К записи "Про бродячих собак" . Я там сюжет Боланьо своими словами пересказал, так что я в нескольких записях (не все сразу) приведу несколько отрывков. Вот первый. The rest of the day passed as usual, until that night I received a call from Warsaw, the Office of Jewish Affairs, an organization of whose existence I had previously been unaware. A distinctly adolescent voice asked me whether it was true that I had five hundred Greek Jews. I said yes and added that I didn't know what to do with them, because no one had advised me of their arrival. "It seems there's been a mistake," said the voice. "So it seems," I said, and I was silent. The silence lasted for quite a while. "That train should have unloaded in Auschwitz," said the adolescent's voice, "or at least I think so, I'm not quite sure. Hold, please." For ten minutes I stood with the phone to my ear. [...] At that moment the adolescent voice asked: "Are you still there?" "I'm here," I said. "Look, with the situation as it is we have no transportation available to collect the Jews. Administratively they belong to Upper Silesia. I've talked to my superiors and we're in agreement that the easiest and best thing would be for you to dispose of them." I didn't answer. "Do you understand?" asked the voice from Warsaw. "Yes, I understand," I said. "Then we have a solution, don't we?" "That's right," I said. "But I'd like to receive the order in writing," I added. I heard a pealing laugh at the other end of the line. It could be my son's laugh, I thought, a laugh that conjured up country afternoons, blue rivers full of trout, and the scent of fistfuls of flowers and grasses. "Don't be naive," said the voice without a hint of arrogance, "these orders are never issued in writing." That night I couldn't sleep.