Everything Is Illuminated

by Jonathan Safran Foer

  SHLOIM W

  I ask, I ask, who is Trachim? Some mortal curlicue?

  (The playwright smiles in the cheap seats. He tries to gauge the audience's reaction.)

  THE DISGRACED USURER YANKEL D

  We don't so fully fathom anything yet. Let's not be hasty.

  PEANUT GALLERY

  (An impossible-to-place whisper.) This is so unbelievable. Not at all like it was.

  GYPSY GIRL

  (Kneading SAFRAN's dead arm between her thighs, tracing the bend of his unfeeling elbow with her finger, pinching it.) Don't you think it's hot in here?

  SHLOIM W

  (Quickly undressing himself, revealing a belly larger than most and a back matted with ringlets of thick black hair.) Cover their eyes. (Not for them. For me. I'm ashamed.)

  SAFRAN

  Very hot.

  GRIEVING SHANDA

  (To SHLOIM, as he emerges from the water.) Was he in solitude or with a wife of many years? (But what she was really trying to say was this: After everything that's happened, I still have hope. If not for myself, then for Trachim.)

  GYPSY GIRL

  (Intertwining her fingers with SAFRAN's dead ones.) Can't we leave?

  SAFRAN

  Please.

  SOFIOWKA N

  Yes, it was love letters.

  GYPSY GIRL

  (With anticipation, with wetness between her legs.) Let's leave.

  THE UPRIGHT RABBI

  And allow life to go on in the face of this death.

  SAFRAN

  Yes.

  (Musicians prepare for climax. Four violins are tuned. A harp is breathed on. The trumpeter, who is really an oboist, cracks his knuckles. The hammers of the piano know what happens next. The baton, which is really a butter knife, is lifted like a surgical instrument.)

  THE DISGRACED USURER YANKEL D

  (With hands raised to the heavens, to the men who aim the spotlights.) Perhaps we should begin to harvest the remains.

  SAFRAN

  Yes.

  (Enter music. Beautiful music. Hushed at first. Whispering. No pins are dropped. Only music. Music swelling imperceptibly. Pulling itself out of its grave of silence. The orchestra pit fills with sweat. Expectancy. Enter gentle rumble of timpani. Enter piccolo and viola. Intimations of crescendo. Ascent of adrenaline, even after so many performances. It still feels new. The music is building, blooming.)

  AUTHORITATIVE VOICE

  (With passion.) The twins covered their eyes with their father's tallis. (CHANA and HANNAH cover eyes with tallis.) Their father chanted a long and intelligent prayer for the baby and its parents. (UPRIGHT RABBI looks at his palms, nods his head up and down, gesturing prayer.) Yankel's face was veiled in the tears of his sobbing. (YANKEL gestures sobbing.) Unto us a child was born!

  (Blackout. Curtains wed. GYPSY GIRL spreads her thighs. Applause mingled with hushed chatting. Players prepare stage for the next scene. The music is still building. GYPSY GIRL leads SAFRAN by his dead right arm out of the theater, through a maze of muddy alleys, past the confectioners' stands by the old cemetery, under the hanging vines of the synagogue's crumbling portico, through the shtetl square—the two separated for a moment by the Dial's final casting of the day—along the Brod's loose bank, down the Jewish/Human fault line, beneath the dangling palm fronds, bravely through the shadows of the crag, across the wooden bridge—)

  GYPSY GIRL

  Would you like to see something you've never seen before?

  SAFRAN

  (With an honesty previously unknown to him.) I would. I would.

  (—over the black- and blueberry brambles, into a petrified forest that SAFRAN has never before seen. GYPSY GIRL stands SAFRAN under the rock canopy of a giant maple, takes his dead arm into hers, allowing the shadows cast by the stone branches to consume her with nostalgia for everything, whispers something in his ear [to which no one other than my grandfather is privileged], eases his dead hand under the hem of her thin skirt, says) Please (bends at the knees), please (lowers herself onto his dead index finger), yes (crescendo), yes (puts her caramel hand on the top button of his dress shirt, sways at the waist), please (trumpet flourish, violin flourish, timpani flourish, cymbal flourish), yes (dusk spills across the nightscape, the night sky blots up the darkness like a sponge, heads crane), yes (eyes close), please (lips part), yes. (The conductor drops his baton, his butter knife, his scalpel, his Torah pointer, the universe, blackness.)

