He dabbed the foam on his cheek with the rabbits-hair brush, the present from Herr Weiss on that fateful forest day. His Spanish was excellent by now, having been in Argentina for almost 50 years, but he couldn’t hide his Lithuanian seed. He practised speaking, while he shaved with the single-blade razor, squinting out the one eye where his father had hit him with a buckle in drunken tirade. He hated his tormented life. His only friends and acquaintances were his memories. The fire within him was driven by fuel – the memories like coals on a hearth.
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