he read to us the Christmas Story. Each year
the same story - each year we had to wait until Mr. Meister had finished
reading.
This year - it was the year of the desired duck
- I was not listening. I was disappointed. How could I have been so stupid
to wish for a real, live duck of my own. There was no way one could wrap
up a duck and place it as a package on the table. Surely, there would be
a package for me, with 100% certainty, but it was as certain that it would
not contain a duck. I did not care anymore how long the story reading
would take. I was not interested in the end, not curious what my gift might
be, |
|
| it could only result in disappointment. That
much I knew. And Mr. Meister read and read and quacked on and on … yes,
I could clearly hear a sort of quacking. Everybody looked at me, even Mr.
Meister. Everybody smiled and looked at me. And there it was again - a
low quacking. My God - good it be true? I would be the proud owner of my
very own duck. A miracle, no doubt. And the story came to its end, the
light came up. A few children ran up to the tables, one shouted: "Hansli,
look, look here, here is YOUR DUCK, here, under the table.” Under the table,
in a large woven basket |
|
was a large, fat, white duck with a yellow bill
and blue eyes. My Anita! That’s what I named her as soon as I set eyes
on her, at once. Why Anita? I have no idea. All I knew was that this large
white duck was Anita to me. And none of the girls in the orphanage and
no one in school had that name. Anita.
Now I owned my very own duck - and could even
touch her. And Anita was patient and let me pet her. I took her out of
the basket, took her in my arms. Anita barely resisted; she was heavy.
I brushed with my face close up to her head - immediately she plucked out
some of my hairs with her bill; |
|