  12 December 1997

  Dear Jonathan,

  Salutations from Ukraine. I just received your letter and read it many times, notwithstanding parts that I read aloud to Little Igor. (Did I tell you that he is reading your novel as I read it? I translate it for him, and I am also your editor.) I will utter no more than that we are both anticipating the remnants. It is a thing that we can think about and converse about. It is also a thing that we can laugh about, which is something we require.

  There is so much that I want to inform you, Jonathan, but I cannot fathom the manner. I want to inform you about Little Igor, and how he is such a premium brother, and also about Mother, who is very, very humble, as I remark to you often, but nonetheless a good person, and nonetheless My Mother. Perhaps I did not paint her with the colors that I should have. She is good to me, and never bad to me, and this is how you must see her. I want to inform you about Grandfather, and how he views television for many hours, and how he cannot witness my eyes anymore, but must be attentive to something behind me. I want to inform you about Father, and how I am not being a caricature when I tell you that I would remove him from my life if I was not such a coward. I want to inform you about what it is like to be me, which is a thing that you still do not possess a single whisper of. Perhaps when you read the next division of my story, you will comprehend. It was the most difficult division that I have yet composed, but I am certain not nearly so difficult as what is still to come. I have been putting on a high shelf what I know I must do, which is point a finger at Grandfather pointing at Herschel. You have without doubts observed this.

  I have learned many momentous lessons from your writing, Jonathan. One lesson is that it does not matter if you are guileless, or delicate, or modest. Just be yourself. I could not believe that your grandfather was such an inferior person, to be carnal with the sister of his wife, and on the day of his wedding, and to be carnal while standing, which is a very inferior arrangement,for reasons you should be aware of. And then he is carnal with the aged woman, who must have had a very slack box, which I will utter no more about. How can you do this to your grandfather, writing about his life in such a manner? Could you write in this manner if he was alive? And if not, what does that signify?

  I have a further issue to discuss about your writing. Why do women love your grandfather because of his dead arm? Do they love it because it enables them to feel strong over him? Do they love it because they are commiserating it, and we love the things that we commiserate? Do they love it because it is a momentous symbol of death? I ask because I do not know.

  I have only one remark about your remarks about my writing. With regards for how you ordered me to remove the section where you talk about your grandmother, I must tell you that this is not a possibility. I accept if because of my decision you choose not to present me any more currency, or if you command for me to post back the currency you have given me in the previous months. It would be justifying every dollar, I will inform you.

  We are being very nomadic with the truth, yes? The both of us? Do you think that this is acceptable when we are writing about things that occurred? If your answer is no, then why do you write about Trachimbrod and your grandfather in the manner that you do, and why do you command me to be untruthful? If your answer is yes, then this creates another question, which is if we are to be such nomads with the truth, why do we not make the story more premium than life? It seems to me that we are making the story even inferior. We often make ourselves appear as though we are foolish people, and we make our voyage, which was an e
nnobled voyage, appear very normal and second rate. We could give your grandfather two arms, and could make him high-fidelity. We could give Brod what she deserves in the stead of what she gets. We could even find Augustine, Jonathan, and you could thank her, and Grandfather and I could embrace, and it could be perfect and beautiful, and funny, and usefully sad, as you say. We could even write your grandmother into your story. This is what you desire, yes? Which makes me think that perhaps we could write Grandfather into the story. Perhaps, and I am only uttering this, we could have him save your grandfather. He could be Augustine. August, perhaps. Or just Alex, if that is satisfactory to you. I do not think that there are any limits to how excellent we could make life seem.

  Guilelessly,

  Alexander

  WHAT WE SAW WHEN WE SAW TRACHIMBROD, or FALLING IN LOVE

  "I HAVE NEVER been in one of these," said the woman we continued to think of as Augustine, even though we knew that she was not Augustine. This required Grandfather to laugh in volumes. "What's so funny?" the hero asked. "She has never been in a car." "Really?" "There is nothing to be afraid of," Grandfather said. He opened the front door of the car for her and moved his hand over the seat to show that it was not evil. It seemed like a common decency to relinquish the front seat to her, not only because she was a very old woman who had endured many terrible things, but because it was her first time in a car, and I think it is most awesome to sit in front. The hero later told me that this means to sit shotgun. Augustine sat shotgun. "You will not travel with too much speed?" she asked. "No," Grandfather said as he arranged his belly under the steering wheel. "Tell her that cars are very safe, and she shouldn't be scared." "Cars are safe things," I informed her. "Some even have airbags and crumple zones, although this one does not." I think that she was not primed for the vrmmmm sound that the car manufactured, because she screamed with much volume. Grandfather quieted the car. "I cannot," she said.

