See Under David Grossman (free ebook reader TXT) 📖

Did you think you could addle my brain that way? Ach, so old and yet so childish, Wasserman, and so stupid, too. We could have done something wonderful here together. Something nobody has ever done before. But you insist on playing your dreck Jude games with me, and destroying your last story with your own hands, besides losing the only person in the world willing to take any time out for your silly nonsense, you old curio!” And again he tugs at his belt, for emphasis, and returns heavily to his chair. Wasserman preens his molted plumes, admits to himself that the German is right, and that “Neigel is my scourge.” And at the same time, inexplicably, he swells with stiff-necked pride (“Nu, well, though I am almost prostrate on the ground baking a bagel, as they say, meaning, Evil has overtaken me, I knew that Esau had never needed to beat words into such thin threads before, and that the more he did so, the more he would become unraveled”), and partially recovered, if still cautious, he apologizes to Neigel and suggests that “with your permission,” he will continue the story now, without trickery, if Herr Neigel would be good enough to forget this little incident and return to the zoo?

Neigel consents. There is no logical explanation for this. He just can’t seem to do without the rest of the story, as if he needed it for some purpose. Wasserman denies that he knows the reason. Inwardly he smiles his thin, crooked smile and reiterates that he is duty-bound to retrieve all that is forgotten, and that he has a commitment to the story, which is “like a living, breathing creature. The feet must not come before the head.” And he returns to the screaming infant, and to Fried, who carries him in his arms and paces his room, murmuring na na na and lu-li lu-li in his ears, and also cheep, cheep, cheep! But none of this helps to soothe the baby, still screaming into the large and hairy ear of the doctor, who has never experienced such violence before. The screams seemed to unravel the premarked stitches of strained vigilance in his brain and the old hopes that froze so long ago.

No, the baby isn’t going to make it.

Our little story will end here.

Because suddenly, without warning, a certain person is paralyzed with fear, utterly paralyzed, as if a cataract had spread to the root of his soul. And again there are reflections, such as: (1) A certain person has no faith left in ideals and/or other persons. (2) Therefore, he can no longer undertake responsibility, or make choices and/or decisions about anything whatsoever. Consequently, all actions, procedures, and relationships entered into by a certain person will be henceforth significantly reduced—together with the pain he may cause or which may be caused him. (3) All is lost. In other words, if a certain person should raise his hopes again, he may expect to be bitterly disappointed. Only, he didn’t raise his hopes. Even his legal wife showed her true face under the new conditions and, in league with a certain other woman who had at one time engaged in sexual relations with a certain person, advised him to leave their joint place of cohabitation (“home”; “the nest”) until such time as he should “feel better,” “work things out,” etc. Naturally this was done in the name of “love,” “concern,” and “understanding.”

He was exiled (of his own free will) to another city. A rented attic room (with a separate entrance) housed him for six months. A fog wound through his tortured brain. The pages were blank and white. A certain person no longer belonged to anything, and nothing belonged to a certain person. In the evening, after days of white glare, three cigarettes were smoked under a Persian lilac tree on a quiet side street near his room. A cheek was nicked while shaving. Confusion reigned. Or, at the risk of overfamiliarity, a certain person was confused.

Across the empty pages of the notebook in which the story was to be written, a single word flashed through the sleepless night: BEWARE. But of what was he supposed to beware? And to what end had he built a fortress around himself so adeptly all these years? Mama and Papa never said. They left an order: Beware. So you’ll survive. And later, when all the wars are over, there will be time to sit and talk about the full implications of the life you guarded so fiercely. But meanwhile, make do with this. There’s nothing more we can tell you now. There are those who regard this word (“Beware”) as the word Wasserman read his story from to Neigel. Others suggested that the word was “survive”; but that was not it either, apparently. In the White Room there are efficient ways to investigate such questions: if something is written down on paper, and must be weighed in order to ascertain whether it is true or not, then a certain person is clearly on the wrongtrack. But if the procedure is such that it is enough for a certain pair of eyes to close in order for consciousness to return and for a clear reflection to appear on the mirror of the inner eye without recourse to rational intervention—herein lies the fulfillment of the capricious, physio-literary demands of the White Room.

Fried lays the screaming baby down on the carpet. He doesn’t know what to do. Standing his full height, he feels as if he’s seeing his own scaled-down reflection inside a well. For the first time this evening he allows himself to loosen his tie and roll up his sleeves. Otto: “Paula and I had never seen him like this; I mean, so unkempt. A real Zanyedvany. And because the baby’s face is turning purple from screaming and holding his breath, the doctor kneels down beside him on the carpet and pries the little mouth open with two fingers, grumbling,”Otto didn’t see