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

say … smells? Maybe there were also—” And he shuts his eyes and leans back and tries to remember. “Yes. It seems to me there were also animal smells in there. Maybe rabbits. I’m not sure. That’s what I remember.”

“Rabbits!” says Wasserman joyously, writing in his notebook. “I like rabbits, Herr Neigel. Listen: ‘Rabbits also meet in the mines before their migration to warmer climes. And foxes by the hundreds come tohibernate here.’ Nu? Nice, yes? Progress!” and he rubs his hands with satisfaction.

Neigel raises doubts about these zoological particulars, and Wasserman does not hesitate to give him the task of verification. Neigel angrily makes a note.

Wasserman continues reading from his notebook. He tells Neigel about the big hall, the “hall of friendship,” the meeting place in the tunnels, adding gallantly, “with its forking tunnels full of strange mystery.” Once again I must point out here that Grandfather Anshel’s voice is not at all pleasant. It has a monotonous nasal quality, and when he speaks, white saliva foams in the corners of his mouth. Yet all the same, there is a certain elation in his face which makes Neigel want to listen to him. Near-charm wells up in the ugly face of Anshel Wasserman as he describes the hall of friendship built around the giant roots of an old oak tree, and there is a long and wonderful interval when I forget I understand the words and return to that old tune, and feel the passion of a child to understand the story.

The hall of friendship, says Wasserman, is where they meet toward evening, after the day’s work is done. They lean against the walls and the roots, chatting pleasantly, or silently content, eating a thick soup cooked by Paula, and in the center of the hall, the flame from a paraffin lamp is dancing (“You should know, Herr Neigel, that we produce the paraffin ourselves from the lepek!”), and if Neigel strains his eyes, he will be able to see his former friends reclining among the shadows. “There is our Otto Brig, beloved leader of the band, and he, as you know, is no youngster anymore, no, he is sixty-eight years old today, and still wears those short trousers, stained with mud and lepek, and smiles his wonderful, luminous smile …”

And Neigel, too, sitting before Wasserman, smiles unconsciously (“May I find comfort, Shleimeleh, you saw for yourself—only a second ago his face had fallen like a wild beast’s about to pounce, and now he smiles in spite of himself”), and for a moment his hard, penetrating eyes reflect a distant gleam of the past, his palms rest limply, and Wasserman looks up and for a twinkling allows himself to savor what he sees, but then once again his face grows tense, with a fast, straight line under the lip, like the lash of a live and painful memory, and he mumbles, “He is very sick, our Otto.”

Neigel’s eyes darken and his face is suddenly alert. It looks like theface of a destroyer emerging out of the mists at dawn. “What did you say? Sick? Why is he sick?” And Wasserman: “That is how it is, most regrettably. Our Otto, who appears so strong and sound of limb, is sick indeed. He has suffered from falling sickness now for a few years, and lately his condition has deteriorated, and the doctors give him little hope of a cure. And please, begging your pardon, Herr Neigel, I am urgently in need of scientific information about his disease. And now we will proceed. Here with us in the mine is also the lovely and amiable—”

“One moment!” screams Neigel and, forcing himself to be calm, repeats, “One moment! Maybe you can stop being clever for once and give me a straight answer. Why, damn it, does Otto have to start out being sick? What can he do in that condition? Think, Wasserman! Don’t ramble without a plan! Without planning and organization nothing is possible, not even a story, Wasserman!”

But it seems Wasserman has no intention of planning and organizing his story. That’s how it was many years ago when he insisted on bringing a baby into the story, and even though I was still a child, I knew a baby would ruin the plot; why bring in a baby at the wrong place in an action-packed story dealing mainly with war. I had noticed this tendency in Grandfather Anshel before, this dreamy vagueness, this impressionism. Maybe I’m being too hard on him, but it seems to me that for all his pedantry—and pettiness at times—with regard to material things, in spiritual matters he belongs to that category of people who rely on the existence of a kind of benevolent logic in the world to instantly repair any damage caused by their lack of forethought and organization. And with utter unconcern, bordering on insolence, in fact, Wasserman reiterates his request (“Scientific information about falling sickness”), and Neigel disappoints me somewhat by angrily but obediently jotting down the provocative request. (“Still, I saw through him to the little boy hoping a good fairy would suddenly appear, and for this reason precisely he is willing to let me aggrieve him, because the greater the grief, the greater the pleasure in the happy ending.”)

“Other than poor Otto, you will no doubt be happy to hear that all the others are in good health.”

“I am truly happy, Scheissemeister.”

“Except, of course, for those who have died.”

“What?” asks Neigel in a quiet voice extruding red-hot wires of rage.

“Ai,” says Wasserman sadly, “Paula has died. Our good Paula is no more …”

Now Neigel bursts into loud laughter, gushing over with all his contempt for the old Jew. “Paula?! But only a moment ago you said—how did it go?—that she cooked soup for us. That’s it! You said hot soup!”

“Hot and thick,” Wasserman agrees with him, sadly shaking his head. “What a wonderful memory you have, sir, and your words are very true. Good hot soup our Paula prepared for us,