“Do you sometimes see yourself as happy over there?”
“Yes. With Dad and Mom.”
“Do you sometimes laugh over there?”
“Now that my brother left me, I don’t laugh anymore. I see myself in the empty basement of an empty house, and the empty house is located in an empty city. I see myself there and I know that I’m empty, too.”
Yedidyah admits to Alika that this trip inside his memory distresses and disorients him.
“A name, recall a name.”
“Over there, I have no name. I’m too little. I’m not entitled to one. I’m a Jewish child. Jewish children have to rid themselves of their names so they can live.”
“The people in the basement, what do they call you?”
“When they come, they motion to me. I obey.”
“And you, what do you call them?”
“I never call them. They call me. To eat. To drink. To sleep.”
“Do they hit you sometimes? Do they punish you?”
“Yes. No. They’re abusive. Bad tempered. They never smile. I feel threatened. Threatened when they’re absent. And when I see them before me.”
“When you have an ache somewhere, what do they do so you’ll ache less?”
“Nothing.”
“Do they speak to you?”
“They yell and I hear nothing.”
“And when you’re sick?”
“I stay sick.”
“No physician has come to see you?”
“No one has come. Ever.”
“Are you often sick?”
“Yes, but I don’t say anything. My parents forbade me to talk when I’m not well. It’s no one’s business; that’s what they said to me.”
“So how do the mean people know?”
“They don’t know anything. They don’t love me. I’m a hindrance to them. They hate me. They resent me for being there, alive, in their house, in their life. The last time …”
“The last time what?”
“The last time I was sick it was like I was drunk. I saw things. Intruders. I saw my dad. Behind him, I saw my mom. They motioned to me not to say they were there. All of a sudden they disappeared. Slowly. First their legs disappeared in a cloud. Then their chests. Their necks. Their heads. Everything turned white. And as red as fire. Thick. Thick ash. I knew it was a dream. I was sinking. I started yelling, but no sound came out of my throat. I yelled louder. Louder and louder. I was yelling in silence. My lungs were bursting; I was reeling; I no longer knew where I was. Or who I was. I woke up later, very late. On the boat. There, too, I knew it was a dream, though I wasn’t sure that it belonged to me or concerned me. Perhaps I had simply changed dreams.”
Professor Weiss says something, then his voice falls silent.
Yedidyah tells him a story that he got from his aged grandfather. It was a few days after his parents had revealed to him the secret of his birth.
“Once upon a time there was a young Jewish boy who lost his father. Naturally this deeply affected him. He never stopped sobbing all day. Even at night he sometimes shed tears in his sleep; he would wake up drenched from head to foot. ‘What makes you grieve so much?’ his mother asked him on a day when he seemed particularly unhappy, so much so that he couldn’t concentrate on a difficult passage in the Talmud. ‘What hurts most,’ replied the boy, ‘is not being able to follow in my father’s footsteps. How can I hope to resemble him, for he left too soon for me to benefit from his teaching? How can I become the second after him?’ And his mother reassured him: ‘In that case, my child, tell yourself that it was written up there that you would not be the second but, in your own way, the first.’ And my grandfather added: ‘This little boy became the founder of a Hasidic dynasty.’”
“So what’s the moral of that story?” Professor Weiss asks.
“I have no idea,” replies Yedidyah.
“Nor do I. But it seems to me we can see it displays a definite dose of optimism. No doubt your grandfather wanted you to understand that you, too, in your own way, could become a kind of first.”
Yedidyah thinks for a moment.
“The other little boy had the luck of growing up with his mother; I didn’t. In fact, I pointed this out to my grandfather.”
“And how did he react?”
“He found me a bit unfair because, he said, after all, I have parents who love me just as if their own blood flowed in my veins.”
“And you replied?”
“That there’s no comparison. That it isn’t easy to live a life that is partially mutilated. I’m convinced that if I could get my childhood back, I would feel better. That’s why I’m counting so much on you, Professor.”
Yedidyah breaks off. He takes a deep breath as if to free himself of a burden. Then he starts talking again. “In fact, I couldn’t help telling my grandfather that I’m convinced I’ll see my parents and my brother again. In the other world, the world of truth. And with a sad smile my grandfather asked me, ‘And what will you do with us, over there?’ I answered, ‘I’ll introduce you all to one another.’ Help me to stand fast, Professor. Help me to make headway in reviving my extinguished memories.”
Professor Weiss said he would do his best.
When he went out into the street, Yedidyah had a thought, as he sometimes did, for Werner Sonderberg: Is it possible that he, too, would have been happier, twenty years earlier, if he had been able to extirpate from his memory a grief that had colored his life?
