Oregon daily emerald., April 13, 1943, Page 6, Image 6

The Hoofs of Hate
By BOB SCOTT
TMMMY was sitting under a
' ' tree. Not a large tree like
the kind you’re used to at home
on the farm. Just a scrubby little
olive tree set on a barren hillside.
Dimmy had been rather put to
it to find this tree. Tree were,
hard to find these days. Trees
just didn’t grow in Grece these
days. Nothing wholesome grew
in Greece anymore. Nothing, just
hate. Not fiery hate, for to hate
with fire and passion one must
foe strong. One must possess vig
or to hate with vigor. Hate
thrives on suppression but only
when tiie suppressed are alive.
And to be alive one must eat.
Arid there is nothing to eat in
Greece. Water is free, sometimes.
But water cannot fill empty bei
lies, nor does it relieve the aw
ful pain that shrinks the stom
ach. One would think that a
shrunken stomach would desire
nothing but it is not so. And so
there is no food in Greece, just
as there are no trees, or grass or
bird's to cheer the air. And Dim
mjr sat under the scrubby little
tree in Greece on the barren hill
side that could produce nothing.
His name was Dimitrios Asca
lopsos, but it takes breath to say
Dimitrios and breath, as well as
food, is scarce in Greece. The
less one breathes, the less one
feels the pain in the belly. Many,
many have stopped breathing in
Greece since they came. And so
lus name was Dimmy now for
Dunmy takes less breath. So
Dimmy sat under the scrubby
little tree on the barren hillside
and thought. The experience was
almost a new one to Dimmy for
in Greece one does not think.
Thought lives only in a mind that
is alive, and in Greece when the
belly is empty the mind is emp
ty. And Dimmy thought. But
with the functioning of the mind
came the realization that there
was no use for thought. No use
for thought or endeavor. For
when the belly . . . but that was
one of the thoughts that must be
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avoided. Astapole had thought.
He had thought about food. He
had thought about the lack of it.
Astapole had stolen, from the
very kitchen on their barracks,
had stolen a chicken. And such a
plump, tender chicken. And Asta
polec was dead. Shot. At dawn.
Against the wall that was so pit
ted with the marks of so many
other high-velocity bullets that
had brought swift and merciful
ending to the existence of so
many empty bellies.
And Dimmy thought again, for
Dimmy had found a pomegranate;
true, it had been a shrunken lit
tle thing, shrunken like his- belly,
but it was most in spots. And
it filled the void. It was better
than the hot mud that filled so
many empty voids. The pome
granate had stopped the hurt, so
Dimmy thought. And he thought
of Astapole. Poor, dumb Asta
pole, He had once been the
strongest man in Dimmy's vil
lage. Easily he had lifted an an
vil with one hand and the girls
had giggled and sighed with im
proper boldness at bis strength
and Astapole was pleased, pleased
in his dumb animal-like way. But
when they buried Astapole, one
man, a man of their company -
when he had buried Astapole, he
had lifted his body like that of
a child. One hand under his arm
put and thrown him into the shal
low pit that was to be his ending.
And the people of the village had
been glad for Astapole was gone
and there was another empty bel
ly gone.
JJIMMY though but the thought
' came had so Dimmy stopped
He dropped his hand from . the
rest-in the crotch of the tree and
dropped it upon the ground. The
dry grass crumpled and turned
to dust under the weight of his
hand. Dust of my fathers, Dimmy
thought, but the thought was
hard so he pushed his hand pain
fully into the hard dry earth. His
earth, Dimmy thought sadly, and
this time the thought was easier,
it feld good in his heart. Yes, he
thought triumphantly, my earth.
So he pushed his hand farther
into the earth. Poor dry earth.
LTntilled for these past three
years. For earth must be tilled
to placate the barrenness that
was inevitable. And empty bel
lies have no strength to spare
upon the earth. And so the earth,
thought Dimmy, is of no use to
us.
Too much thought has exhaust
ed Dimmy, for in Greece when
the belly is empty, the mind is
empty, and full only when forced.
And there is no force except
theirs in Greece. So Dimmy slept,
but even sleep is bad in Greece
for the mind cannot rest when
the belly is empty. Asthelle had
filled the void with water one
night and had slept well, but when
they buried her, her twisted body
would not fit in the narrow little
hole they had dug for her. And
the man had cursed in a foreign
tongue and had jammed her
down roughly into the hole that
hid another empty belly.
