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

And Anshel Wasserman comes in and faces me. As before. Bowed, hunchbacked. His skin yellow and sagging. He wants to show me the way out. He knows the way. All his life he has been lost in this forest, scattering crumbs of words to help him find the way out. The man from the fairy tales, Anshel Wasserman-Scheherazade.

“Grandfather?”

“Write about the baby, Shleimeleh. Write about his life.”

“I want to get out of here. The White Room scares me.”

“The whole world is the White Room. Come walk with me.”

“I’m afraid.”

“So am I. Write about the baby, Shleimeleh.”

“No!!!”

I screamed and threw off the soft, warm hand where the story streamed in torrents. I flung myself against the smooth white walls, across the pages of my notebook, at the mirror, at my soul—there was no way out. Everything was blocked.

“Write, then,” said Anshel Wasserman patiently, gently. “Sit and write. There is no other way. Because you are like me, your life is the story, and for you there is only the story. Write, then, please.”

So be it. The baby. I have to fight against him. Against him, and against his creator. For that I still have a little strength left. Not much, it’s true, but anyone who tries to hurt me is going to pay with his life. That is, with his story. Pay attention, Wasserman, your story is now in jeopardy! Even the closeness between us won’t make me feel sorry for you, because in war there’s no mercy, and I declare war on you and your story.

Fried calculated. It was clear to him by now that every four or five minutes the child developed at the rate of three months in the life ofa normal child. In other words, in half an hour the baby would be eighteen months old. Now Fried remembered: it was when the white butterfly flew out of the hall of friendship that the baby began to hyperventilate. In other words, his special time should be reckoned from approximately nine o’clock. (“Approximately??!” The doctor shuddered as he grasped how important every second was now.) Wasserman: “The doctor vigorously scratched the rash that had erupted above his navel that morning. He organized his thoughts: In one hour the tot would be three years of age!” Fried: “Bozhe moi! It can’t be! Have to check again!”

And he coolly checked again. His calculation proved correct. Fried bit his finger and tried to remember. Fried: “Wersus? Werblov? What was that name?” Wasserman: “And he leafed through his trusty encyclopedia, past the hundreds of crystallized fragments of destruction and devastation, the plagues and impairments of body and soul, may we never know, and in the end he stopped, out of breath and panting like a dog, under the heading—Fried:” ‘Werner, Werner’s syndrome. A process of rapid aging … beginning at thirty years … the deterioration of all systems … premature calcification … depression … rapid agonizing death … See under Progeria.’”

Neigel sits up. His face is stern, a little pale. Who would ever have believed he would take the story so personally? Or maybe there’s something we don’t yet know. “Please, Herr Wasserman. No.” He says quietly, “Don’t harm the child.” But Wasserman, who hears the words as though he heard them before somewhere, a long time ago, continues: “And with every hope laid low, the doctor journeyed to the land of doom he had been referred to by the book. Fried:” ‘Progeria. The childhood version of Werner’s syndrome (q.v.), process of rapid aging starting at age three … only a few cases recorded in medical history … development declines by the age of three, and acute symptoms of deterioration, retardation, and depression appear.’”

And Neigel: “Bitte, Herr Wasserman, listen to me for just one moment!” And Fried: “Dear God!”

Because the baby was standing up and smiling happily at Fried. Fried was overwhelmed by a wave of pity that instantly sank the iron armada in his heart. Pointing to his chest with a stiff finger, he gruffly said, “Papa.” “Papa,” said the baby.

Marcus: “Our good Fried felt a stabbing in his chest. He hesitated and then—curse the nasty trick life had played on him—said, You’reKazik. And the baby repeated his name. Again and again he tasted the new name. “Kazik.”

Fried wanted desperately to protect him, to brandish his sword around the helpless young body and ward off the disease. But too late, the disease had already taken hold with all its grotesque power. Neigel shakes his head. Wasserman doesn’t stop to look at him. Wasserman is sure that Neigel’s objection is based on the fact that the baby has a dimple on his right knee. Neigel pounds the desk and screams, Enough of this warped story, but Wasserman will not yield. He boils. He screams that he can’t go on with these interruptions every minute. Now he is so beside himself that he waves his hand at Neigel, and the gesture shocks me, because I remember exactly when I first saw it: more than twenty years ago in my parents’ kitchen in Beit Mazmil the time the German tried to interfere, and Grandfather waved his drumstick at him and screamed. But back then I wanted Grandfather to win. “Don’t you dare touch that child!” screams Neigel, his face very red, and Wasserman’s face is terrible and grim as he chooses his words: “There are things you must not say to me, Herr Neigel. My life is bitter enough without you. And the child will live and die, heaven forbid, according to the story’s requirements. It shall be so.”

Wasserman is aware that he looks ridiculous when he’s angry. He freely admits that “anger is not always becoming.” But this time something in him convinces Neigel, who averts his eyes and waits patiently, pen in hand.

Fried breathed deeply. Life had picked up the glove he tossed it every day. There was no other way to interpret it. Only, life had chosen an unexpected battlefield. Through the child’s