God's Grace by Bernard Malamud Page A

much or little he comprehends, I hear my own voice and know I am present. And if I am, because I speak to him, maybe one of these days he will reply so that he can be present in my presence. He may get the idea.
    Cohn then began a story of his own. “I’m not so good at this,” he set it up. “My imagination has little fantasy in it—that’s why I became a digger of bones—but I am fairly good at describing what I’ve seen and lived through. So instead of inventing stories that never happen—although some do anyhow—I’d rather tell you a few items about my past. Let’s call it a bit of family history.
    “Personally, Buz, I’m the second son of a rabbi who was once a cantor. And he was the first son of a rabbi—my grandfather, alev hasholem—who was killed in a pogrom. That’s a word you probably never heard, one I imagine that Dr. Bünder gave you no sign for.”
    Buz wouldn’t say.
    “Nor for Holocaust either? That’s a total pogrom and led directly to the Day of Devastation, a tale I will tell you on the next dark day.”
    The chimp groomed himself under both arms, seeming to be waiting for the real story to commence.

    Cohn said that his father the cantor had decided to become a rabbi, and was a good one, thus fulfilling a pledge to his father, not to mention showing respect.
    “For somewhat similar reasons I attempted to go the same route, but for complex other reasons I never made it, diverted by inclinations and events I’d rather not talk about at the moment. It isn’t that I’m being evasive but there’s a time and place for everything.”
    Cohn, however, mentioned experiencing a trial of faith—losing interest in religion yet maintaining a more than ordinary interest in God Himself.
    “It’s like staying involved with First Causes but not in their theological consequences. Creation is the mystery that most affects me, so not unexpectedly I ended up in science. And that—to conclude this episode—is why you and I are sitting here listening to each other at a time when nobody else is, I am told.”
    Cohn, as the chimp yawned, cleverly asked, “And what about yourself? Can you tell me something about you? When and where, for instance, did you meet Dr. Bünder? What influence, in the long run, did he have on you? Are you American by birth, or were you born in Tanzania or Zaire? How did you get on the oceanography vessel, and were you at all aware civilization was ending when the lights banged out and scientists and crew abandoned ship without taking you along? I sense surprising gifts of communication in you and would be grateful, sooner than later, to know the facts.”
    Buz pointed to his belly button.

    “Are you saying you are , or asking that question?” Cohn, in rising excitement, wanted to know.
    The chimp tried to make his mouth speak. His neck tendons under the decaying cloth bulged as he strained, but no sound came forth—no word, no hoot.
    Buz grunted anticlimactically, then leaped up in anger, landing on one foot. He stamped the other, stormed, socked his chest, his body hair rising. There was no crying but he seemed on the verge.
    To calm him, Cohn wound up the portable phonograph and put on a record of his father the cantor singing a prayer of lamentation. This was a lamentor indeed; he sang from the pit of his belly, but with respect.
    The cantor noisily brayed his passion for God, pity for the world, compassion for mankind. The force of his fruity baritone seemed to shiver the cave in the rock. His voice was vibrant, youthful; though he was dead. Cohn was grateful his father had died before the Day of Devastation. For that disaster he might not have forgiven God. They had serious trouble after the Holocaust.
    “‘Sh’ma yisroel, ad-nai eloheynu, ad-nai echad—’” sang the cantor, his wavering voice climbing to the glory of God.
    Buz listened in astonishment. He orated, as though complaining. The chimp was holding the lamp above his head, peering at the floor of the