And Dimmy. slept, and he
dreamt of many things. And the
things were bad for when the
belly . . , But they were bad and
Dimmy awoke and the wind was
blowing. A cool, moist breeze that
troubled Dimmy, he did not know
why at first, thought is not easy
in Greece. Aipi then he knew
why. It was not usual. The wind
was only moist in the spring.
Moist when the olive trees were
here on this one spot and then
go no further.”
‘‘No further, you fool. It is only
in full leaf. When the wheat wras
high in the fields and on the hill
sides. When the grapes were on
the vines in great purple clusters
and the wine was fresh and . . .
and the bellies were full.
j^ND then Dimmy heard the
noise; at first it was just a
noise and then became clearer
and Dimmy knew what it was.
It was the music of the pipes.
The pipes of seme shepherd on
the hillside. But that was wrong,
for who blows pipes upon the
hillsides of Greece in the evening.
And Dimmy wondered. It was
evening. And those were pipes
upon the hillside. Who blows
pipes on the hillsides of Greece,
for in Greece one does net blow
pipes now for air is scarce as
food in Greece and when the bel
ly .. . But the pipes were play
ing.
Dimmy shook his head for this
was wrong and one cannot think
easily. Especially when one is
confronted by such a problem as
this. The thought was unheard
of. And when the sound got clos
er Dimmy wondered even more.
The music. It was so strange and
loud. Who plays the pipes loudly
in Greece? It was, yes, it was
verboten. But Dimmy did not run
nor did he even arise for, well
what is the use when one’s belly
is empty'. And life is so hard.
And then Dimmy saw them.
They, they were there and it was
all so confusing for when the
belly is empty one does not see
very well, but they were there.
Dim, shadowy figures, but they
were there. And . . . yes, dancing
in the twilight. Dancing! Danc
ing in Greece. Who was this mad
group of people who danced in
the evening twilight.
But were they people? People
in Greece do not dance as they
do not eat and when one does not
eat there is no use dancing-. Bet
ter to save that . . . but ... oh,
it was all so impossible. And that
music. Those weird pipes. He
must be a madman who plays
those pipes so wildly, thought
Dimmy. Pipes that stirred the
soul as it had not been stirred
these last three years. Not since
Dimmy, then Dimitrious, had
met Lena. But one does not think
of such things now. When the
belly is empty there is no love,
no passion, no life. Only exist
ence. But the music was louder
and stronger and Dimmy was
afraid. Of what he knew not. It
is enough to be afraid and know
why, but the fear of the unknown,
is it net the greatest fear of all?
And Dimmy's head reeled and his
eyes swam with tears of fright.
Fright unknown, fright unan
swerable.
And Dimmy saw him. Yes,
him! And he played the pipes as
he had oft before played them.
And Dimmy knew hjs fear as in
stinctively as he knew the form
before him. Yes, yes, it was he.
He, the gold of the forest, he who
laughed at the wayfarer as he
ran from his dread presence. He,
the god of the forest nymphs, the
dread satyres. He, the god of the
shepherd. Back here, here ,in his
beloved Greece. And Dimmy was
unconscious, for when the belly
is empty. . . .
JJERR Commandant wore good
boots. Good German leather
boots that trod easily over the
White Witte
Manita leaned
Across the candlelight
And said:
“A melted snowflake
Burning on the lips
Is like this wine, beloved.”
Still it slips into my mind,
That thing she said, .
Since wine is ice and snow
Manita being dead.
—By Marjorie Major.
Literary Page Staff:
Editor: Carol Greening
Contributors:
Bob Scott
Marjorie Major
rutted ground of the hillside.
“Herr major, Herr major. This
is the spot. The tracks lead here,
a trick. They have covered their
tracks. It is only a trick.”
Herr Commandant was an im
patient man, and the babblings
of his almost hysterical aide
grated on the ragged edges of
his nerves. After all, to have this
thing happen in his district. No
clues, no sign of the attacker,
nothing but the feeble babblings
of hysterical officers and non
coms. A whole garrison of good
German boys thrown into com
8_.— -
plete, inexplainable panic. Wild
stories of pipe music. Pipes! The
commandant had spat out the
word. And what was more, tv.^
complete barracks and the offi
cers' quarters as well as the cook
shed and auxiliary buildings burnt
to the ground. And this, yes, this
was the crowning point. They
follow the trail. And such an im
possible trail at that. Cloven hoof
marks, a herd of swine. .It was
impossible.
And what was more impossible,
the trail had led them through
the rocks and over most of the
surrounding country-side and
now it ended at the feet of a
Greek, long since dead, sitting
bolt upright under a scrubby lit
tle olive tree. Himmel, it was im
possible. Cloven hoofs!
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