The Jewish Messiah

Eye to Eye

IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK in the evening by the time Awromele rang Xavier’s doorbell. In the hand that hadn’t been broken, he held the plastic bag with his most valued possessions and the bag of cookies. He was sweating from his walk across town.

Awromele had stuffed all his savings into his pants pocket. He didn’t know how he would get by in the Venice of the North, so he had decided to be frugal. No more public transport, no more candy, and he would jot down all his revenues and expenditures in a notebook.

Marc opened the door.

Awromele was standing there in his black suit and pin curls, the tzitzit hanging out of his pants.

“Have we met?” Marc asked the Orthodox Jew. He wasn’t the kind of person to be flustered by strangers showing up at the door at ten o’clock at night. The way other people eat what’s set before them, that’s the way Marc accepted the world.

“I’m a friend of Xavier’s,” Awromele said. “Xavier Radek.” Awromele hoped that Xavier would hear his voice and come running out. But Xavier didn’t hear anything: he was painting, and when he painted he didn’t hear a thing. As was often the case at this hour of the evening, the mother was sitting across from him with his testicle in her hand.

“Yes, that’s right,” Marc said. “He lives here.” And he looked the devout Jew over from head to toe. It was hard for him to imagine that Xavier knew this boy, let alone that he was his friend. “Is he expecting you?” he asked. On the other hand, Xavier was an artist, and artists tended to have peculiar friends. Especially when they were young. The artist as a young man was an eccentric nonconformist. Conformity came only with success. Marc had read about that, and so he didn’t worry about Xavier’s strange hobbies. Everything would turn out just fine in the end. The people would love Xavier and forgive him everything, and in that way they would also love Marc a little, too. “Shall I call him?”

“Yes, please,” Awromele said.

Marc turned to go into the living room, but thought better of it. “He’s painting right now. He can’t be disturbed. Could you come back tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps? Perhaps you should call first, to make sure he’s in.”

Awromele clutched his plastic bags a little tighter. He should have put the cookies in the bigger bag as well. “Couldn’t I come in for just a moment?” Awromele asked. “Just for a second? I can wait in the hallway, but I need to talk to Xavier. It’s urgent. It won’t take long.”

Marc hesitated. Letting this boy in while Xavier was working might not be such a good idea. But he decided to let the strange creature into the house anyway. The Orthodox Jew probably spoke the truth. Xavier had peculiar friends, and maybe he wanted to use the boy as a model. That was a good idea. An artist needed to work with a few different models. Painting the mother all the time had to get a little old. This boy wouldn’t make such a bad model after all, with his blond locks, his authentic getup, his religious headgear.

Marc said: “If you can be quiet and not disturb Xavier, you can come in. He’s painting; he doesn’t talk to anyone then. Then he’s in a kind of trance.”

Marc showed Awromele into the living room.

When Xavier saw Awromele, he shouted, “Jesus, Awromele!” He dropped his brush. Fortunately, he had put old newspapers on the floor under the easel.

The mother was sitting motionless at the table with the testicle in her hand, but it had not escaped her notice that an Orthodox Jew had entered her living room.

“Who is that, Xavier?” she asked. She put down the jar with the testicle in it — she had a cramp in her hand. “And pick up that pencil.”

“A friend,” Xavier said, “an acquaintance — nothing to get excited about. And that isn’t a pencil, Mama, it’s a brush.” It pained him that Awromele had ignored his admonitions, that he had come by unannounced. His friend’s presence stirred up a panic in him that he could overcome only by concentrating on his painting. On the other hand, he was so happy to see Awromele that he felt like running to him and licking him from head to toe, like a playful young puppy.

“I’m not getting excited,” the mother said. “I only asked who it was. I suppose I’m allowed to know who has come to visit me at such an hour.”

Xavier picked up his brush.

“Don’t let us ruin your concentration, Xavier,” Marc said. “Go on with your painting.”

Marc turned to Awromele. “He’s working on a series, a wonderful series called Mother with Testicle. It’s got everything, the whole gamut of human emotions and fears. Have a seat. But be quiet.”

Marc showed Awromele to a chair, diagonally across from the mother, and nodding at Xavier he whispered in the boy’s ear: “Do you see those hypnotic eyes? You can really see it when he looks straight at you. He can make you do anything with those eyes. With those eyes, he has you in his power. Mrs. Radek did not just bear a child, Mrs. Radek brought something very special into the world.”

