Manfred

His name is Manfred. For about fifteen years, I have been bringing him pebbles. Sharp grey ones mostly. Sometimes I find round white ones, but those have a fake aspect which I dislike. When I have chosen one, I thoroughly rub it with my fingers inside my pocket before I display it to Manfred. Oddly enough, the pebbles vanish from one visit to the next.

Manfred is surrounded by silence. I too am silent when I come. The only sounds emanate from the birds and the wind in the pine trees. Sometimes the rain adds a regular lapping. But I personally like it best under the snow, when all sounds are muffled and reflection produces an eerie light. In that case I usually am the only visitor, for the mountain road which leads to the concentration camp is not easily passable under snow conditions.

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