See Under, page 26
And Neigel is still wondering. I see now that there is something peculiar about his face: his nose and chin are strong and determined, impressive at first glance. His compelling eyes are vaguely unsettling. But then you notice the dead spots in the big face. The long cheeks, for instance, and the very broad forehead. Even the area under the mouth. A wilderness, where not a single distinctive trait has taken root. At this moment the nose and chin are speaking: “Look here, Scheissemeister, I have an idea, something that may help you stay alive here, or even to live better—” But Wasserman, who seems to be cringing inside his gorgeous gown, emits a choking sound: “To be truthful, your honor, I do not wish it.”
Neigel is offended. His eyes seem to retreat and harden like lead. “Do you hear what you’re saying? I offer you life, more than that—a good life! Here!” To which Wasserman, in a tone of fearful, stubborn apology: “Many thanks, only I cannot. A whim of mine, begging your pardon, not worth the mention, your honor. Begging your pardon.”
(“Oi, you should have seen the look he gave me, this Esau, like daggers! He has eyes, keinahora! They leave you timorous and ashamed because the seven deadly sins in your heart have been exposed! A look that says, Well, I know who and what people are! And because even you are a human being, you are a criminal with no alternative but to commit crimes, et! I tell you, Shleimeleh, the man knows one thing about mankind, but this bit of knowledge outweighs every science, and with it he takes the measure of the world!”)
For just then—and it’s high time, too—Neigel will say quietly (his eyes on Wasserman, like a snake transfixing the mouse it is about to swallow): “Is the heart willing?”
And Anshel Wasserman answers, unthinking: “The heart is willing!”
And then silence.
(“It was as though my entire being had shriveled up and disappeared from sight like paper catching fire, and I felt a sharp stinging, and drooped as if beheaded, heaven forbid. Ai, Shleimeleh, if I live and die seven times, if I tell this story to the unhearing world a thousand times, I will never forget the moment Neigel uttered the secret password of the Children of the Heart.”)
And Neigel in the same barely audible whisper: “Come what may?” And the Jew, with a deep, weak sigh: “Come what may.”
And why is this so unusual? thinks Wasserman, who is shivering all over, and trying to persuade himself that he is unstirred. “Every meeting between two people is a wonder and a mystery, for even a man and his beloved, even if they are man and wife and have lived in partnership for many years, nu, yes, still, how rarely do they meet, while he and I here—remarkable!” But there is not a drop of blood in his body, and Neigel, too, is very pale. They both look hollow. As if everything inside them has been sucked out and spilled into the veins of a new, transparent embryo made entirely of the supplications and fervor and anxiety of two who briefly glimpsed each other over the trenches.
Neigel’s face is sharp. There is a kind of defeat and startling frailty in the great wilderness. He can barely find his voice. He sputters a few times before he can bring himself to tell Wasserman heavily, hoarsely, that back home in Fissan, his village at the foot of the Zugspitze in Bavaria, he used to read the stories of Wasserman-Scheherazade; that he remembers most of the adventures in the series; that when he was eight years old he named his beloved dog Otto after the leader of the Children of the Heart; that he and his brother Heinz—“Were raised you might say on those stories of yours! They were our primers, together with the New Testament, that is!”
Okay, this sounds a bit farfetched, so Neigel will now add, “Of course, we were given other books, too,” quickly appending, “Karl May’s books, for instance, and others I can’t remember offhand. My father wanted to make sure we read. He would have preferred for us to read the New Testament, of course, ah, he had great plans for us, but the pastor persuaded him to let us read your stories too. They appeared in a magazine called My Native Land! I can remember exactly how it looked, I even remember how it smelled, I swear. It arrived at the church once a week, and Pastor Knaupf would lend it out to me and Heinz on Sunday. I believe he used to read the magazines too, because once I heard him tell Father that your stories were reminiscent of the Old Testament.” His face is redder than ever, with embarrassment perhaps for having let his feelings go to such an extent, but these feelings doubtless issue from inner depths where an SS officer’s rules of conduct diminish in influence, and Neigel exclaims, “Listen, Scheherazade, I can see it all! It seems like only yesterday! The town, Pastor Knaupf, who had a telescope and used to gaze at the stars, not to mention some quite different things, they say, and—really! Once my father whittled the Zugspitze in wood! The tavernkeeper in Fissan bought it from him, and it’s there in the tavern to this very day; strange, isn’t it, my father dead and gone but that piece of wood still there … yes, and most of all I remember your stories, I really do remember them, and just to prove it—” (Yes yes! Wasserman and I shout in unison; do it quickly, we beg him silently, prove it now, ply us with names, details, facts. Facts! I rasp, give me facts, Neigel! It’s a rickety building we’ve erected here, a frail fetus of fiction, a weak blue baby that has to be rubbed with devotion, nu, lie to me, Neigel, lie like an expert with charm and grace, because I’m willing to believe you, I’m willing to forget myself and be half deceived, I want to believe that such a thing is possible, so on with it, Herr Neigel, schnell!)
