The Death of A Friend.

When I checked into my small Hotel just on the outskirts of the old town of Prague; I felt A wave of fatigue, such that it startled me. I had forgotten that my journey had gone for more then two days with only sporadic sleep, and an even more sporadic diet made up mostly of red wine and bread. I did manage to scrape A quick run for the cheese in Vienna during A brief lay over, and the rest of the journey was left to the aggressive peddlers who offered little for the money. I was about to sign off for the night, when the phone rang; it was my lost twin Michael, who I had been looking for for most of the day. He sounded somewhat gloomy and sunk, that I could only have anticipated something terribly wrong to have happened. He informed me that my old friend Jonathan, had died as result of A lingering Cancer which he carried for more then A year, and that He had already been buried in our small village cemetery just two days ago. The news was not unexpected. I did feel numb and was almost surprised that I did not cry: I was too tired to feel, even memory felt like A fog. I told my twin that I love him, and will catch up with him in the morning, so that he can reveal to me the mytery of his disappearance, and how he found me.

Micheal

I came to prague to meet my twin brother Michael, who had decided to prolong his stay there. We agreed to meet somewhere in the center,and because of a miscommunication from the long distance telephone static ,no name of a square, nor a street, nor the name of his hotel was ever disclosed. I decided to go by intuition alone, and perhaps a little of the twin synchronicity that up till that moment, I had never put to use. I decided to walk. I left the bulk of my belongings at the station in one of the archaic storage containers, that took me half the day to figure out how to use , and headed out towards the center of town. I am actually good with maps, but they are quite useless in Prague when it comes to the meandering streets, and better to use your instinct and good sense then to get even more lost with an overused map. I headed east on one of the broader boulevards that took me past small boutiques and cornered little cafes and book stores. The sidewalks are thin in Prague and much of the time is spent dodging the passerbys,especialy during a busy hour. I continued in a gradual pace and slowly found myself deep inside a maze of intertwining,convoluted passages that seemed to lead nowhere.

Mr Frank.

Mr Frank; one of the old Jewish timers, was about to put on his winter jacket. He was an old man; so old that even the gage of time could not help in knowing his years. I wanted to help him slip into the last sleeve of his long and tarnished jacket, but he refused me and with an abrupt movement placed his arm into the the sleeve. I had heard from others that he survived the war in Prague, hiding in a small and dense attic by the grace of one of his non Jewish friends. I did not need to ask him. His face spoke of it all. He invited me down the hall to a small room adjunct to the temple, where we had just completed our morning prayers. A long thin table stretched out to the end of the room. On the table A few bottles of aged Eastern European spirits,which looked more like combustible fluids,that even a slight flicker of a match would set the whole place on fire. Mr Frank made a brief and mumbled blessing on the bread. I took a sip of the ready snaps, and for A moment felt the total escalation of my covert bowels re-ignite their lost vigor. This was not A pleasant feeling; and being the good guest that I was, I did my best to keep my smile intact.

Jerusalem Street.

One block from the Nasdravi station lies an old and towering synagogue; one of the few jewish relics Hitler decided to leave for onlookers,knowing that there would be no jews to step into it. its A beautiful structure,ornate in A classical and somewhat gothic style, that could be confused with A church. The onlookers are mostly non jews, who with a certain nostalgic curiosity stand peering through the iron gate,hopeing to get a glimpse of something holy and remote. The gates are always shut, with the exceptions of the Sabbath which brings in a trickle of Jewish old timers,left over from the ashes of war and time. They are old now; these men. They gather in a small corridor on the top floor of the temple, drinking their aged spirits after the morning service, and with a twinkle of the eye reflect back to their bellygoat years, when perhaps being jewish in Prague was more exotic if not daring, and left one wide open to Romance and adventure with their non Jewish counter parts.

Nasdravi Station.

When you step out from the train in Prague and go along the lengthy platform which leads you onto the open space of an old Stalin like interior called Nasdravi station; its as though you have stepped back in time some 30 years or more. You feel startled and taken back by the moment, as if something is pulling you back. You pass that maze fast,hoping you find your way, without stumbling into something unexpected or dangerous for that matter. Arriving at dark does not make it more easy and only the tainted light that hovers lightly from the main portal, seems to give some respite and warmth to a tired and lost traveler. Prague is unfair. She grabs you in illusion and spits you out as soon as she tires of your being there; Like a jealous lover; She will always find more to pray upon, more to devour and spit out when she tires, and on and on she goes, like spider caught in its own web; And she will entice and break you down. I have seen this in the faces of the passerby's as they walked pass me with glazed expressions, something eating their hearts away; or looking for A lost treasure which was never there, and if it was was now long lost; And yet here we were still looking, still searching in those lost and ancient corners, where only the touch of poets could linger there,if only for a moment, and the moment is gone. The moment is gone forever.