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

dressed right away, daggers in my heart because I hadn’t wanted it to be like this, everything was ruined and I wanted to make amends, and I wanted her forgiveness, she has no one but me and the children, damn this war to hell, how did it get into our lives and our beds, but it was clear to me that it was all over. Some things are irreversible, you know, and I took my suitcase and walked out of the room, and I didn’t have the nerve to go look at Karl and Lise, I had the feeling I wasn’t allowed to see them anymore, that I might spoil something just by looking at them, and I left without a word, I walked through the Hauptbannhof, and waited all night on a bench for the first train, and when a soldier walked past and saluted and said Heil, I almost vomited—tell me more, Wasserman.”

“Pardon?” Wasserman shook himself. The transition was too abrupt. But it seems Neigel had run out of patience—and maybe time—for the smooth transitions of a cultured conversation. “Tell me more, Wasserman,” he whispered eagerly, his eyes ablaze. “More about Kazik, and about the woman Otto found for him [see under: ZEITRIN, HANNAH], and about the good life in store, and be careful, Wasserman, pay attention to everything he says and does, make him a human being, don’t make him stupid, and don’t let him do stupid things. Yes, make him Otto’s most successful artist, only don’t stop talking, Wasserman, because there’s a terrible noise here and a terrible stench, and when I breathe, my breath smells of smoke, and when the train whistle blows in the station, I want to get up and run away, and I want the sentinels at the gate to shoot me; there were people here today and I yelled at them till I stopped hearing the whistle, but now I’m alone, don’t leaveme alone tonight, tell me the story, you and the story are all I have, what a catastrophe.”

CARICATURIST

CARICATURIST

One who draws caricatures.

The profession Wasserman chose for Kazik after STAUKEH [q.v.] invaded the barracks and “suggested” that Neigel choose an honorable death. Staukeh went outside to wait for the shot, but Neigel was in no hurry to kill himself: it would not have occurred to him to do so before Wasserman had finished the story. Wasserman could not believe his ears, but Neigel, in a voice both pleading and anxious, reminded him where the story had been interrupted. “Kazik was a painter. He helped the other artists realize their dreams. He always found the good in everyone. He was happy.” “Miserable,” Wasserman corrected him gravely. “He was extremely miserable.” Neigel looked at him suspiciously, blinking madly. “But he must be happy, Herr Wasserman!” “Must?” “He must! He must!” whispered Neigel, smiling obsequiously, desperately, indicating the door by which Staukeh had left. “A last favor, Herr Wasserman, Kazik was happy. His life, though brief, had meaning, right? Bitte, Herr Wasserman.” (Wasserman: “I looked at this wreck of a man. I cannot deny that I did not hate him. The moment he shot Tirzaleh before my eyes, my hatred died. My fury, my fear, my loathing, even my love grew dim. Only words remained, empty, broken words, and in their shells I nest like the last bird, a fugitive of a great disaster. A holocaust. Three months of life, the sloughed skin of an empty body. Extracting gold teeth from the dead, marking time in the shithouse. Like the living dead …”) “Listen, Herr Neigel, I have no desire to hurt you, but the truth must be told: Kazik was miserable. He was sullen and ill-tempered, and he had no one to comfort him. None of the paintings he painted from his fertile imagination brought him relief. And more bitter yet, the other artists found it no easier, because from the moment each of them observed how he became the dream of his art, and how he subdued his fate of suffering, a different verdict erupted from within, more terrible than its predecessor, like an open wound threatening to swallow him; ai, Kazik exposed us in our nakedness, and he could not stop, and whenever his glance rested onone of us, he saw before him a miserable monstrosity with dreams and passions like thick horns upon his brow … how the gaze of the aged boy mercilessly drank up the dark moisture of our souls! With what contempt he drew out our ideas and favorite words and the meager wisdom we had gathered so arduously over the years … feh, all the boats that took us to the edge of the horizon so our eyes could behold new, forbidden horizons, yes, indeed so, our Kazik became a cruel caricaturist … in a rage he drew the artists, he drew them without affection. And they, poor wretches, beheld themselves in his eyes and saw themselves as ugly tools, and tears flowed from every eye, tears of grief …

“And now,” continues Wasserman, “as they wept, a kind of MIRACLE [q.v.] took place, and, as I recall, Herr Neigel, it was the little apothecary, Aaron Marcus, who tried to comfort us then, and told us about the ugly Princess Maria from Tolstoy’s War and Peace, who became beautiful only when she cried, like a Japanese lantern which loses its charm when the candle goes out but shines forth in all its beauty when the candle is lit again. You see, Herr Neigel, poor Kazik could no longer understand these fine things. Ugliness filled his eyes … he no longer knew how to forgive … he became estranged from life, like poor Midas: whatsoever he touched sparkled with the gleam of malice. Yes, Herr Neigel, Kazik was miserable: miserable, miserable, miserable.”

REGASHOT

FEELINGS

A subjective inner experience.

In an attempt to learn more about this experience, Aaron Marcus, the apothecary of Warsaw, conducted various experiments, the results