by Jurek Becker
I needn’t bother with the rest. Everyone can easily imagine how the princess’s eyes lit up and her lips turned red and she got well again, how the good old king rejoiced, how the garden boy didn’t want the promised reward but preferred to marry the princess, and they lived happily ever after. That’s Jacob’s story.
It is probably the same evening, or possibly one before or one after; lovely, gentle Rosa is lying beside Mischa listening to the battle of the Rudna. Mischa is telling her in a soft voice, but he is not whispering; there is a big difference between talking softly and whispering, and you may well ask, Why isn’t he whispering? And you may ask, Why is the cupboard no longer in the middle of the room but standing quite normally against the wall, and Why is the curtain covering the window again instead of dividing the room into two halves? What has happened to the screen? you may wonder, and above all, Why is Rosa suddenly lying there naked although the light is still on, why is she no longer embarrassed? Then please be good enough to glance at the other bed, you will find it empty, and all those questions will boil down to one: Where is the deaf and dumb Isaak Fayngold of the sharp ears?
I don’t know the answer any better than Mischa does, let alone Rosa. A week ago Fayngold left early in the morning to go to work, as he did every day, and has not been heard of since. The first evening it didn’t seem too serious; Mischa thought he might have gone to visit a friend, that they got to talking and Fayngold suddenly noticed that it was past eight o’clock and too late to go home, so he had just lain down on the floor and spent the night there. “What do you mean, got to talking?” Rosa asked suspiciously. “He’s deaf and dumb, isn’t he?” “What makes you think deaf and dumb people can’t talk to each other?” Mischa answered quick as a flash. “Do you think they’re condemned to keep everything that’s going around in their heads to themselves? They can communicate every bit as well as you and I, only in sign language, that’s all.”
But the second evening Fayngold didn’t come home either, or the third, so on the fourth day Mischa went to see the only person with whom, as far as he knew, Fayngold was friendly, Hersch Praschker, who worked with Fayngold in the cleanup detail, clearing the streets of garbage and of the bodies of those who had died of starvation. But Praschker had no idea either. “I meant to go and look in at his place tomorrow,” he said, “and find out why he wasn’t turning up for work. They’re sure to come for him; they’ve already got his name down.” “When was the last time he came to work?” “Tuesday.” “And Wednesday morning he left home as usual.”
He never arrived, never returned home; perhaps he escaped or died or was in an accident or was arrested off the street. Death or accident seems unlikely since he was never found; inquiries established this. A planned escape seems unlikely; none of his things are missing from the cupboard, not even the photograph of his grandson; he would never have left that behind, he guarded it like a treasure. So all that really remains is an arrest off the street. Why, is a mystery, for Fayngold has always been a reliable and law-abiding person, but we all know the saying, where there’s a will there’s a way. And all this makes it clear why Mischa is telling the story of the battle of the Rudna in a soft voice and not whispering.
Rosa is lying beside him for the second night in a row, something that has never happened before. Old Mr. Frankfurter, who, as a man of the theater, is not known to be partial to ultrastrict morals, has uttered a word of warning: “Very well, children, you love each other, that’s understandable. But don’t go overboard right away.” Because of that and because of Rosa’s reserve, the number of nights they spend together remains within modest limits. Mischa has had to persuade her each time almost as if it were the first, with one or two exceptions. And now the very next night again. Rosa imagines it must be something like this when one is married, but, frankly, she doesn’t feel all that comfortable about it. This has nothing to do with Mischa, as if he were suddenly different from before, less inhibited, perhaps, or more demanding; Mischa’s stock has not dropped by a single point, for she regards him with no less love than on the first day. Or let’s say, the fifth. The reason for this, unaccountable though it may sound to some, is Isaak Fayngold; in some strange way she has become accustomed to him. But how can one become accustomed to a person who is only a distraction, deaf and dumb though he may be? In such a situation, in which privacy is taken for granted, how can one? One can, and one can’t; we will try to get to the bottom of this.
In the first place, it was in this room that Rosa first made love, in Fayngold’s presence; he was there from the very first instant, and keeping him in ignorance was a constant ingredient of all their caresses. In the second place, Fayngold’s bed is not just an empty bed: no, Fayngold isn’t lying in it, which makes a considerable difference. Each time she looks behind the screen, now superfluous and hence removed, she is reminded of his grim fate —- uncertain, true, but the longer she broods over it, only uncertain as to the manner of death. And in the third and final place, when Mischa told her that Fayngold had disappeared, her face showed dismay, as expected, but after a while not nearly as much dismay, and she caught herself thinking: At last. That wasn’t directed at Fayngold, she wished him only the best; it simply had to do with herself and Mischa and implied: alone at last, at last undisturbed, at last a little nook for the two of us. That’s what she caught herself thinking, and it bothered her quite a bit; she was ashamed of such thoughts, yet kept on thinking: At last. Then she thought too, Just as well Mischa doesn’t know what selfish notions are being hatched in my head. And she also thought, Regardless of what happened to Fayngold, it’s over and done with now, and the thoughts we keep to ourselves can’t have any effect on people’s lives.
