bones underneath us, cracking beneath the weight of our bodies, scratching an stabbing us. Mainly our thighs an elbows, but one or two of us even got a scratch on the face here an there … an the worst thing, brothers an gentlemen, was when one of us accidentally trampled … somebody’s fragile or rotten chest, an crushed the sternum an broke through, an the sharp thin ribs clamped shut on his foot like a trap … an the ashes of the dead got into our wounds … so we tried to wash them out with saliva, an then Bohler tore up his cassock an Shark Stein his byznys shirt, an we tried to bandage ourselves a little … an then we just sat there.
After a moment or two of oppressive silence, O brothers an buddies of mine, I decided I would try to pump up the conversation: From far away that chimney looks kina like a TV tower! Weird, huh? An one of you, O pseudodroogs an brothers, replied: Hm. An another one said politely: Yeah?
An then Bohler started shrieking an quick made the sign of the cross, an then we all saw it: there stood Death. The Grim Reaper. At first, I admit, I was slightly in awe: You mean that’s what he looks like? An I think the rest of you also recovered a little. At least now it was obvious why that crazy flying carpet had flown us all the way out here: to die. An Bohler got up an walked across the bones to Death an let loose, Iesous Christos Theu Ios Soter, an made the sign of the carp with a shinbone, I thought he’d finally flipped. Death didn’t say a word, just stood there looking at us through empty eye sockets. All that scythe stuff was bullshit, Micka whispered to me. With those claws who needs one, he added. I shuddered. Bohler came gloomily walking back an sank down on a bone next to me. What was that all about? I asked. That was the first Christian greeting from the days of the evil Roman catacombs, I was informed. He’d used it as a test, figuring Death’s old, he oughta at least know that. Next Bohler gave Latin a shot: Ora pro nobis … we all joined in, except Sharky, I noticed. But Death didn’t say a word. Just stood there. Then Shark Stein got up an said: Enough aready with the Christian cockamamie, this here’s my turf. My people were the ones killed here. Alla that old-time bastardized Greek an Latin doesn’t mean a thing here. An Sharky walks up to Death an goes: Shalom aleichem! an starts chanting, Shma Yizrael … an rocking back an forth … an jiggling all over his body … who’da guessed, I leaned over to Bohler. C’mon, he’s an old kibbutzer, Bohler whispered back … baptized. Sharky sang … whined, more like it … an Death just stood there. Disgraced an unhappy, Shark Stein walked back over to us an then turned around an told Death: Mazeltov! an he didn’t mean it sarcastically. But Death didn’t say a word. What do we do? whispered Micka. Nothin, said Bohler, leaning back against the grating. Wait. Like always.
But then Death took a step towards us, slow an hesitant like, an then another … an I felt like shouting: Move it aready, you blasted old swine! But I didn’t, an we began crossing ourselves, an David yelled out: Not to fear, boys, we lived by the contract! An when Death heard that, he pulled up short.