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

work runs slack, therefore like the prophet Samuel, he took me behind the flock and made me, nu, yes, Scheissemeister, and hung a timepiece around my neck, and even set a limit, begging your pardon: two minutes and not a second longer did he vouchsafe unto us in his great mercy.” And to me he turned with a bitter aside: “Nu, and what do you think happened, Shleimeleh? I quickly developed a terrible case of hemorrhoids! I clench my teethin agony, I tell you! And afterward—like everyone, the gates were closed unto me and the doors were scaled! Eternal constipation, that is. But at least I had the good fortune to lack a sense of smell … nu, a word to the wise … though I will never again hear an alarm clock with equanimity.”

“Yes,” says Neigel, scoffing lightly, “Keizler has flair. Now, he could have been a writer, don’t you think?”

Wasserman thinks, a feig, The hell you say, but answers, “Why, yes, indeed, Commander.”

And Neigel, at rest: “But I know exactly what you are thinking this very moment, Scheissemeister. Inside your small and cowardly heart you’re saying, A Nazi could never be a good writer. They don’t feel anything. Am I right, Scheherazade?”

Of course he was right. I don’t doubt my grandfather’s answer for one moment, but I want to arm him with the facts. For instance, in the SS Führerschule at Dachau near Munich, where Neigel was probably trained, there was a sign in the classroom that read: 1. THE MAIN GUIDELINE—PARTY DISCIPLINE! 2. WILL IS THE OVERCOMING OF FEARS AND WEAKNESSES LIKE COMPASSION AND SYMPATHY! 3. LOVE FOR ONE’S NEIGHBOR SHOULD BE RESERVED FOR THE GERMANS OF ADOLF HITLER!

And when I see that Wasserman still hesitates, I send him a compelling answer for Neigel, an answer invented for us by Adolf Hitler himself, in his Berlin speech of ’38. “Conscience is the business of the Jew.” This sentence was interpreted by Jürgen Stroop, the German commander of Warsaw during the rebellion, as follows: “And thus he freed the Nazis from conscience.”

And these words seem to swing Wasserman like a mighty pendulum. “So?” he asks me. “Ai, a heavy load has been placed on us by the housepainter from Linz, may he have a good short year!” But to Neigel he says, “Heaven forbid that I should think such thoughts about you, your honor.”

“Coward,” cries Neigel, his contempt perhaps not totally unjustified. “You miserable coward. I could respect you if you weren’t such a coward.” He smiles a short, mocking smile. “And on what, I wonder, did you base your preachings to young readers about pride and courage? Your thoughts are positively screaming!” And the Jew: “Heaven forbid, Commander.” (“Naturally I fear him! What did you think, Shleimeleh?My heart turned black at the sound of his sweet voice! And so big, keinahora, his bones are like iron bars, and I myself—courage is to me what intelligence is to a chazzan. Even when I catch my finger in a cup handle, I sweat streams. And now, nu, go tell Chaimkeh here that my bones are quaking.”)

The German, musing: “So here we have a Jew who doesn’t know how to die, and who’s also a bit of a writer. Perhaps we can even the score with Staukeh now, eh?” And Wasserman: “Pardon, your honor?” Neigel: “Staukeh. My adjutant.” Wasserman: “Nu, yes, I know the man. What of him?” And Neigel: “Staukeh is the one who found Scheingold here.”

And Wasserman: “Nu, Shleimeleh, my bowels at this moment were tied in knots, because this Scheingold, perhaps you have heard of him, was the leader of some of the finest Warsaw café orchestras. He, too, arrived in a transport some months ago, and had stripped and run naked through the Schlauch, past the Ukrainians with their dubs, and had said Shema Yisrael already, and gone in, to the Holy of Holies, that is, when Staukeh found out who and what Scheingold was, nu, and Staukeh took him behind the flock and ordered him to set up a camp orchestra, he even gave him an amber baton, and Scheingold said a prayer of thanks and girded his loins like a man, and established a fine orchestra here! And he also toiled unceasingly to set up a choir of men and women, and introduced pluckers of the fiddle and blowers on the flute, and how fond the sons of Esau are of melody and song, especially when their hands are soiled with blood—they are such subtle souls—and sometimes, on Reich holidays, or the little houscpainter’s birthday, may the Good Lord send him a new soul already, they would indulge even us with a little music, as beautiful to our ears as the sound of timbrel and psaltery in the Temple of yore! Ah, each concert began with our anthem, the camp anthem, that is, nu … ai: ‘Work means life/duty and obedience/till someday joy/ta ta ta [I forget!]/Will lead the way …’ Yes. Nu, and afterward they would play the Polish Army march, ‘Mi Fierbsha Brigada,’ nu, so, and the concert ended with a song written by one of us to the tune from a film called The Girl from the Pouszche … ah, like honey!”

And Neigel is still wondering. I see now that there is something peculiar about his face: his nose and chin are strong and determined, impressive at first glance. His compelling eyes are vaguely unsettling.But then you notice the dead spots in the big face. The long cheeks, for instance, and the very broad forehead. Even the area under the mouth. A wilderness, where not a single distinctive trait has taken root. At this moment the nose and chin are speaking: “Look here, Scheissemeister, I have an idea, something that may help you stay alive here, or even to live better—” But Wasserman, who seems to be cringing inside his gorgeous gown, emits a choking sound: “To be truthful, your honor, I do not wish it.”

Neigel is offended. His eyes seem