But they did have an effect; it wasn’t that simple. For several days she gave Mischa reasons why she couldn’t go with him to his room, and he went off disappointed. Until yesterday, when she couldn’t or wouldn’t find any more reasons. “And why aren’t you coming today?” he asked her. “But I am!” and then he said it: “At last!” They went to his room. Mischa had already rearranged it, now that Fayngold’s absence could be regarded as permanent. The cupboard stood, as noted before, against the wall, the curtain hung in front of the window. Rosa stopped short in the middle of the room and first had to get used to it, having never seen it like this. Of course she noticed Fayngold’s neatly made bed, sensing right away that there would be a problem about that. “What’s that box there?” she asked.
“His things. In case someone comes for them,” Mischa replied. And that immediately set the mood.
At some point they lay down, but for a long time without speaking or moving and without joy. In the same way that everything else was different that evening, the light was still on. Mischa lay on his side and she on her back because the bed was too narrow for both to lie on their backs. With a glance at Fayngold’s smooth bed he asked: “What do you think, couldn’t we —?”
“Oh no, please!” she broke in nervously.
“All right then.”
He turned out the light, slid his arm under her head — that’s how it usually began — and tried to kiss her, but she turned aside. Until he asked: “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
He pondered for a while what nothing might mean, then said: “But you didn’t really know him at all, and even if you did, what can we do about it?”
Again he tried to kiss her, and this time she let him, but only just. He soon noticed that there was nothing doing, so he closed his eyes, tomorrow is another day, and fell asleep. That was the only thing that was as usual: he is always the first to fall asleep.
In the middle of the night she woke him up; he wasn’t annoyed, he hoped she had finally changed her mind, and one is glad to be woken up for that.
“I have to tell you something, Mischa,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
Completely misinterpreting the ensuing silence, he drew her to him, and as he brushed his lips over her face he noticed that it
was wet and salty, from the eyes down. That shook him to the core because he was used to her seldom laughing and never crying; not even when her only friend had to board that train six months ago was she able to cry, although for days she didn’t utter a word. And now suddenly her face was wet, it was enough to shake anyone, but she hadn’t sobbed or moaned, it must have happened quite silently; he wouldn’t even have woken up if she hadn’t woken him. And besides, it seemed to be more or less over, to judge by her voice.
“I have a request, I’m sure you’ll find it strange.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d like the room put back the way it was before.”
“What do you mean — the way it was before?”
“I’d like the cupboard back in the middle. And the curtain.”
“But why? Fayngold isn’t there anymore.”
“I’d like it that way,” she said.
He really did find it strange — first strange, then childish, then silly, then plain ridiculous. Then he remembered having heard or read something about the unfathomable moods of women and that it is advisable to nip them in the bud. The whole change that she wanted would have taken him no more than ten minutes, but he said: “Only if you can give me a sensible reason.”
“I’d like it that way,” she said.
And that wasn’t a sensible reason, not by any standards, and he steadfastly refused. He told her that, although it was to her credit to take Fayngold’s disappearance so much to heart in spite of hardly knowing him, only his breathing and snoring, in the ghetto many people one knew just as little disappear every day, after all, and if one were to make such a fuss about every single one of those, it would be unbearable. And she accused him of being an uncouth, insensitive clot. Their first quarrel was under way and, if it hadn’t been for the eight-o’clock curfew, she would undoubtedly have got up, dressed, and said good-bye. But as it was she merely turned her back to him to make him realize how much she despised him.
The next day — today, that is — he went to meet her right outside the factory because at her home, in the presence of her parents, a reconciliation would have been much more difficult. It was difficult enough anyway, not for any lack of goodwill but because they had no experience in ending quarrels. Finally they both admitted that they hadn’t behaved all that well, a kiss in a doorway, and each could breathe more freely again. They dropped by her home to let them know where she would be spending the night. Mr. Frankfurter did not seem enthusiastic; he could not know that last night had been practically a washout. Mischa heard Mrs. Frankfurter murmuring to her husband, “Let them be.”
So on to his room. Both did all in their power to be nice to each other, showing their best sides after the quarrel, but one could sense that a little more time would have to pass before everything was back to normal.
Mischa told her about the battle of the Rudna, or rather, since we have returned to the present, Mischa tells her about the battle of the Rudna in a low voice, and finally finishes it, as heard today from Jacob, the latest news, so to speak, from the ether. Rosa melts with bliss, she knows where the Rudna flows and how much progress since Bezanika this battle represents, and she’s half-inclined to start making new plans. But Mischa isn’t interested in plans, not at the moment, they won’t run away as this second night might, and he turns out the light to devote himself to Rosa. There is to be no more talk of victories; last night was practically a washout. The Rudna and Fayngold and words spoken in anger are forgotten; the two come closer together in the old familiar way, insofar as individual volition is in control. But it does not hold unlimited sway; they catch themselves making comparisons: That’s how it is now, really no different from before. For a while they lie side by side looking at each other. And perhaps they are even conscious of there being no third person’s breathing from the other half of the room to disturb them. Let’s come right out with it: the attempt to make up for a lost night turns out rather woefully, even though they would never admit it, even though they pretend to be as content as young lovers.
