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

And by the way, Zalmanson was a religious man, and very Orthodox in his religion. He had passed through sundry changes of faith in his short life, but in recent years, with the world so topsy-turvy, begging your pardon, he came to believe exclusively in humor. Perhaps I will tell you someday, when the time comes, about his complicated theory, which he argued with the usual crooked acuity. He could find reasons to laugh about anything in the world, and said, ‘If I cannot laugh at something, I have not understood it properly.’ ‘And you,’ he said to me, ‘are like a man sleeping soundly beside his wife, who fails to see his own ludicrousness when a stranger’s toes stick out from under the blanket of their double bed.’ I happen to think this example is more tragic than comic, only I do not wish to discuss it further, and will say only that Zalmanson did have certain virtues—he loved his fellow man in his own peculiar way, though he used to say that he hated humanity but loved particular individuals for their merits, a bitter sort of humanitarian, and to look at him, you would say a hooligan. But no, you would be doing him an injustice, Herr Neigel! Because I know that deep inside he was different, and if you told him a secret, you knew he would keep it in his heart forever, and tell no tales; the only trouble was, he would tell people what he thought to their faces, and for this reason he had many enemies, too … When I needed a loan once, he opened his hand and asked no questions, and another time when I felt dizzy and fainted and needed a blood transfusion, he came and donated his blood for me … Perhaps not the best friend in the world, and yet—I had none other … and I—nu, well—he was my friend. But why do I speak of him so much?”

“So you people have them, too; the Zalmanson type, that is?” asks Neigel, yawning, drawing his finger casually across his glass-covered desk, and the Jew (“Esau was not bandying words here. Not at all. His question was of the utmost importance!”): “We have all things, Herr Neigel,all varieties. Bad and good and wise and foolish. Each and every variety.”

Again there is silence, and Neigel is probably contemplating something when he glances at his watch and is very surprised to see what time it is. He gets up and stretches his full height and yawns broadly. He says good night to Wasserman, pretending that their agreement has totally slipped his mind. But tonight, thank God, Wasserman himself is in a special mood, which he does not feel like spoiling with an argument. He makes no mention of it, but when they look into each other’s eyes, they know they know. Neigel hums, remarks that Wasserman has not yet told him anything about the baby, or what their mission is this time, why the Children of the Heart are involved in all these “artistic things,” and besides: “This story is awfully peculiar. I would not have believed myself capable of listening to a story like this.” Wasserman smiles and thanks him for his patience.

“Go to sleep now,” urges Neigel, and when Wasserman remains standing there another minute, a breeze of goodwill wafts out of Neigel’s heart, something forgotten and betrayed over the years, and he finds himself saying, “I have some more work to finish here, and I also want to write a letter home to the little woman.” Wasserman is astounded by this candor (“Human beings give each other fine gratuities when they have no objects left to give”). And he is compelled to ask, “Will you mention me in your letter?” And Neigel almost starts to answer, but thinks better of it and replies obliquely, “No, in fact. Go to bed already and don’t press your luck, Wasserman.”

And then they part for the night.

[ 6 ]

MUCH TIME ELAPSED BEFORE the story was resumed. A minor health problem caused the delay. To enter the White Room, a certain amount of forgetfulness and sacrifice is required of one. But again and again the mysterious warning voices were heard: Get out of here. The White Room is too dangerous for you. And the story was postponed. It was pushed aside and frequently forgotten. A collection of documentary material for a children’s encyclopedia on the subject of the Holocaust was initiated at this time, but the idea turned out badly. A sense of helplessness and despondency prevailed. The intention here isnot to go into details (as most of this has already been explained), but let it be said that Zeno’s freezing breath was blowing down a certain neck.

The story froze, together with life itself. Paralyzing questions were posed continuously: Why should anyone expose himself to the dangers of the White Room anyway? And who could tell what would happen to him if he ever decided willingly to sacrifice his well-known aptitude for defending himself against the demands of that fictional White Room, an aptitude acquired through much suffering and effort which proved itself over and over? And why, in fact, was this sacrifice necessary? So that a certain woman, to wit, Ayala, would be satisfied? So that after all the dangerous and backbreaking labor, another book on a familiar topic would grace our bookshelves? Who the hell needs it?

“Indeed, yes,” said Grandfather Anshel. “To write another book. Very necessary! Necessary for you, Shleimeleh, and who else is left to give you this story? You know yourself that my story, the one story, can show you the way … so please write: A baby will enter the story. He will live his life in it.”

No he won’t.

Anshel Wasserman is trying to help me. There’s no doubt about it: it’s the baby. This is the help Wasserman intends to offer. But there’s not enough strength left for this baby. There’s not enough strength left to create