Page 14 As a Narrative

After dinner, we went into Dad's room. He started pedalling on a stationery bike. "It's good for my heart." He simply said.

"Dad, I still want to write that book about you. The one that I always talked about,"I said, already imagining the scenes I could draw, "About you in Poland and the war."

"It would take many books, my life," Vladek said, "and no  one anyway wants to hear such stories."

He looked down at the number that had been permanently engraved into his arm. The rough surface spelled out 175113.

"But I want to hear it!" I said, hoping to convince him. I picked up one of the picture frames nearby. "Why don't you start with how you met Mum?"

"But son, better you make beautiful drawing and make money... But... If it will please you very much, I will tell you." He exclaimed, still pedaling on his bike. "It all started in Czestochowa, a small city not far from the border of Germany..."