piercing eyes, the eyes of a man who thought he knew everything and was entitled to everything.
Grisha couldn’t understand his mother: how could she become attached to someone like that? Of course, she was alone, she needed a man in her life, while he, Grisha, made her feel even more alone.
Grisha detested Mozliak and made no secret of it. Because of him Raissa would slip out in the evening and go up to the floor above. To make her feel better Grisha would pretend to be asleep. Besides, she would have left anyway. Often, eyes aching, sick with anxiety, he would wait for her return: when would he finally hear the door creaking? His anguish endured until the door opened. Then he would close his eyes and pretend to be fast asleep. On one occasion, he didn’t succeed. It was impossible to close his eyes: he tried and tried—in vain. Raissa turned on the bed light and saw her son’s twisted face.
“What’s the matter, Grisha?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
“Weren’t you sleeping?”
“Yes, I was. I just woke up, I had a bad dream.”
“I’m here now. Go to sleep.”
She put out the light. “You should spend more time with your classmates, make some friends,” she said in the dark. “Now it’s all right, it’s possible.”
“I know that,” he said spitefully.
She was startled. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
She was silent a moment before going on: “Are you angry with me?”
“No.”
“Dr. Mozliak is a fine person, you know, you’d like him too, if …”
“If what?”
“If you’d meet him. In fact, he’d like nothing better.”
Grisha thought it over: “What do you do in his place when you’re together?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “We talk, that’s all. We drink tea and chat. He’s a good talker, Volodya, I mean Dr. Mozliak.”
“And my father?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was my father a good talker?”
The hostile silence created an abyss between them.
“Your father didn’t talk much, Grisha. He was a poet. And poets, in order to sing, need silence. Your father was often silent.”
Grisha promised himself that one day he would be silent too. And that he would learn to understand words before they were born and after they had disappeared.
I have never laughed, said Viktor Zupanev, the night watchman. I have never laughed in my life
.
My parents tried to make me laugh; my neighbors tried to make me laugh; my adversaries tried to make me laugh. Life and death, intertwined like drunkards, did everything to make me laugh
.
My parents took me to doctors, who made me vomit; then to gypsies, who made me drink; then to fortune-tellers, showmen, monks, scoundrels, witches, acrobats, clowns, fakirs
—
I always left with a frown on my face
.
At boarding school, my teachers swore on their honor to make me laugh; they beat me and deprived me of food, water and sleep; they laughed, not I
.
My schoolmates persecuted me. Girls tickled me, their mothers caressed me and bubbled with laughter. Nothing worked
—
I didn’t laugh
.
I had no real friends, no real enemies, no mistresses, no illegitimate children
—
I had no one, I was no one. And all because I didn’t know how to laugh
.
At the office, I watched everything that went on, I observed, listened and took notes—but there, too, I had no desire to laugh
.
THE TESTAMENT OF PALTIEL KOSSOVER II
Soon afterward World War I broke out, but I had nothing to do with it, I swear. No doubt this will shock you, Citizen Magistrate, since you are convinced that everything evil that happens in the world is arranged, directed and willed by the Jews. Not this time. Sarajevo—not my fault.
To tell the truth, I was a little bewildered by it all. Those names, those titles, those thrones: too much for the head of a Jewish child. The adults were worried and so was I. It was dismal, distressing. Those church bells, ringing for hours across fields and mountains, were announcing to men and women that it was
Grisha couldn’t understand his mother: how could she become attached to someone like that? Of course, she was alone, she needed a man in her life, while he, Grisha, made her feel even more alone.
Grisha detested Mozliak and made no secret of it. Because of him Raissa would slip out in the evening and go up to the floor above. To make her feel better Grisha would pretend to be asleep. Besides, she would have left anyway. Often, eyes aching, sick with anxiety, he would wait for her return: when would he finally hear the door creaking? His anguish endured until the door opened. Then he would close his eyes and pretend to be fast asleep. On one occasion, he didn’t succeed. It was impossible to close his eyes: he tried and tried—in vain. Raissa turned on the bed light and saw her son’s twisted face.
“What’s the matter, Grisha?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
“Weren’t you sleeping?”
“Yes, I was. I just woke up, I had a bad dream.”
“I’m here now. Go to sleep.”
She put out the light. “You should spend more time with your classmates, make some friends,” she said in the dark. “Now it’s all right, it’s possible.”
“I know that,” he said spitefully.
She was startled. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
She was silent a moment before going on: “Are you angry with me?”
“No.”
“Dr. Mozliak is a fine person, you know, you’d like him too, if …”
“If what?”
“If you’d meet him. In fact, he’d like nothing better.”
Grisha thought it over: “What do you do in his place when you’re together?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “We talk, that’s all. We drink tea and chat. He’s a good talker, Volodya, I mean Dr. Mozliak.”
“And my father?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was my father a good talker?”
The hostile silence created an abyss between them.
“Your father didn’t talk much, Grisha. He was a poet. And poets, in order to sing, need silence. Your father was often silent.”
Grisha promised himself that one day he would be silent too. And that he would learn to understand words before they were born and after they had disappeared.
I have never laughed, said Viktor Zupanev, the night watchman. I have never laughed in my life
.
My parents tried to make me laugh; my neighbors tried to make me laugh; my adversaries tried to make me laugh. Life and death, intertwined like drunkards, did everything to make me laugh
.
My parents took me to doctors, who made me vomit; then to gypsies, who made me drink; then to fortune-tellers, showmen, monks, scoundrels, witches, acrobats, clowns, fakirs
—
I always left with a frown on my face
.
At boarding school, my teachers swore on their honor to make me laugh; they beat me and deprived me of food, water and sleep; they laughed, not I
.
My schoolmates persecuted me. Girls tickled me, their mothers caressed me and bubbled with laughter. Nothing worked
—
I didn’t laugh
.
I had no real friends, no real enemies, no mistresses, no illegitimate children
—
I had no one, I was no one. And all because I didn’t know how to laugh
.
At the office, I watched everything that went on, I observed, listened and took notes—but there, too, I had no desire to laugh
.
THE TESTAMENT OF PALTIEL KOSSOVER II
Soon afterward World War I broke out, but I had nothing to do with it, I swear. No doubt this will shock you, Citizen Magistrate, since you are convinced that everything evil that happens in the world is arranged, directed and willed by the Jews. Not this time. Sarajevo—not my fault.
To tell the truth, I was a little bewildered by it all. Those names, those titles, those thrones: too much for the head of a Jewish child. The adults were worried and so was I. It was dismal, distressing. Those church bells, ringing for hours across fields and mountains, were announcing to men and women that it was
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