September 3rd, 1922
"Debby!" I cried out to my elder sister. "Debby! Park! I wanna play at the park! Debby!!" "Jesus, Devid. Go to the park by yourself. I am trying to read." I always imagined Deborah as a hungry dog with a flowery headscarf. Usually she was nice, but if you bothered her while she ate, she would bite you.
Mama was the first girl in our family to learn how to read, so I assume that Deborah had wanted to be just like her and took to studying like our mother did.
"But, Debby, it's no fun alone!" "It's cold outside, Devid. Today is a day to stay indoors and read." "But it's always cold outside!" I argued. Deborah rolled her judgmental brown eyes at me. I was only two years younger than her, but in her mind, I was always the baby of the family. "That park is always crowded on Sundays. You won't be alone." She assured me.
I remember having tugged at her red and white woolen dress. We screamed at each other, she swore at me, I probably swore back. But the most clearly defined sound from my memory of that that moment in time was the tearing or paper. I don't know how it ripped, or how many pages, but I do know without a doubt that I received the sharpest slap of the 20th century.
"MAMAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
YOU ARE READING
The Human Heart
Исторические романыThe year is 1935. (Well, for the most part, it is.) After his sister is executed by the Soviet Union's secret police, 18-year-old Devid Dmitriev Lachov decides to flee the country to live a secluded life in Canada. Along the way, he meets a beautifu...