  So what did we do? We drove the car behind Augustine, who walked. (Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior walked next to her, to be her companion, and so that we would not have to smell the bitch's farts in the car.) It was only one kilometer distance, Augustine said, so it would be possible for her to walk, and we would still arrive before it was too dark to see anything. I must say that it seemed very queer to drive behind someone who is walking, especially when the person who is walking is Augustine. She was only able to walk several tens of meters before she would become fatigued and have to make a hiatus. When she hiatused, Grandfather would stop the car, and she would sit shotgun until she was ready to walk in her strange way again.

  "You have children?" she asked Grandfather while she gathered her breath. "Of course," he said. "I am his grandson," I said from the back, which made me feel like such a proud person, because I think it was the first occasion I had ever said it in the loud, and I could perceive that it also made Grandfather a proud person. She smiled very much. "I did not know this." "I have two sons and one daughter," Grandfather said. "Sasha is the son of my most aged son." "Sasha," she said, as if she desired to hear what my name sounded like when she uttered it. "And do you have any children?" she asked me. I laughed, because I thought this was a weird question. "He is still young," Grandfather said, and put his hand on my shoulder. I found it very moving to feel his touch, and to remember that hands can show also love. "What are you talking about?" the hero asked. "Does he have any children?" "She wants to know if you have any children," I told the hero, and I knew that this would make him laugh. It did not make him laugh. "I'm twenty," he said. "No," I told her, "in America it is not common to have children." I laughed, because I knew what a fool I sounded like. "Does he have parents?" she asked. "Of course," I said, "but his mother works as a professional, and it is not unusual for his father to prepare dinner." "The world is always changing," she said. "Do you have children?" I asked. Grandfather presented me a look with his face that signified, Shut up. "You do not have to answer that," he told her, "if you do not desire to." "I have a baby girl," she said, and I knew that this was the end of the conversation.

  When Augustine walked she did not exclusively walk. She picked up rocks and moved them to the side of the road. If she witnessed a thing of garbage, she would also pick that up and move it to the side of the road. When there was nothing in the road, she would cast a rock several meters in front of her, and then recover it, and then cast it in front of her again. This ate a large quantity of time, and we never moved any faster than very slow. I could perceive that this frustrated Grandfather because he held the steering wheel with much strength, and also because he said, "This frustrates me. It will be dark before we arrive there."

  "We are near," she said many times. "Soon. Soon." We pursued her off of the road and into a field. "It is OK?" Grandfather asked. "Who will prevent us?" she said, and with her finger showed us that there was nobody in existence for a long distance. "She says that nobody will prevent us," I told the hero. He had his camera around his neck and was anticipating many photographs. "Nothing grows here anymore," she said. "It does not even belong to anyone. It is only land. Who would want it?" Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior galloped unto the canopy of the car, where she sat like a Mercedes sign.

  We persevered to pursue Augustine, and she persevered to cast her rock in front of her and then recover it again. We pursued her, and pursued her more. Like Grandfather, I also was becoming frustrated, or at least confused. "We have been here before," I said. "We have already witnessed this place." "What's going on here?" the hero asked from the back seat. "It's been an hour and we haven't gotten anywhere." "Do you think that we will arrive soon?" Grandfather asked, moving the car next to her. "Soon," she said, "soon." "But it will be dark, yes?" "I am moving as fast as I can."

  So we persevered to pursue her. We pursued her through many fields and into many forests, which were difficult for the car. We pursued her over roads made of rock, and also over dirt, and also over grass. I could hear the insects were beginning to announce, and this is how I knew that we would not see Trachimbrod before night. We pursued her past three stairs, which were very broken and appeared to have once introduced houses. She put her hand on the grass in front of each. It became more dark—darker?—as we pursued her on trails, and also where there were no trails. "It is almost impossible to witness her," Grandfather uttered, and even though he is blind, I must confess that it was becoming almost impossible to witness her. It was so dark that sometimes I had to skew my eyes to view her white dress. It was like she was a ghost, moving in and out of our eyes. "Where did she go?" the hero asked. "She is still there," I said. "Look." We went past a miniature ocean—a lake?—and into a small field, which had trees on three sides and spread into a space on the fourth side, where I could hear distant water from. It was now too dark to witness almost anything.

