The Exile
Language: English
Pages: 232
ISBN: 1497638356
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
--W. P. Kinsella, Washington Post Book World
Hollywood film star David Caspian finds himself falling through a crack in time--into the back alleys of Hitler's Germany. The problem is--he's not David Caspian any longer and the Gestapo is after him.
"When Kotzwinkle is the author, readers can be sure only that the book in question will be different from everything else. His work continues to be distinguished by its originality, wit and daring. As in other Kotzwinkle novels, black magic is involved--and the reader too falls under a strange spell."
--People Magazine
I bet you’d really like.” His daughter looked up at him, expectantly. He looked back down at her. “I’m going to get you an ant farm.” “An ant farm?” interjected Carol. “Are you crazy? Why don’t you get her a tarantula ranch? How about a flea factory?” Carol put her hands on her hips. “That’s all we need is an ant farm. It’ll get broken and there’ll be ants crawling all over me.” “It won’t get broken. It’s fascinating. Alicia can watch the workings of a complete little civilization.” Alicia
whole, we need both halves of our nature.” “You’ve seen this before?” “Dreams of Nazis, of being a Nazi, or being tortured by the Nazis, are common.” “Except I’m not asleep. I’m completely awake, and then pow—I’m the worst possible thing anybody could be. In the middle of my sweet, successful, moral American life, I’m suddenly faced with the fact I’m part of the bloodiest regime the world has ever known.” Caspian paused, closed his eyes. “You couldn’t get a movie star to play a Nazi. Dirk
State. “Have you got a piano?” asked The Weasel, coming down the stairs behind them. “We specialize in moving them.” Gondolph rushed ahead into his old basement room, was jamming brushes and pens in his pockets, scooping up a line of counterfeit government and military stamps. “Sonsofbitches, hounding a craftsman... take those medical forms, and those hospital certificates.” He pushed by Felix, wheezing with exasperation. “Some poor devil may need proof of a bad case of piles.” “Your new home
arrive, and they get worse.” “She’ll be leaving here. Is there a doctor for these people?” The guard pointed toward a cement block house at the far edge of the compound. Felix left the guardhouse and went toward it, but on the way discovered Herr Wurm’s furnace. Camp laborers were loading cadavers on a forklift. The factory guard, seeing Felix, snapped to attention with the briskness of an army man, though he was older and long past military glory. “Good morning, sir.” Then, seeing Felix’s
the road. As for that traffic which would pass by rail, guided by Schaufel’s fateful lantern, about that, reflected Felix, were I to lay myself down before it, would anything change? He drove the short distance to the German border, each mile increasing his anxiousness, which turned to a numb sort of fear as the checkpoint appeared ahead—troops, wire fence, a lowered gate, and in his headlamps, the insignia of the Security Police. Bayonets and helmets reflected his lights as he slowed. The first