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

(Wasserman: “Did he recognize the name? Does he know? Ah, feh! Do not judge me, Shleimeleh, and find me wanting. I thirsted for a look of recognition, saying, ‘Ah! Could it be? Are you the one we read and loved so well, whose stories we cut out of magazines for our collections?’ Nu, do not deride me; after all, many thousands of children read me in those days. My ‘Children of the Heart’ was published in a dozen children’s magazines throughout the continent of Europe. And only five years ago new editions were still appearing—though not a mite was I paid—and letters from fledgling readers reached me all the way from Prague and even Budapest! And I will tell you a little anecdote, even in the train that brought us here, may it choke on its own steam, in the midst of all the pushing and shoving and hunger and dizziness,a Jew wound his way to me, one neither young nor old, with a red burn covering half his face, and informed me that in his youth he had read my stories. Et! This Jew, poor thing, for ten years he and I had dined in each other’s company at the same hour in Feintoch’s restaurant on Kreditova Street. I sat here, he sat there. And of course he said not a word to me. But now in the train, nebuch, he began to cry wistfully over my stories, nu, think of it! Of all things to think of at such a time, and nu, I had no more consolation for him …”)

Neigel leans back and plays with a small ruler. “I understand nothing about literature, Scheissemeister.” And Wasserman blurts, “Nu, to each his own, your honor.” And blanches with fear.

But Neigel does not get up and pound him with his heavy fist. Nor does he call in the Ukrainian sentry and order him to trample this impudent Jew. Neigel merely gazes at him, tracing fat figure eights and sloppy zeroes with his ruler. A small muscle in his right jaw tightens with strange vehemence, after which the ruler begins to trace adamant sevens and resolute fours in the air, Neigel’s way, perhaps, of telling the world he is about to make an important decision. Wasserman is still surprised that his impudence has not cost him dearly. (Wasserman: “Perhaps because he was helpless, and saw a kind of hocus-pocus in me that mitigated his murderousness, or perhaps every lion likes a mouse about to tickle his toes, so they can both have a taste of glory; in brief—I had dared and he had smiled, and that was enough for me.”) And the German surprises him even more now by asking him to tell a little more about those stories he used to write.

Wasserman blushes from head to toe (“I was unaware that I had enough blood left in me to color a single check!”), and it’s disconcerting to see him like this. He stares at the floor, locks his fingers together, and chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Ah, well! Et, such folly … simple tales for children they were, though children liked them well enough … and the critics, too, rejoiced … at least some did, that is, in the tales called ‘The Children of the Heart’ serialized in magazines … a chapter a week … and the children, of ‘The Children of the Heart,’ that is, were sons of many nations, there was even one of ours, begging your permission, and two sons of Poland, and one Armenian fellow, and there was also a son of Russia among them, and they fought the powers of darkness, no disrespect intended, sir, on many an adventure! They battled disaster, disease, and deformity, injustice, ignorance, andblight, and once, by way of example, they came to the rescue of a small Armenian fellow, when the Turks attacked his village with blade and sword, at the close of the century, before the great massacre … and the little warriors fared thither in their time machine … a trick of my own devising, heh heh, and once they saved the Negro people from the Americans of yore who wished to slaughter them, and once they assisted the sage whose name for the moment escapes me, the doctor who waged war on the microbes of hydrophobia, choleria, and one time they lent support to Robin Hood, who fought the rich in the land of Albion, and what else? Oh yes, they also rescued the Red Skins, and flew away with them, to the moon, that is, and even offered succor to your own Ludwig van Beethoven, who was thick-of-hearing, and sundry other follies to regale the hearts of children, to please them with instructive stories about history and famous personages … but indirectly, in order not to tire them … historical facts, tamed in genial tales … nonsense … empty prattle, ah well, I liked them …”

Neigel listens patiently to this embarrassing outburst of self-adulation. He studies Wasserman narrowly. A faint flush spreads over his cheeks, and when Wasserman finally stops talking, the German continues watching him, as though listening to a distant voice.

Suddenly he shakes himself, coughs with annoyance, passes his hand over his face, and says, “What is this ridiculous costume you’re wearing, perhaps you can explain?”

Wasserman is surprised. “This? Et, this costume, sir … one of Commander Keizler’s pranks … he ordered his Scheissemeister dressed in glorious raiment, and even went to the trouble of finding me the Yom Kippur attire of a very great rabbi … with a fine embroidered hat and eight tassels that he ordered especially for me, only I lost it on my way here, I am afraid …” “And the watch?” demands Neigel. “What’s the watch for?” “That, too, is a joke of Commander Keizler’s, your honor. He thought, and perhaps it is so, that when the prisoners visit the House of Honor, your honor, the