  We pursued Augustine to a place near to the middle of the field, and she stopped walking. "Get out," Grandfather said. "Another hiatus." I moved to the back seat so that Augustine could sit shotgun. "What's going on?" the hero asked. "She is making hiatus." "Another?" "She is a very aged woman." "You are tired?" Grandfather asked her. "You have done a lot of walking." "No," she said, "we are here." "She says we are here," I told the hero. "What?" "I informed you that there would be nothing," she said. "It was all destroyed." "What do you mean we're here?" the hero asked. "Tell him it is because it is so dark," Grandfather said to me, "and that we could see more if it was not dark." "It is so dark," I told him. "No," she said, "this is all that you would see. It is always like this, always dark."

  I implore myself to paint Trachimbrod, so you will know why we were so overawed. There was nothing. When I utter "nothing" I do not mean there was nothing except for two houses, and some wood on the ground, and pieces of glass, and children's toys, and photographs. When I utter that there was nothing, what I intend is that there was not any of these things, or any other things. "How?" the hero asked. "How?" I asked Augustine. "How could anything have ever existed here?" "It was rapid," she said, and that would hav
e been enough for me. I would not have made another question or said another thing, and I do not think that the hero would have. But Grandfather said, "Tell him." Augustine positioned her hands so far in the pockets of her dress that it looked like she had nothing after her bends. "Tell him what happened," he said. "I do not know everything." "Tell him what you know." It was only then that I understood that "him" was me. "No," she said. "Please," he said. "No," she said. "Please." "It was all very rapid, you must understand. You ran and you could not care about what was behind you or you would stop running." "Tanks?" "One day." "One day?" "Some departed before." "Before they came?" "Yes." "But you did not." "No." "You were lucky to endure." Silence. "No." Silence. "Yes." Silence. We could have stopped it there. We could have viewed Trachimbrod, returned to the car, and followed Augustine back to her house. The hero would have been able to say that he was in Trachimbrod, he could have even said that he met Augustine, and Grandfather and I would have been able to say that we had completed our mission. But Grandfather was not content with this. "Tell him," he said. "Tell him what happened." I was not ashamed and I was not scared. I was not anything. I just desired to know what would occur next. (I do not intend what would occur in Augustine's story, but amid Grandfather and her.) "They made us in lines," she said. "They had lists. They were logical." I translated for the hero as Augustine spoke. "They burned the synagogue." "They burned the synagogue." "That was the first thing they did." "That was first." "Then they made all of the men in lines." You cannot know how it felt to have to hear these things and then repeat them, because when I repeated them, I felt like I was making them new again. "And then?" Grandfather asked. "It was in the middle of the town. There," she said, and she pointed her finger into the darkness. "They unrolled a Torah in front of them. A terrible thing. My father would command us to kiss any book that touched the ground. Cooking books. Books for children. Mysteries. Plays. Novels. Even empty journals. The General went down the line and told each man to spit on the Torah or they would kill his family." "This is not true," Grandfather said. "It is true," Augustine said, and she was not crying, which surprised me very much, but I understand now that she had found places for her melancholy that were behind more masks than only her eyes. "The first man was Yosef, who was the shoemaker. The man with a scar on his face said spit, and he held a gun to Rebecca's head. She was his daughter, and she was a good friend of mine. We used to play cards over there," she said, and pointed into the darkness, "and we told secrets about boys who we were in love with, who we wanted to marry." "Did he spit?" Grandfather asked. "He spit. And then the General said, Step on it." "Did he?" "He did." "He stepped on it," I told the hero. "Then he went to the next person in line, who was Izzy. He taught me drawing in his house, which was there," she said, and pointed her finger into the darkness. "We would remain very late, drawing, laughing. We danced, some nights, to Father's records. He was a friend of mine, and when his wife had the baby, I would care for it like it was my own. Spit, the man with blue eyes said, and he put a gun in the mouth of Izzy's wife, just like this," she said, and put her finger in her mouth. "Did he spit?" Grandfather asked. "He spit." "He spit," I told the hero. "And then the General made him curse the Torah, and this time he put the gun in Izzy's son's mouth." "Did he?" "He did. And then the General made him rip the Torah with his hands." "Did he?" "He did." "And then the General came to my father." It was not too dark for me to see that Grandfather closed his