I’ve lost all connection with words.
But I am afraid of your silences
.
So am I.
As soon as you stop speaking, you stop seeing
.
No, only then do I begin to see.
*
Do you remember me?
No.
We were neighbors
.
Possibly.
We were friends
.
When?
Before
.
Oh yes, I remember.
We went to the same school, dreamed the same dreams, admired the same teachers
.
Oh, yes, I do remember. We thought of becoming rabbis.
What are you doing now? I am a sculptor. And you?
I write.
The way you say that …
What do you expect? Millions of human beings had to die so that you might become a sculptor and I, a storyteller.
*
I’d like to ask you a question, only it might embarrass you
.
Go ahead. Ask.
How did you manage to sleep?
Where? There?
Yes, there
.
My dear lady, it was easy: I counted corpses. There were lots of them. They all looked alike in the dark—including myself. I would get mixed up. Then I would have to start over and over again: there was always one too many. Sleep was the only way to rid myself of the last intruder. But why do you want to know?
Oh, I am just curious
.
Too bad. I thought you had trouble sleeping.
*
You look sad, or sick
.
I’m not.
You feel all right? You have enough to eat? There’s nothing wrong with you?
I have no complaints.
You are not troubled by other people’s happiness? Or by the innocence of children?
I like happiness and I love children.
Then why do you tell them sad stories?
My stories are not sad. The children will tell you that.
But they make one cry, don’t they?
No, they do not make one cry.
Don’t tell me they make one laugh!
I won’t. I’ll only say they make one dream.
*
Play with me, will you?
All right.
I am the messenger
.
Hello, messenger.
I am powerful and generous
.
Bravo, messenger.
I wish you well
.
Hail to the messenger!
What is your dearest, your most secret wish? Tell me and it will come true
.
You’re a nice messenger.
So? What is your wish?
Oh yes, here it is: grant me that I may meet someone like you.
*
Are you there?
I am here, son.
It’s so dark. I’m trembling. I have a fever. I’m afraid
.
I’m here.
Are we alone, you and I?
I think so.
Would you do something for me?
Naturally, son.
Sing for me
.
At this hour?
You refuse?
But we might wake the whole house, the whole street …
Never mind. I want you to sing. For me. For yourself as well. You promised me. When you sing, we are not alone. It is still dark and I’m still afraid, but it doesn’t matter, you understand, the fear no longer comes from outside but from your song, from your words, it comes from myself … are you there?
Yes, son. We are all here.
THE WATCH
For my bar mitzvah, I remember, I had received a magnificent gold watch. It was the customary gift for the occasion, and was meant to remind each boy that henceforth he would be held responsible for his acts before the Torah and its timeless laws.
But I could not keep my gift. I had to part with it the very day my native town became the pride of the Hungarian nation by chasing from its confines every single one of its Jews. The glorious masters of our municipality were jubilant: they were rid of us, there would be no more kaftans on the streets. The local newspaper was brief and to the point: from now on, it would be possible to state one’s place of residence without feeling shame.
The time was late April, 1944.
In the early morning hours of that particular day, after a sleepless night, the ghetto was changed into a cemetery and its residents into gravediggers. We were digging feverishly in the courtyard, the garden, the cellar, consigning to the earth, temporarily we thought, whatever remained of the belongings accumulated by several generations, the sorrow and reward of long years of toil.
My father took charge of the jewelry and valuable papers.His head bowed, he was silently digging near the barn. Not far away, my mother, crouched on the damp ground, was burying the
But I am afraid of your silences
.
So am I.
As soon as you stop speaking, you stop seeing
.
No, only then do I begin to see.
*
Do you remember me?
No.
We were neighbors
.
Possibly.
We were friends
.
When?
Before
.
Oh yes, I remember.
We went to the same school, dreamed the same dreams, admired the same teachers
.
Oh, yes, I do remember. We thought of becoming rabbis.
What are you doing now? I am a sculptor. And you?
I write.
The way you say that …
What do you expect? Millions of human beings had to die so that you might become a sculptor and I, a storyteller.
*
I’d like to ask you a question, only it might embarrass you
.
Go ahead. Ask.
How did you manage to sleep?
Where? There?
Yes, there
.
My dear lady, it was easy: I counted corpses. There were lots of them. They all looked alike in the dark—including myself. I would get mixed up. Then I would have to start over and over again: there was always one too many. Sleep was the only way to rid myself of the last intruder. But why do you want to know?
Oh, I am just curious
.
Too bad. I thought you had trouble sleeping.
*
You look sad, or sick
.
I’m not.
You feel all right? You have enough to eat? There’s nothing wrong with you?
I have no complaints.
You are not troubled by other people’s happiness? Or by the innocence of children?
I like happiness and I love children.
Then why do you tell them sad stories?
My stories are not sad. The children will tell you that.
But they make one cry, don’t they?
No, they do not make one cry.
Don’t tell me they make one laugh!
I won’t. I’ll only say they make one dream.
*
Play with me, will you?
All right.
I am the messenger
.
Hello, messenger.
I am powerful and generous
.
Bravo, messenger.
I wish you well
.
Hail to the messenger!
What is your dearest, your most secret wish? Tell me and it will come true
.
You’re a nice messenger.
So? What is your wish?
Oh yes, here it is: grant me that I may meet someone like you.
*
Are you there?
I am here, son.
It’s so dark. I’m trembling. I have a fever. I’m afraid
.
I’m here.
Are we alone, you and I?
I think so.
Would you do something for me?
Naturally, son.
Sing for me
.
At this hour?
You refuse?
But we might wake the whole house, the whole street …
Never mind. I want you to sing. For me. For yourself as well. You promised me. When you sing, we are not alone. It is still dark and I’m still afraid, but it doesn’t matter, you understand, the fear no longer comes from outside but from your song, from your words, it comes from myself … are you there?
Yes, son. We are all here.
THE WATCH
For my bar mitzvah, I remember, I had received a magnificent gold watch. It was the customary gift for the occasion, and was meant to remind each boy that henceforth he would be held responsible for his acts before the Torah and its timeless laws.
But I could not keep my gift. I had to part with it the very day my native town became the pride of the Hungarian nation by chasing from its confines every single one of its Jews. The glorious masters of our municipality were jubilant: they were rid of us, there would be no more kaftans on the streets. The local newspaper was brief and to the point: from now on, it would be possible to state one’s place of residence without feeling shame.
The time was late April, 1944.
In the early morning hours of that particular day, after a sleepless night, the ghetto was changed into a cemetery and its residents into gravediggers. We were digging feverishly in the courtyard, the garden, the cellar, consigning to the earth, temporarily we thought, whatever remained of the belongings accumulated by several generations, the sorrow and reward of long years of toil.
My father took charge of the jewelry and valuable papers.His head bowed, he was silently digging near the barn. Not far away, my mother, crouched on the damp ground, was burying the
Similar Books