TROUBLED AT THE TIME by the vague feeling that his life or the meaning of his life had escaped him, Yedidyah was on the verge of despair. He came close to becoming a mystic. He was no longer himself. Restless, nervous, hypersensitive, constantly irritated. Unbearable. In doubt about himself and his ties to Alika. He suffered through long nights of insomnia and self-questioning: Since I’m not the man I thought I knew, who am I? Asceticism of silence and rejection of all desire that drove Alika crazy. He couldn’t understand his own ineptitude: How could he not have guessed the truth, or at least not partially suspected it? He was angry with himself. He had lived and grown up among strangers whom he called Father, Uncle, Grandfather. He loved them as though they shared the same past. And now, of course, his own children were perpetuating this lie by calling his parents Grandfather and Grandmother.
Alika tried in vain to reason with him.
“Think about what you owe this family that became ours, that took you in with limitless generosity, with unconditional love, never denying you anything. Try to be grateful for our luck, our happiness. You could have ended up with heartless and distant people. We both know we’ve met unhappy adopted children. And also men and women brought up by their real parents and yet unhappy for a host of reasons that escape us.”
“That’s a good argument,” Yedidyah answered in a tense voice. “But you’re wrong if you think I’m mad at my ‘parents.’ I’m mad at myself. For not having been able to figure the truth out sooner.”
Unsettled, distraught, his soul shaken, Yedidyah kept searching stubbornly for the “tree of life and knowledge” on which he could have leaned while confronting the intoxication of the unexpected. But he was burdened by his thoughts as others are by their bodies. They caused him to become morose and bitter.
What would have become of him without the innocent gaze and sadness of his two children, who, being young, didn’t understand his mood swings?
AT NIGHT, HALF AWAKE, FEVERISH, I sometimes talk to my dead brother.
“I miss you, you know.”
“I don’t know.”
“But I do. I made you laugh.”
“That’s good. But you don’t know me.”
“Not my fault. And you, do you know me?”
“Of course. We talk about you often, Dad and me.”
“You’re with him?”
“We’re together.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. We made the trip together.”
“In the leaded freight car?”
 
; “Yes. In the dark. We were suffocating. Mom sang a song for me.”
“Which one?”
“My favorite lullaby. A prince and a beggar love the same girl. The girl loves beggars, so the prince leaves his palace to become a beggar.”
“A sad story.”
“For whom?”
“For the king?”
“But kings are never sad. Only princes are.”
“I’m sad; and I’m not a king.”
“So become a prince. What are you waiting for?”
“Me, too, I prefer beggars.”
“I believe you.”
And after a sigh: “What’s your name?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you. Where I come from, beggars have no names.”
Alika wakes me. “You’re crying in your sleep.”
On another night, I speak to my dead father. “I want to see you so badly, but you’re far away.”
“I’m not far away.”
“So why can’t I see you?”
“Because my world is not yours.”
“I envy my brother; he’s with you.”
“But we’re with you. We’re you.”
“Tell me a story.”
“A child is crying. He can’t stop crying. A sorcerer tries in vain to make him laugh. An angel tries to make him dream, in vain as well. God takes pity on him and makes him see the invisible and hear the inexpressible, and the child answers Him: since You’re so powerful, see to it that I stay with those who are absent.”
Alika pulls me out of sleep. “You’re moaning again.”
——
On yet another night, I speak to my dead mother. “Help me, please.”
“You’re suffering, my child. Tell me everything.”
“I don’t know anything about you anymore.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Show me your face.”
“I can’t. It’s forbidden.”
“Forbidden by whom?”
“By the good Lord.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps in order to separate the living from the dead.”
“But I don’t like this separation!”
“I don’t, either. But we can’t do anything about it. Neither you nor I.”
“Did you love me before …”
“Before what?”
“Before abandoning me?”
“Before saving you, you mean. Yes, I loved you. I loved you gently, passionately for the rest of your life.”
“Did you kiss me often?”
“All the time.”
“While talking to me?”
“While whispering words of love in your ear.”
“In silence, too?”
“Yes.”
“Kiss me, Mom.”
“I’m not allowed.”
“But you love me, you just told me so.”
“I love you, my child.”
“Then kiss me once, just once.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you to stay alive.”
Alika shakes me. “What’s happening to you? You’re delirious.”
Suddenly, I don’t know why, Jonas sprang to mind. The imperious editor of our editorial pages, he was perhaps the wittiest member of the staff. He hated his work; at least that’s what he claimed. All these people, he grumbled, who hold definitive and irrevocable positions on everything under the sun and beyond, it behooved him to correct them and censor them. A cynic, he resented them for foisting the role of bad guy on him. He kept complaining about this morning, noon, and night. Under the circumstances, why didn’t he request another position, I asked Paul. Because he was the only person who could do this thankless work without fearing his victims’ revenge, said Paul. Jonas wrote badly, but he knew how to help others write well. In the same way, he made people laugh, often through self-mockery—though he himself never laughed.
On the day he announced his retirement, the editorial staff responded with a warmth he didn’t expect. He was convinced that everybody hated him.
We weren’t friends, but I invited him for a drink in the café across the street. I ordered a coffee and he a brandy. So early in the morning? A matter of habit. Could he be an alcoholic? No, a need to warm up. He’s always cold. A second brandy. He must be freezing. And for the first time, I noticed a sadness about him that made me feel ill at ease. And then I suddenly realized that I didn’t know anything about him: I didn’t even know if he was married. How could I question him about his private life without offending him?