eyes. "Spit, he said." "Did he?" "No," she said, and she said no as if it was any other word from any other story, not having the weight it had in this one. "Spit, the General with blond hair said." "And he did not spit?" She did not say no, but she rotated her head from this to that. "He put it in my mother's mouth, and he said spit or." "He put it in her mother's mouth." "No," the hero said without volume. "I will kill her here and now if you do not spit, the General said, but he would not spit." "And?" Grandfather asked. "And he killed her." I will tell you that what made this story most scary was how rapid it was moving. I do not mean what happened in the story, but how the story was told. I felt that it could not be stopped. "It is not true," Grandfather said, but only to himself. "Then the General put the gun in the mouth of my younger sister, who was four years old. She was crying very much. I remember that. Spit, he said, spit or." "Did he?" Grandfather asked. "No," she said. "He did not spit," I told the hero. "Why didn't he spit?" "And the General shot my sister. I could not look at her, but I remember the sound of when she hit the ground. I hear that sound when things hit the ground still. Anything." If I could, I would make it so nothing ever hit the ground again. "I don't want to hear any more," the hero said, so it was at this point that I ceased translating. (Jonathan, if you still do not want to know the rest, do not read this. But if you do persevere, do not do so for curiosity. That is not a good enough reason.) "They tore the dress of my older sister. She was pregnant and had a big belly. Her husband stood at the end of the line. They had made a house here." "Where?" I asked. "Where we are standing. We are in the bedroom." "How can you perceive this?" "She was very cold, I remember, even though it was the summer. They pulled down her panties, and one of the men put the end of the gun in her place, and the others laughed so hard, I remember the laughing always. Spit, the General said to my father, spit or no more baby." "Did he?" Grandfather asked. "No," she said. "He turned his head, and they shot my sister in her place." "Why would he not spit?" I asked. "But my sister did not die. So they held the gun in her mouth while she was on the ground crying and screaming, and with her hands on her place, which was making so much blood. Spit, the General said, or we will not shoot her. Please, my father said, not like this. Spit, he said, or we will let her lie here in this pain and die across time." "Did he?" "No. He did not spit." "And?" "And they did not shoot her." "Why?" I asked. "Why did he not spit? He was so religious?" "No," she said, "he did not believe in God." "He was a fool," Grandfather said. "You are wrong," she said. "You are wrong," Grandfather said. "You are wrong," she said. "And then?" I asked, and I must confess that I felt shameful about inquiring. "He put the gun against my father's head. Spit, the General said, and we will kill you." "And?" Grandfather asked. "And he spit." The hero was several meters distant, placing dirt in a plastic bag, which is called a Ziploc. After, he told me that this was for his grandmother, should he ever inform her of his voyage. "What about you?" Grandfather asked. "Where were you?" "I was there." "Where? How did you escape?" "My sister, I told you, was not dead. They left her there on the ground after they shot her in her place. She started to crawl away. She could not use her legs, but she pulled herself with her hands and arms. She left a line of blood behind her, and was afraid that they would find her with this." "Did they kill her?" Grandfather asked. "No. They stood and laughed while she crawled away. I remember exactly what the laughing sounded like. It was like"—she laughed into the darkness—"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. All of the Gentiles were watching from their windows, and she called to each, Help me, please help me, I am dying." "Did they?" Grandfather asked. "No. They all turned away their faces and hid. I cannot blame them." "Why not?" I asked. "Because," Grandfather said, answering for Augustine, "if they had helped, they would have been killed, and so would their families." "I would still blame them," I said. "Can you forgive them?" Grandfather asked Augustine. She closed her eyes to say, No, I cannot forgive them. "I would desire someone to help me," I said. "But," Grandfather said, "you would not help somebody if it signified that you would be murdered and your family would be murdered." (I thought about this for many moments, and I understood that he was correct. I only had to think about Little Igor to be certain that I would also have turned away and hid my face.) It was so obscure now, because it was late, and because there were no artificial lights for many kilometers, that we could not see one another, but only hear the voices. "You would forgive them?" I asked. "Yes," Grandfather said. "Yes. I would try to." "You can only say that because you cannot imagine what it is like," Augustine said. "I can." "It is not a thing that you can imagine. It only
is. After that, there can be no imagining."