And Neigel conjures the ghost of “that boy, their leader, Otto was his name. I named my beloved dog after him. And the blonde, Otto’s girlfriend, the one with the braid, what was her name—no, don’t tell me—Paula, right?” And Wasserman says, gently, drowsily, “Excellent, Commander, and almost perfectly correct! Only Paula was not Otto’s girlfriend, she was—” And Neigel smacks his forehead: “Oh, of course! How silly! Paula was Otto’s sister! Now it’s coming back to me: the other one was in love with Paula, the one who could make friends with animals and knew how to cure them. Wait a minute—and he could talk to them, too, right? Alfred? Was that his name? No? Wait, no, let me think. Fried was his name! Yes. I remember everything now. Everything. Albert Fried, and he loved Paula, but he never told her. See, Scheherazade? I remember everything! Everything!” And his face gleams with perspiration.
Wasserman—I think I’m beginning to know him now—will have to do something to dampen all the good cheer coming his way. “But, your honor, there were stories about … nu … how shall I put it … the lowliest people …” And Neigel cuts him short with a smile: “Yes, I know. Stories about your people, and the Armenians and the Negroes, only don’t forget, times were different then. That was—let’s see—about thirty years ago? More? Thirty-five? Forty years? Yes. Forty years ago. At the turn of the century. How time flies! I was six years old then. Just learning to read. And for years after, five years, maybe more, I read your stories every week … of all things …”
Neigel continues to bask in the remembrance of those days. His big head seems to rise and fall with the effort of drawing memories from a deep well. Anyone looking at him now, at this grown man, happy as a child, would discern at once that things truly had been “different then.” Only Wasserman, for some reason, quickly strips himself of pride and pleasure (“Nu, Shleimeleh, would you believe it? A regular ‘And Joseph revealed himself to his brothers’! Fch!”), to await the ominous interpretation of this incredible dream.
“And what else can you do, besides pulling gold teeth and running the shittery?” asks Neigel as the first excitement fades. “Nu, well, I can tell stories, your honor. Adventuresome tales, Commander,” answers Wasserman in all humility. “We’ll take care of that now,” says Neigel casually, and Wasserman: “Pardon?!” And the German: “Shut up a minute. I have to think. Yes, yes. Definitely possible. There’s only one problem: your number has come up with the group we’re finishing. But that can be remedied. A new prisoner will have to do without a number. It won’t be much of a problem.” And he jots something down in his little black notebook. “Now let’s see. What was your profession before the war? Just writing?” “Just writing? Don’t you know?” “Know what?” “Nu, well, I have written nothing for the past twenty years … The Children of the Heart are no more … To earn a living I worked as a proofreader for a small magazine in Warsaw … and every so often I edited articles and essays by other writers, or prepared other people’s stories for the printer, and other such things …” “Cooking!” cheers Neigel suddenly. “You could help my cook. That way you can stay here without a lot of questions.” “Begging your pardon. About cooking I know less than nothing. A cup of tea, perhaps, and a boiled egg.” (“In all my years of bachelorhood I took my meals at Feintoch’s home restaurant, Shleimeleh. Clear noodle soup for a first course, followed by herring with a little shmaltz, and for dessert, nu, what else, heartburn.”) But Neigel doesn’t give up so easily, and rattles off a list of domestic positions (“Ironing? Mending? Plastering?”), and before long I realize that he is ridiculing Grandfather, and this makes me furious, all the more so when I see Wasserman giving in without a fight. He hides his head between the wings of his protruding shoulder blades and silently tells me that “I always think about my Sarah. My thoughts forever flock to her. And how we used to laugh that I, nebuch, with these two poor arms of mine, mere straws, not arms at all, a travesty of arms, Mephibosheth’s legs were stronger than my arms! It was a miracle that I found her, my Sarah, who was also a real baleboosteh, and managed the housework in her father’s home, and even knew a thing or two about electricality, and could turn a collar like a master tailor, or repair a shoe like a cobbler, ah, what could she not do!” And Neigel, beginning to despair, vents his anger with a viscious insult (“Not a great record for a man of sixty, Wasserman, who can’t even die!”), and then he suddenly remembers another possibility and exclaims, “Gardening!” at which point I interrupt the conversation and answer in Wasserman’s stead, much to his amazement, “Gardening! Yes!”
