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right. He has four teeth in there.” He lays his long, hard palm on the baby’s belly and gently massages it, as he sometimes does with baby baboons suffering from gas and shrieking in pain. The child under his hand was, as Marcus said, “like a fresh leaf sprouting from the trunk of a withered tree.”

And while Fried was giving this pleasant massage, he suddenly heard … Fried: “Nu, how shall I say it, the baby—that is, suddenly I hear …” Wasserman: “A mighty gurgle from the baby’s bottom, as smooth green beads of excrement squirted onto the carpet.” Munin: “You can describe it as beautifully as you like, but it’s still shit.” Marcus: “The good doctor wrinkled his nose at this foul wind from his guest and ran to get a rag …”

Neigel raises his hand. In the past few minutes he has made several notes in his black book. With his left hand waving in the air, he continues to write with the other hand. He wants to know, once and for all, who this mysterious Mr. Marcus is and what he’s doing in the story. Wasserman is still evasive. He tells the German that Marcus is an apothecary. That he is extremely musical and, as a pastime, copies scores for the Warsaw Opera Company. He is also very interested in alchemy, but he joined the Children of the Heart by dint of certain experiments which have no bearing on the philosopher’s stone. “A human experiment par excellence, Herr Neigel!” declares Wasserman. “An act of self-sacrifice and mortification for the sake of an ideal. More I cannot divulge to you at this time, and I beg you for a little patience.”

It should be noted that Fried preferred using a torn sheet for diapersthan the diapers Paula had embroidered for the unborn Kazik. He did his best to diaper the baby, who writhed and screamed and kicked till finally—Fried: “Du yassni choleria! Right in my nose!” The doctor, in agony and with a bloody lip, let out a furious wail, which scared even him, and then tried to blur the impression of it by dangling the baby, tickling him, batting his big eyelids at him, and finally—Marcus: “Hallelujah, Fried! You sang him a song you remembered from childhood!” Fried: “Little sheep are turning home … baa baa baa … Skipping over rock and stone … baa baa baa, etc.” Otto: “But the babykin wouldn’t stop screaming, and if you’ve ever heard Fried sing, you’ll know why.” And Fried: “I sat next to him on the carpet, feeling very low. I kept telling myself that there was nothing else the poor little fellow could do, and it would be best just to let him go on screaming. And as soon as I thought this, what happened?” Otto: “The babykin started smiling at the doctor!” Fried: “Smiling, hell. He was laughing! He was actually laughing!”

No strength left. No strength for baby or anybody. A certain person has lost the strength to go on. The writing authority, previously mentioned, doesn’t have enough vitality left for itself, let alone another living creature, even a literary character. Utter passivity has taken over. In the wake of this, additional considerations have gradually matured, e.g., a new system of living with others (or frying omelettes with them, not to mention peeling onions!) will have to be devised. We will have to go back a few hundred steps and start anew. But this time, we will proceed very slowly, so we won’t repeat those ghastly mistakes. It will be necessary to assemble all the most highly intelligent professionals for this vital research, our in-depth analysis of man to help us understand what we have here. We will grind down all that is human, flatten it out, make it so shallow that the various clues will stand out, the combination to the safe. This machine-book will explain once and for all what it was intended for, and how to use it and improve it. What to do in case of breakdown, when it can’t correct its own mistakes, and how an outsider can fix it. And now Wasserman is telling the story to Neigel. A Jew who can’t die is trying to save the world with the help of the Children of the Heart. And an innocent wish is made—that this innocent effort of Wasserman’s might win the faith of a certain person; only, a certain person is unable to believe or find redemption. Yes, man will have to be taken apart limb from limb. And that which is called“life” will have to be vivisected down to its finest fibers, and put under a microscope lens. In order to neutralize scientifically that which can no longer be withstood, like “murder,” for instance, or “love,” until they are at last deciphered and stopped from causing such “pain” and “anguish.” Until they are understood. And till then, everything is suspended: “love” and “mercy” and “morality.” And there is no “right” or “not right,” “love” or “not love.” There is no “choice” and no “freedom.” This is an emergency, one fist, four fingers, whereas those are luxuries, suitable for times of “peace,” and for people willing to “believe” in “man” and his “kind” “heart” and “moral” “destiny,” and in the “purpose” “of” “life” “but” “Wasserman” “brings” “us” “a” “baby” … Neigel coughs and calls Wasserman’s attention to a mild discrepancy: the baby is rather young to laugh. Wasserman readily acknowledges this. Fried was also surprised. Fried remembered that voluntary, directed smiling begins at the age of, uhm … say … “Two or three months,” Neigel volunteers. “Karl started a little later. He is more serious … With Lischen we saw a smile when she was two months old. She’s always first at everything. Christina says she was like that as a baby, too.” And Wasserman: “Your memory is truly amazing, Herr Neigel. Perhaps you recorded it in a special baby book?” “What? Yes. I mean, Christina, she recorded it in a