Master of desire

It seemed that our guests were no less amazed than I was by the flamboyant and blatant nature of Herbi. As soon as a new visitor settled into a polished chair on the porch, one of the elders who had arrived from the hot city the previous week would begin to tell him about the wondrous qualities of our group. "Wait until you see the tan that covers this boy's skin. His skin is of this kind – it doesn't burn, it just turns dark after just one day under the sun. This boy has skin that dates back to the days of the Holy Book." Due to the damage to his eardrum, our friend, as Herbi liked to describe himself—especially despite my mother's objections—was a constant presence with us throughout World War II. An endless discussion arose while sitting on rocking chairs and around card tables about whether the disability was congenital or caused by himself. I was provoked by a suggestion that something other than nature itself might have caused Herbi to be unable to fight Togo, Mussolini, and Hitler – in fact, the idea itself disturbed and tormented me. Yet, there was an alluring thought: imagining Herbi holding a hat pin or a toothpick in his hand—or an ice pick!—and deliberately mutilating himself to evade the draft into military service.