We will leave them now, with some regret but in the hope that more carefree times will return; we are at liberty to hope this. Let us stop a moment to listen to Mischa, riding the wave of restored harmony, asking with a smile something he would have done better not to ask: “Do you still want me to divide the room again with the cupboard and the curtain?” He says this with a smile, not doubting for a moment that Rosa sees things differently now, that in reply she’ll say something about silly moods, that she didn’t know what got into her yesterday, and that the whole tiresome incident would best be forgotten.
And, just before we leave, let us hear Rosa say, “Yes, please.”
Jacob has to hear with his own ears how distorted his stories become when they are passed on.
Jacob is on his way to the attic to see Lina; not that it’s bedtime, but he has to do more with her than just to make sure she washes properly, brushes her teeth, and goes to bed at the right time. At the freight yard we were sent home two hours early; there was nothing left to be unloaded, and the sentries didn’t feel like watching over idlers, so they told us to shove off. A few particularly bold theorists speculate that there is more than mere laziness behind this order: perhaps the sentries are trying to be friends; after all they could just as easily have kept us there another two hours, standing in line. But they sent us home. Perhaps this is a subtle indication that a new era is knocking at the door. Anyway, the two hours will be well spent with Lina, Jacob thinks. As he places his hand on the door handle he realizes that she is not alone. He hears Rafael’s voice asking, “What’s it all about, then?”
“About a princess,” says Lina.
“Does she get kidnapped?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Of course she does. I know all that. She’s kidnapped by a robber. He wants a lot of ransom money for her, but the prince kills him and sets her free. And afterward they get married.”
“What nonsense you talk,” Lina retorts. “That’s a whole other story. Do you think there’s only one story about a princess?”
“All right then, tell it!”
“Aren’t we going to wait for Siegfried?”
“He won’t come.”
Jacob can hear them waiting and the attic window being opened. Rafael shouts, “Siegfried!”
Then he says Siegfried is nowhere in sight, and shortly afterward Lina screams at Rafael to stop that nonsense. What nonsense she means isn’t clear, but he doesn’t seem to be stopping right away. Then he asks, “Who told you the story anyway?”
“Uncle Jacob.”
That gives an eavesdropper pause for thought. Jacob has never told her a fairy tale about a princess, he would be bound to remember that. It must have been the fairy-tale uncle, and without a tremor in her voice she turns two separate people into one man. That gives pause for thought; perhaps it was even Jacob who played the march music and asked the questions and gave the answers. Or it was a hasty slip of the tongue on Lina’s part, or — and this would be best — she had resorted to a white lie so as not to reveal the existence of the radio. That remains to be seen; they will have to discuss it later.
“He won’t be coming now, so you might as well start,” says
Rafael.
And that’s what happens. Lina clears her throat, Jacob pricks up his ears; he has never heard what his stories sound like when they are passed on.
“Once upon a time there was a king, a good old king, and he had a daughter, that was the princess,” Lina began.
“What was the king called?”
Lina is evidently trying to remember whether any names were mentioned at all. For Rafael this takes too long, and he says, “Surely you must at least know what he was called?”
“His name was Benjamin,” Lina recalls. “And the princess was called Magdalena.”
“What was he called? Benjamin? Do you know who’s called Benjamin? My uncle in Tarnopol, he’s called Benjamin. But never a king.”
>
“I don’t care if you believe it or not, but the king in this fairy tale was called Benjamin.”
“Oh, all right!” says Rafi generously, not about to spoil things for the sake of a name. Jacob is almost sure that he is standing there with folded arms in a patronizing manner.
Lina continues, but more hurriedly than at first, as if she had lost the thread, as if expecting further objections: “One day the princess got sick. The doctor couldn’t find anything because he didn’t know what her disease was, but she wouldn’t eat any more bread, and she wouldn’t drink either. So the king went to her himself, he loved her so much, you see — I forgot that part. And he asked her what was the matter. Then she told him she wouldn’t get well again till someone brought her a bunch of cotton as big as her pillow. And then the old king—”
But that’s as far as she gets, Rafael has had enough; he has tried hard and listened patiently, but too much is too much, his credulity can be stretched, but it has limits.
“What kind of a disease is your Magdalena supposed to have had?”
“You just heard.”
“And I’m telling you, there is no such disease! Not in the whole world!”
“How do you know?”
“If at least she had measles, or whooping cough, or typhoid,” Rafael protests. “You know what the princess really had? A fart in her head!”
He laughs, much louder than Jacob, but Lina can find nothing funny about his explanation. “Do you want to go on hearing the story or don’t you?” she asks.
“I don’t,” says Rafael, still amused; the best jokes are always one’s own. “Because she had a fart in her head. Because the whole story is a load of nonsense. First about the king, in the whole world you’ll never find a king called Benjamin. And then princesses never eat bread, only cake. And the biggest nonsense of all is that disease. Or have you seriously ever heard of a person getting sick from not having any cotton?”