The Clock
Amelia Nierenberg
Because the clock cannot strike
eight, the space between seven and nine is a blank anomaly, and seven is one
hundred and twenty minutes long. We do not have an 8 o’clock broadcast, thus
will never know that “… mourns for its
fallen leader,” or “…redefining the
sport.” Because the clock cannot strike eight, the essential details dance
wildly on the bare raw spot between seven and nine, and infinity cannot be
turned on its side. If twelve had been missing, no one would have noticed
because no one is home when the clock strikes twelve. But eight is the lynchpin
of middleclass family life. It is the precursor, to school and work in the
morning, warm milk and radio at night. And because the clock cannot strike
eight, our family is always a little off, a little late or a little early.
Because the clock does not strike eight, on September 3rd, 1939 we do not know the world is crumbling until the next morning, and spend twelve extra happy hours, a luxury France, the east, the world, can no longer afford. Nous faisons la guerre parce qu’elle a été poussée sur nous. We are waging war because it has been thrust upon us. Vive la France. And this broadcast is never heard, because it is given at 8:00, and we’ve missed it.
Because it does not strike eight, it is not hard to skip meals and watch ration stamps turn to gin in my mother’s gray hands. I eight, you eight, he/she eight, we eight, they eight… but that was long ago. And our stomachs are caving in, and all of France looks like eights before we all look like ones, with hollowed eyes and puffed bellies. But since the clock cannot strike eight, I do not remember being a zero, and do not notice the belt cinching my middle into an eight. Food does not seem so scarce because the clock does not strike eight.
Because there is no eight, I have never studied Hebrew, because my Hebrew class runs from 8:00a to 9:00a. Because the clock does not strike eight, I am not in my first period Hebrew class as German bombs incinerate walls on 8:07am, March 9th 1942. My family’s Judaism is buried in the rubble, and we hide under blond hair and changed names. Because the clock does not strike eight, I spend my days wandering past a heap of rubble, telling myself I have forgotten my way to school.
And because it does not strike eight, the pawnshop where my parents made the impractical purchase of an enormous grandfather clock does not buy it back. And it returns to the grooves on the floor made by its heavy clawed feet. Because it does not strike eight, I hide in the clock as planes fly overhead and our building drains of neighbors, and Death with his squared toes takes the young and very old. And when Dr. Schwartz hands us his Leah, she has a place to stand, heart beating with the pendulum on those long Nazi searches because our clock had never, could never, would never strike eight.
Because the clock does not strike eight, on September 3rd, 1939 we do not know the world is crumbling until the next morning, and spend twelve extra happy hours, a luxury France, the east, the world, can no longer afford. Nous faisons la guerre parce qu’elle a été poussée sur nous. We are waging war because it has been thrust upon us. Vive la France. And this broadcast is never heard, because it is given at 8:00, and we’ve missed it.
Because it does not strike eight, it is not hard to skip meals and watch ration stamps turn to gin in my mother’s gray hands. I eight, you eight, he/she eight, we eight, they eight… but that was long ago. And our stomachs are caving in, and all of France looks like eights before we all look like ones, with hollowed eyes and puffed bellies. But since the clock cannot strike eight, I do not remember being a zero, and do not notice the belt cinching my middle into an eight. Food does not seem so scarce because the clock does not strike eight.
Because there is no eight, I have never studied Hebrew, because my Hebrew class runs from 8:00a to 9:00a. Because the clock does not strike eight, I am not in my first period Hebrew class as German bombs incinerate walls on 8:07am, March 9th 1942. My family’s Judaism is buried in the rubble, and we hide under blond hair and changed names. Because the clock does not strike eight, I spend my days wandering past a heap of rubble, telling myself I have forgotten my way to school.
And because it does not strike eight, the pawnshop where my parents made the impractical purchase of an enormous grandfather clock does not buy it back. And it returns to the grooves on the floor made by its heavy clawed feet. Because it does not strike eight, I hide in the clock as planes fly overhead and our building drains of neighbors, and Death with his squared toes takes the young and very old. And when Dr. Schwartz hands us his Leah, she has a place to stand, heart beating with the pendulum on those long Nazi searches because our clock had never, could never, would never strike eight.
