See Under David Grossman (free ebook reader TXT) 📖

which he translates fluently for my benefit: Abwanderung, which means “exodus or migration,” is the word used to describe mass deportations to the camps; behind the word Hilfsmittel, “a device or helpful tool,” lurk the gas machines; and what would you say to Anweiserin, that lovely maiden who ushers you to your seat in the theater, and in their language becomes the sobriquet for Kapo woman? And he throws out more and more examples, till his voice grows hoarse and he whispers furiously, “Poison! A death potion in their language from first to last!”

“Wasserman!” says Neigel, who was left out of the conversation this time (in what could be called a state of suspension). “It’s a good thing you’re here. I want you to go on with the story.” “Now, your honor? But it is past midnight!” “Now!” “But, your honor, everything that happened outside … the executions, that is … do you feel like hearing a story?” “What do you think?!”

Wasserman glares at him. (“Go thou, Anshel, and play before the king, whose mood is black upon him …”) It should be noted (I hate it when things like this are left dangling) that somehow we all proceed from Neigel’s shower stall to his office. He stretches. From his desk drawer he pulls out a bottle and takes a sip. His checks are flushed. I have to report here that contrary to Staukeh’s claim (in the interview he gave after the war), Neigel drinks like a pro. Wasserman mutters to himself and, sliding a hand into his gown, gropes for the notebook. He spies another blue envelope in Neigel’s wastebasket and glowers. This would be a good time to fill in a few more details about the room, like the little army placards on the walls, and other silly maxims with a hypnotic effect on persons of weak character who hear in them the echoing of a primitive call of the blood, the beating of the great pulse, ten thousand feet marching in step, the smell of sweat at the stadium, the boyhood memory of a ride on Father’s rugged shoulders, the jolly concussion of a rifle butt, or the way the spirit soars when the band is playing with ten trumpets and six drums, and every tune is your anthem. And suddenly Wasserman lets out a bitter scream, to drown out a noise I hadn’t noticed: “The story, the story must go on!”

“Go on, then,” says Neigel, smiling a very thin smile. “Who’s stopping you?”

Wasserman breathes and looks at me with a curious expression in his eyes. “There, I have begun,” he says quietly.

“When night came, Herr Neigel,” he says at last, “the baby would not stop hollering, and his bitter screams drowned out the din of a tank rolling by on a nearby street and the frightening explosions from surrounding houses, where heavy combat was in progress …” And again Neigel raises a hand and, in a voice like iron, demands an explanation. Wasserman looks at him and turns to me. (“Ai. I am about to sell Esau the smell without the fish, as they say …”) He explains to Neigel that the story has moved again, this time to Nalvaky Street in Warsaw, “at the time of our little rebellion against you, begging your pardon.”

“Ha!” shouts Neigel in amazement, and stands up, his finger trembling with rage as he points to the Jew. “Still at it, still trying to fight us with your puny weapons?!” And once again we witness his astounding self-control: he forces himself to sit down, and squeezes his fingers around an invisible neck. “I know exactly what you mean to do with this nonsense,” explains Neigel in a soft, noxious voice (Wasserman: “Like a sharp razor wrapped in kidskin”). “You, like all people in love with words and talk, think everyone else is as susceptible as you are to their magic power. You really believe you can wage a war with words here, and fight battles with diversions and raids and precision bombings? Don’t interrupt me! I’m talking now!” And Neigel stands up again, tugging at his belt and pacing furiously around the room. “You started your story in the forest of Borislav, in that lousy stinking mine, and as soon as you saw I was beginning to understand, when you saw I was getting used to the place, you moved the story away, to the zoo! And you waited till I was comfortable there, off my guard, and—hoopla! You move the story again! A surprise attack on an unexpected front! Warsaw! The rebellion! Ach!! You shuffle your stupid characters around like a general moving battalions. You’re waging a guerrilla war with words! Hit and run! Feints and harassments. It’s a war of attrition! I wonder where you’re going to take me after Warsaw. To Birkenau? To the Fuhrer’s bunker in Berlin? Believe me, Wasserman”—he stands very close to the Jew and speaks into his ear—“I despise you and your ridiculous efforts. I pity you. Pity you. If you had a knife in your hand, even a little jackknife, it would be a lot more convincing and effective than the millions of words you’re going to chatter here.” And he takes a jackknife out of his pocket, snaps it open irritably, and sets it on the table next to Wasserman. “Here you are. What are you going to do with it?” Wasserman is silent. He looks away. Neigel explodes: “Here’sthe jackknife, Wasserman! A fine, sharp knife. Now I’m going to unload my gun. I’m kneeling on the floor beside you. I can’t see you. What are you going to do with it?!” Wasserman is still looking the other way. Neigel waits a minute more, his face to the floor. Then he lumbers to his feet, picks up the jackknife, and shuts it. He looks defeated. “What did you think, Wasserman,” he asks quietly, without malice or rancor, “that if you jumped your story around from place to place you would unhinge me?