Neigel smiles with satisfaction. He is already spinning a green dream (“Ah, you’ll lay out a glorious garden for me around the barracks!”); already settling invisible scores (“Far prettier than Staukch’s, eh?”); already improving and expanding on the original plan (“And you can till a vegetable patch so I won’t have to eat the turnips those Polish farm women water with donkey piss”); and I quickly jot down a reminder to myself to find out about gardening for poor Wasserman (Ruthy is good at such things), but Wasserman, my maddeningly unpredictable Anshel Wasserman, says, “The truth is, your honor, that my spirit is not so inclined, not at all so inclined.”
Neigel is unperturbed by this refusal. He wants Wasserman, and nothing will prevent him from carrying out his plan. Slyly he brings the conversation back to the safer topic of the Children of the Heart, with a recollection of an episode about a Negro slave rebellion in America, concluding artfully, “Admit it, Scheherazade, you never dreamed you’d find such old admirers among us, did you?”
Here my Wasserman acknowledges Neigel’s compliment with a light nod, unique in its synchronistic disclosure of multiple expressions: 1. amiability, 2. sham meekness, 3. feigned self-mockery; and likewise, in combination with a very thin smile—a. an almost dog-like gratitude, b. abject deference, but only superficially, and c. a wretched craving, suppressed with iron jaws, that forges the spasmodic smile.
(Wasserman: “Feh! How certain I had been that I would never again resort to this little pose, and in my old age yet …”) Neigel continues to drip flattery into Wasserman’s ears; he also weaves in a few interesting details about himself, his childhood in Fissan, and his father, but suddenly something strange and totally incomprehensible happens; Uber-sturmbannführer Neigel’s face grows rigid and serious, as though he had called it to attention, and he makes a rapid, formal declaration, in no way related to anything previously discussed by them. “I have 120 officers and men under my command, Wasserman. And 170,000 persons have arrived here in the transports so far—as of the beginning of this week!” Once again I needed Wasserman (“Did you see? So proudly Esau spoke his piece, I quickly looked under the table to see if he would click his heels. He did not.”) And he explains to me that Neigel had been impelled to make this perplexing declaration out of “a source deeper than the lesson he learned in Reb Himmler’s cheder,” and that “Nu, such things oftentimes betide me when I chance upon fleshly men of family who read my stories in their tender youth. And strange to say, such men always feel obliged to vaunt their manhood before me, to magnify their accomplishments as princes of Torah scholarship or of the marketplace—in short, to be Moishe Gros! Perhaps they wished to impress me that their latter days had brought no blame to the lessons they gleaned from my stories in childhood. Ineffable are the ways of man, Shleimeleh, and how very schoolboyish they seemed to me, then, boasting before an old teacher in whose presence we all revert to juvenility, and perhaps the same holds true for the writer of children’s stories, so when Neigel said such things here, nu, you understand how sweet the melody was to my ears, and yet I refrained from answering a fool in his folly, and merely stammered a kind of ‘Nu yes, very likely true,’ but he saw he had made a dunderheaded ninny of himself, and he buried his nose between the pages of his black notebook, and there was silence.”)
