The anger was starting to well up again. He could feel it in his chest, a kind of twisting sensation at his heart that made him writhe with frustration. How much was a man supposed to take? This latest raid had killed the second of his brothers, the little one whose resistance was nothing more than a stone thrown into the teeth of the monster. A year ago it had been the eldest but at least he had the honor of dying in battle. Now it is my turn, he thought.

Through the haze of dust that rose continuously from the refugee camp a blood red sun began to simmer revenge once again.

She had been gathering berries when they came. It was all over by the time she returned. She had seen the child crumpled on the ground, crushed on the ground. She did not hear the screams or see the smoke or the blue-coated riders—only the child.

On the rolling hills of North Dakota a gentle wind swayed the tall dancing grass that shimmered in the sun.

The truth is, or so I am told, that we began with well over 400,000 men that bright day on the Polish side of the banks of the Niemen. A pretty spot, we lounged and talked and sang and watched the banners of the battalions flutter bravely as they passed. I fished a bit with a contrived hook and a fat worm and caught a good-sized catfish. Over 400,000 men. Amazing. As far as the eye could see they marched up and down as proud as you please. The caissons rattled; the horses neighed; the sergeants laughed and swore. 'Moscow will be lovely,' we said to each other. Did I say it was June? It was. A perfect day in June. We came back from Moscow with 10,000.

The black ships on the beach glistened and the iron-faced men fought hand-to-hand in the deep sand on the dunes above. Proud Achilles did not fight. His honor impugned by that thickheaded Agamemnon. Damn them all. Achilles did not fight. His friend Patroklos fought for him.

Ah! How sweet! A spear no doubt, no sword. A Darden spear so it feels, slick and smooth. I am a dead man. And here is Hector to finish me. Achilles, Achilles, we should have fought side by side. Still. Enough of that. The day I die for my friend is a perfect day. And this one, Hector, it would have been good to grapple with him without a spear in my back. Ah! And another. Keep smiling, Hector; I will meet you soon on the other side.

The crocodile lifted its head above the muddy water almost sleepily and looked at the girl. Close enough that perhaps a quick lunge, but no, now she is going back to the village.

I was bringing water home, I had the can balanced on my head; it was heavy but I was used to it. I remember how sweet the morning air smelled. I thought, What a perfect day. The men came out of the woods and stopped me. They had guns. They asked me for water. I gave them my can and they poured water into their canteens. They walked around me and looked at me and said things I cannot repeat. When they had filled their canteens one of them, a boy my own age, poured the rest of the water in the can over his head. The men laughed at him. Then they grabbed me and held me down and put a stick under my arm and the boy who was all wet chopped off my hand with a machete.

Arbeit macht frei it says above the gate. A little ghetto humor for the uninitiated. I wonder who thought it up, them or us. I wish it would make me free. This is not easy work. Necessary work, yes, but not easy. We have a quota, you know; so many an hour, so many a day, so many a month. The stink of them is enough to turn your stomach. Alive and dead. The stink on their rotten bodies has gotten into my head. I don't think it will ever go away, even after we finish the last of them. And that greasy stinking smoke, ach, it ruins the most perfect day.

The fog on the moors parted and swept around the horsemen jangling spurs and armor. The bodies of the men and of the horses seemed fused, as though they had become one tremendous beast. Toil and trouble, toil and trouble their clangor seemed to say.

I was never ambitious for him; that is a lie MacDuff and the others tell about me. He came home from the war a different man. He had seen things and done things so horrible that it was as if his mind was soaked in blood. I had to be strong to keep him strong; he was ready to collapse. Still, the day he came home was perfect. We made love all afternoon. And then we talked. I had to urge him on. It was not a time for weakness or confusion. He knew what he wanted, but he hesitated. There is a time when only boldness will carry the day. Or the night. Yes, it was bloody. Yes, it was clumsily done. But, by god, it was done. And I can live with the consequences. But who would have thought the old man would have had so much blood in him?

The morning sun bright above the city shone through the cabin window as the airplane turned like a great graceful predatory bird, then plunged toward the tower. He seemed to hear the cries and shouts of disbelief behind him from a great distance. The building gleamed in the bright morning light. A perfect day, he thought.