“Listen, Jonas,” I said to him, “I have a suggestion. Why don’t we meet again tonight for dinner? Alika sometimes has her head in the clouds, but she just might surprise us with an excellent meal.”
He thought for a minute. I expected to be turned down. “My wife is waiting for me,” or some such thing. After all, we’d never been close. To sound him out gently, I added, “Feel free to bring someone.”
“I’ll come alone,” he said after hesitating for a long time. “But not to your house. I prefer a restaurant. And promise me not to speak about my old work or my plans.”
I felt like adding “or your wife,” but I restrain myself.
“I promise.”
We dined alone. Alika had gone to the theater and the twins were sleeping over at my parents’ house.
After a few banalities about the noisy ambience of New York restaurants, the weather, and journalism’s overall decline, there was a long silence. Jonas seemed embarrassed. Why did he accept my invitation if he didn’t really want to come? The reason became apparent when he said, “At the time, I read your stories on the Sonderberg trial.”
It was already the distant past.
I expected devastating criticism, but instead he launched into a didactic analysis, at the end of which he said that he considers the defendant guilty.
I couldn’t help retorting, “What about the plain facts?”
“The facts have nothing to do with it. I’m not saying the young German killed his uncle. I’m just saying he’s guilty.”
“If he didn’t kill him, what is he guilty of?”
“Guilty of having abandoned a man who was going to die.”
“But how could Werner have known that ahead of time?”
“Maybe he should have.”
I told him I disagree. You can’t blame a person for not being a prophet or a psychologist. A man is guilty only if he has actually killed someone. And suddenly I realized that Jonas’s lips were trembling. Was he sick? I fell silent. So did he. The food before us was getting cold. Then he started talking about Albert Camus. Of the fear this writer arouses in him.
“You might have read his novel The Fall. The story of the judge who blames himself. He had witnessed the suicide of a young girl in Holland. That was really all. But he was there. That was enough. Could he have intervened? Probably not. But he was present. He saw. Hence his guilt.”
I felt like pointing out to him that Werner’s uncle was all alone when he died, too far away for anyone to see him; at any rate, his nephew wasn’t with him. But Jonas continued: “Your young German also saw. He was actually the last person to have seen his uncle, yet he left. His departure is an act that implicates him. An act that had the value of a judgment. He condemned his uncle to solitude. Hence to death. To suicide.”
Here again, I was about to tell him he’s too strict and unfair and, whatever he may think, Werner may have decided to leave the old man precisely so as not to pass judgment on him. But once more he silenced me with a hand gesture.
“For Camus, the choice is between innocence and guilt; for me, it’s between arrogance and humility. The question is not whether we are all guilty, but whether we are all judges.”
“Are we judges, you and I?”
After pausing for a moment, he said, “I was one.”
Jonas told me of a dream. He was in the lobby of a hotel. At night. He saw a rather beautiful woman walk toward the exit.
She seemed depressed and unhappy. Jonas was surprised by one thing: she didn’t have a purse. Only a kind of envelope in her hand. Where could she be going? To meet a lover? The next morning they knew: she had gone to meet death. They found her under a tree, with the empty envelope next to her. Jonas broke off and I was about to ask him if he felt guilty when he woke up, but I didn’t dare. Jonas lowered his head to avoid my gaze.
“It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.”
That was all. He didn’t say anything else. Nor did I.
Today, I think about his words again: “We are all judges.”
But then, as our sages wonder, who will judge the judges?
FINALLY, THE MEETING WITH Werner Sonderberg. He and I and his Anna are in the lobby of his hotel, not far from Times Square. Travelers come and go. At the bar, guests are talking and laughing; we could be at a fair on a summer evening. I immediately ask him the question I’m sure he was expecting.
“Why did you want to see me?”
“To see you again,” he corrects me.
“Very well. See me again. Why?”
After a pause, Werner suppresses a smile before replying in a sober but tense voice, “You wanted to see me again, too. Am I wrong?”
“Not really … but in the past, yes, during the trial. Then it was too late. I didn’t think it was possible.”
“Why not?”
“It all seems such a long time ago.”
He exchanges glances with Anna—as though he were consulting her: Should he be frank with me or prevaricate? A good couple. A real one. Their complicity is obvious. Everything he knows, she knows, too. Their marriage and the years have changed them. That’s normal. Earlier, at the time of the trial, they weren’t married yet. He seems both more solid and more vulnerable. When he was before his judges, before the media, he always seemed absent. Not anymore.
“Personally,” he goes on, “I wanted to see you because I read your newspaper reports at the time. And during the entire proceedings I wondered whether you thought I was guilty. Your articles take sides. You hesitated, you had your doubts. I found this—how should I put it?—morally interesting. Remember, I was a philosophy student at the time; for me, everything was related to metaphysics. That’s why I wished to meet you. But what about you? Why did you want to meet me?”