Wasserman takes this opportunity to tell me what little he knows about Neigel and his adjutant, Staukeh, mentioned earlier by Neigel. Neigel’s nickname in the camp is “Ox,” because of his unusually large head, and because of his outbursts (“You should see him in a rage! Flames shoot out of his mouth, balls of fire!”). His assistant, Ober-sturmführer Staukeh, is called “Lalakeh,” or Dolly, by the prisoners. (“Because of his face, he has the face of an innocent child, the pure-hearted son of the Passover Haggadah! But a killer nonetheless, with the bite of a fox and the sting of a scorpion.”) Neigel is different from Staukeh in every conceivable way. Staukeh, according to Wasserman, and judging by the written testimony I looked through recently, was a sick sadist for whom “the gates of intelligence were ever open for the devising of new schemes to harrow and torture, and he grabs and guzzles and kills with a pleasure and a passion not of this world.” Staukeh was also corrupt, not above a bribe here and there, or getting drunk at the officers’ club, and sometimes, “Nu, well, mangling a young doc of a farmer’s daughter.” No, Neigel is no Staukeh, and Staukeh is no Neigel. “They are different yet they complement each other, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Or Pat and Patashon!” Neigel, according to Wasserman, “is all of a piece, felled, as it were, by one swing of the ax. We never saw him inebriated, nor did he ever smile at us. Not even viciously, like Staukeh. Zalmanson liked to call him ‘Bellyache,’ because he looked as if he had eaten bitter herbs, like someone who has no time for nonsense, only duty. And here I am in the nest of the viper himself, for over an hour now, and he has yet to pluck my beard or strike my mouth, and what is more, I have even seen him smile now and again, he has even told me of himself and of his ancestry. Imagine, Shleimeleh, at first he wanted to murder me, and fired a shot, but he did it according to rule, and I noticed he averted his eyes in order not to see. On the whole, it appears he does not know what to do with me, and this troubles him. Sometimes he looks at me strangely and says ‘Humph,’ and, Shleimeleh, though I cannot think what this ‘humph’ might be for, I only hope it is not a ‘humph’ of sadness, heaven forbid, for I do not wish to make him sad, he too was a child once, after all, and read what he read and liked me a little, and who knows what he endured at the SS Führerschule, for surely no one becomes a murderer without forfeiting happiness, and if I knew how a man like Neigel could be turned into a murderer, perhaps I would try to turn him around and reform him, et! Senile musings, Anshel! You want to change the world in your old age? With a kind of prophetic hindsight? But inside, I feel the worm gnaw, because after everything this arch-murderer Neigel did to me, I spent the last hour with him and saw his face as a boy, and I was beginning to think that these many months in Neigel’s camp I was wrong not to count him a human being, with a wife, perhaps, and children, and these musings of mine filled me with amazement, and I put them aside for future consideration, and to Neigel I said that I was distraught to have caused him such inconvenience, and I saw that my words touched his heart, because he gazed upon me like a shaken man. And I confessed to him that it was no small discomfort for me either that the man about to finish me was nu, well, a man with whom I am somewhat acquainted, and to stress my point, I quoted Papa, may he rest in peace, who was a grocer and taught me one must never mix work and sentiment, but instead of being appeased by this, Neigel groaned and stared at me in horror, as though, heaven forbid, I had uttered obscene words.”
“Enough!” screams Neigel suddenly. “Enough of this talking! You start work today, Wasserman, you hear? Now shut up a minute!” And Wasserman says, “Work? What work, your honor?” And Neigel: “Trying to be clever again, eh? I’ve already informed you: you will lay out a flower garden and a vegetable patch. And in the evening after work, after I finish with my meetings and reports, you will come in here and do your duty.” “Pardon?!” “You will tell me a story, Wasserman. You know exactly what I’m talking about. A story! Not for children, of course, a special story for me!” “I? Heaven forbid. I am no longer adept at telling stories.” “You are no longer adept? Then who is adept? You listen, Scheherazade, I’m giving you a chance to justify your nickname. Tell me a story and stay alive.” And Wasserman says, “No, no, I cannot, your honor. You see I never … this is the truth … moreover … I cannot … it died … the desire … the imagination—” And Neigel, tempting him: “You have a great imagination. You always had, you know. That story with the gladiator in Rome, the Children of the Heart come to his rescue, and the little one, Fried, persuades the lion not to eat him, ah! Or when they help Edison just when he’s going to give up on the invention of the electric light—who else could have thought of that?” And Anshel Wasserman says gloomily, like a bird plucked clean of every plume of pride, “Anyone, your honor.”
