See Under by David Grossman (famous ebook reader TXT) 📕

ill-concealed pride hands over three pages torn out of his notebook, with the notes, in large letters, from his visit to the mine.

Wasserman says nothing and begins to read. (“What can I tell you, Shleimeleh, he lacked the inspiration of a fly! His notes had the ring of a military bulletin. Yes yes! In one instance I noticed our Esau had tried a little embellishment, perhaps he wanted to be charming when he wrote: ‘Forking tunnels full of strange mystery.’ Ah, from a pig’s tail one does not a Hasid’s shtreimel make!”)

“Like honey!” Wasserman lies through his teeth as he finishes reading, and now Neigel lets go and starts to describe, with pride and enthusiasm, his trip to Borislav and his meeting there with an officer of his acquaintance, for whom he concocted a story about the purpose of his visit so the man would agree to take him to the deserted lepek mine, which they finally managed to locate on an old, turn-of-the-century map, and what a yarn he had had to tell to stop his suspicious questions, ah! Neigel recounts this as though boasting about some highly involved and successful military campaign in enemy territory, and Wasserman listens with downcast eyes and says at last, “Excellent, Herr Neigel, it seems the passion of the story bums in you!” and the German smiles broadly, a smile the likes of which I doubt his men have ever seen.“Listen, Wasserman—there’s a beautiful health spa in the area, with mineral springs and even a cinema! And what did I do there? I went to look for a stinking lepek mine!” And Wasserman: “Ai, Herr Neigel, that is what I sensed in you from the very beginning! You have the makings of a real artist!” And Neigel: “Ah, now you’re talking nonsense, Wasserman, you know very well I’m not cut out to be a writer, though my wife did always say I wrote beautiful letters.” But Wasserman shamelessly repeats some nonsense about the hidden spark in Neigel, and how important it is to free it from the daily grind of work and duty, and Neigel laughs again, dismissing his words, but a certain glow spreads over his cheeks for a moment, and suddenly he waves his hand, whereupon Wasserman and I almost start laughing rudely, because the German has unintentionally made the appropriate gesture conveying (1) a false show of protest; (2) the familiar pleasure of flattery; (3) pretended modesty; (4) and a powerful craving for more! More! (Wasserman: “See, Shleimeleh, my mother, may she rest in peace, was right when she said, Flatter Chaimkeh, and to him it rings true …”)

“As you know,” says Wasserman, when they have both settled down to embark upon the story, “we are underground.”

“In the lepek mine,” confirms Neigel with a hearty smile.

But Wasserman, averting his eyes, blurts out, “Perhaps yes, and perhaps no. I am not absolutely certain as yet.”

At which point Obersturmbannführer Neigel wishes to ascertain whether he has heard the Jew correctly, and when it seems that Wasserman did in fact say, “I am not absolutely certain as yet,” he is so furious his lips turn white and he demands to know “what is this circus?!” when only a moment ago they were discussing the mine in Borislav, where they planned the story, not to mention the considerable efforts, “and risks!” Neigel had faced in order to “feel the atmosphere” of Borislav, the stupid lies he had become entangled in, and the good name he had jeopardized, and all for what? “So you can decide on a whim that you don’t want the lepek mine?!”

But Wasserman is undaunted. At most, he is thoughtful. He answers Neigel with suspicious ease. He soothes him slyly in his usual way, explaining that this is how it is with creative work—“You build something and challenge it and again build it and challenge it a thousand and one times!” And he confides to Neigel this, his mode of writing: he invents nothing but merely reveals the preexistent story and followsit like a boy chasing a pretty butterfly. “I am only the scribe of the story, Herr Neigel, its obedient servant …” And when Neigel at last snarls words of controlled rage and hurt pride, Wasserman goes even further and teaches him a lesson, in which I alone discern the sting of revenge: “Your main problem (!), Herr Neigel, if I may say so, is that you never leave the confines of your own skin! After all, even the powers of imagination need gymnastic exercise, else they wither and die, heaven forbid, like atrophied limbs.”

Is Neigel finally going to get up and pound Wasserman with his iron fist? Will he throw Wasserman out of the barracks, back to the lower camp and the loathsome Keizler? Neigel does nothing. He contemplates that which he just heard from Wasserman. He still looks furious, but a different expression steals over his face now, a new expression, difficult to define. (“You, too, noticed, Shleimeleh? You have a scholar’s eye! Yes, indeed, for a minute his face took on the look of an apprentice, of a devoted pupil attuned to his master’s every word, who in his heart is already plotting to steal the master’s wisdom …”)

“Go on, tell the story,” roars Neigel, “I’m listening.”

“Well then,” says Wasserman, “for now we are underground. Between the caves and tunnels. Can you assist me here, Herr Neigel, and tell me what it smells like in there?”

“Smells like any other mine, I should think. Only it stinks more.”

“Please, begging your pardon, that is not sufficient.”

“Well, okay—it smells like oil!”

“Is that all?”

“Listen, Wasserman, am I telling the story or are you?”

“I am, sir, with your generous assistance. But I may be in need of your gifts here, you understand, for I have no sense of smell, may you never know, and I am alas unable to write about scents, the prize of every nose, with which my wife used formerly to assist me. Please, Herr Neigel.”

“Humph. What? Smells, you