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how to stitch, eh?”) But Neigel pays no attention to the subtleties of Wasserman’s narrative style and is interested in something entirely different. Were Fried and Paula married? he asks, one finger raised sternly, and Wasserman becomes confused and stammers, “Married? Well—no. That is, they were not married. But they lived together as man and wife. That is how it was. Yes. Now I remember.” “In ‘43? Don’t forget she was Polish, and he was one of yours! A little while ago you told me that a story has to be convincing in all its details. Accuracy, you said, remember?” And Wasserman cries, “I remember. And may I again remind you about patience.” (“But my earlobes burned with shame, Shleimeleh, and the old fear possessed me that again my absentmindedness would be my stumbling block. For this kind of blunder overtook me from time to time when I was writing ‘The Children of the Heart,’ and had it not been for Zalmanson checking the details, there might have been, heaven forbid, real catastrophes in my stories, and I will confess another secret to you, Shleimeleh: Harotian’s parentage is based on just such an error. But enough of this. Back to our story.”)

“ … and now Otto and Fried recline outside the hall of friendship, playing a game of chess by the light of the paraffin lamp.” “Like the old days, eh?” roars Neigel, his eyes softening. “Oh yes, Herr Neigel.And Fried is still winning. Just like the old days.” Wasserman describes how the doctor, Fried, makes another V sign in the long column under his name on the oily page. Otto’s column is empty. Otto—Otto of all people—was the one who insisted that they keep the score each game, and the doctor, who guessed the reason for this, pretended these easy victories afforded him pleasure. Neither of them made mention of the anniversary of Paula’s death, though it was never out of their minds. But after a while the silence became unbearable, even to two such taciturn men, and Otto cleared his throat and said quietly that Fried was torturing himself, that Paula had loved him as he was, that there was nothing to regret, that they had shared beautiful moments of friendship, and perhaps even love … [Wasserman:] “Fried answered not a word. His face was impervious, and he seemed to have heard nothing, but unconsciously his hand pushed the black king toward the white queen, and lingered there before her, a small muscle twitching on his cheek.

“Then Otto raised his blue eyes to Fried. And this act was known to have a remarkable influence on the doctor, because Otto and Paula were brother and sister and Otto’s eyes were as blue and clear as Paula’s, and whenever the doctor felt the sadness in his heart about to crush and destroy him, heaven forbid, he would approach stout Otto and lay his hand upon his shoulder and gaze into his eyes. Then a small act of real grace took place: Otto quit his own eyes, nobly absenting himself, and allowed Fried to commune with his Paula.”

“That could happen—I mean, it could, you know,” says Neigel. “My little one, Karl, has the same eyes I do. But exactly. And my wife, sometimes when she used to—when she misses me, she picks him up and looks at him in the light …” And only now does Neigel recollect his status and the status of the person he is talking to, and he laughs awkwardly, jerking his nose, and then with unjustified anger hurries Wasserman on with the story.

“As the doctor immersed himself in Otto’s eyes, he felt his hardness of heart and bitterness melting, and for a moment all the bad years slipped away. He was frightened when the time came to pull out of this enchanted pond.” Wasserman sighed deeply and his eyes wandered in space: “Ai, Herr Neigel, one could say that our story, or any story, for that matter, comes out of the blueness of Otto’s eyes …”

Fried was talking to himself. I could hear him. His voice, like Wasserman’s,had the gray quality of the written word. He said, “I think of her when I rub my elbows with half a lemon so they won’t be rough like tree bark, and I think of her when I brush my teeth to the tune of ‘Gertie Had a Fellow,’ that’s how she taught me, and I think of her when I put a rose in a glass of sugar water to keep it fresh. Paula could stare at a flower for a whole hour. And I never put a flower in water in my life before I lived with her; I didn’t know my elbows were rough. I think of her when I spit three times on seeing a spider—it doesn’t do any harm, she said—and I think of her when I take my socks off at night and smell them, in homage to her, because Paula was a great sniffer of socks and underwear. I think of her when I deliberately leave the faucets dripping and the lights on to show her, wherever she may be, that I, too, am careless and absentminded, and that I regret having lost my temper with her over such trifles, we quarreled unnecessarily sometimes, and I think of her also—” Fried is silent with embarrassment. Wasserman leans forward, as if to whisper encouragement, Nu, Fried, there is no need to be ashamed, we know each other’s kishkes here, but Fried chokes on a prolonged cough and blushes (What is he hiding? What secret has the doctor been keeping all his life?), till little Aaron Marcus, elegant even as a miner, comes to his aid. “And even when you pass wind, dear dear Fried, never be ashamed …”

Silence. I take advantage of the interlude to read the lines I hurriedly wrote down. I correct a word here and there, add an explanatory note. (The pace of events!) And I thank God when Neigel,