I had a phone call from an unknown number. It was the town’s hospital’s admissions offering me a hip operation this month. It threw me. I thought it has all been forgotten. Not so, it seems. I declined it. She seemed a little irritated. I am doing OK. So far. And isn’t it better to offer it to someone in pain and incapacity? I have to come off the list, apparently. So who knows? I don’t want the surgeon’s knife. Not now, not ever.
Sebald’s book is becoming harder and harder to read. R. N. D. was stamped on the files of those sent away from the ghetto and onwards to the camps, he writes. R. N. D.? Return not desired.