“That’s my bad ear,” Awromele whispered back. “I can’t hear you unless you sit on the other side.”

While Marc now whispered into his good ear, the mother stared at Awromele. The boy’s face was fascinating, there was no denying that. He did seem to exude a rather strange odor, though. She liked his hair, too. Blond, curls, funny — she’d never imagined that. Her father had always talked about black-haired Jews. Maybe the blond ones were better. People also said that light-skinned Negroes were higher on the social scale than the dark-skinned kind. There had to be a good reason for that. Nothing was without a reason.

“Mama,” Xavier said, “if it bothers you that I have a visitor, I can also take him to a café.”

“No,” the mother said, “it’s interesting to meet one of your acquaintances. What’s your name?”

“Awromele,” Awromele said.

“Aha,” said the mother. She picked up the jar with the testicle again. She longed for her knife.

“And you are an Israelite, if I may be so free?”

Awromele clutched his two plastic bags between his knees and said: “Yes, an Israelite, you could say that. I believe so. But so are you, aren’t you? Xavier, isn’t your family—”

“Aren’t we what?” the mother asked.

“Ah, rats,” Xavier said, seeing that he had messed up his painting. His concentration had left him — his surrender to the colors, the brushes, the canvas — it wasn’t working. All he could think of was Awromele. “What Awromele means is that we’re all Israelites. We all come from the same fountainhead. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? The same patriarchs, the same myths, the same mistakes. If you go back far enough in time, there’s only one father and one mother.”

“Oh,” the mother said. “Oh. I never looked at it that way. That’s news to me. Xavier, is this going to take long? I need to go to bed.”

“Almost finished, Mama.”

Marc stared breathlessly at the magic Xavier worked in paint, and the mother said to Awromele: “I see it differently. I’m not so sure that we all come from the same fountainhead. I’m not sure that there is only one father and one mother if one goes back far enough. A person who was born in Nepal and grew up in Nepal is fundamentally different from me. His culture isn’t my culture, his history isn’t my history, his primal father is not my father. Not that his primal father is any better or any worse than mine, but he is fundamentally different.”

“Mama, stop moving your hand,” Xavier said. “I can’t paint you like this.” He was trembling himself; he couldn’t keep his hand steady anymore. He was afraid, although he wasn’t exactly sure of what. And he was dripping paint. He had begged Awromele not to come by unexpectedly, he had spoken at length of his mother’s migraines, but he knew that everything had changed since what had happened in the park. It was no use forbidding Awromele to do anything anymore; besides, it didn’t matter much, he wouldn’t be living here much longer anyway. Soon he would be living in the Venice of the North, with Awromele. Together they would do a lot of bicycling. Everyone did that there, he had read — cycling, cycling, and more cycling.

“I don’t know how my son met you,” the mother said, doing her best not to move her hand. “He’s such a closed book, just like his father, my late husband. He’s interested in other cultures, but that’s all I know about him. My late husband was a closed book as well, but he wasn’t interested in other cultures, although he did go to Singapore often on business. He always said, There’s so much we don’t know about our own culture. That’s how my husband was. In the last few years, my son has sought contact with Israelites, and I have nothing against that in principle. Some people study birds, others raise rabbits, still others seek contact with Israelites. At one point I phoned the school psychologist about it, and he said: It’s a part of adolescence. Fine, Xavier tried to keep it a secret from me. That must be a part of adolescence as well. But he couldn’t, because a mother knows everything. He went swimming, for example, in the Rhine with Zionists. Things like that, you know. I try to think: Oh well, contact with other cultures can perk up an individual. You obviously learn something from it, about yourself as well. But that sword is definitely two-edged.”

She fell silent. She reminded herself of her late husband, who would remain silent for months and then suddenly launch into a speech. She missed him sometimes, his silent contempt, his ineffectual aggression. She had never thought it could happen, but on occasion she longed for him and his all-pervasive coldness. The scornful way he’d looked at her, not so very different from the uninterested, somewhat arrogant gaze with which he had viewed the world in general. Yes, he had been disgusted by her, her late husband, she had no more doubts about that, not only after her child was born, but before that too. From the very beginning. Kissing, for example, was something he’d never done — he just took her right away. That was all. “Taking” was perhaps not the right word for it. He assaulted her. He didn’t like kissing. He had no time for that. Yet that was precisely why she had fallen for him, because he was disgusted by her. The way she was disgusted by herself.

She looked at Awromele. Somewhat to her own surprise, that longish hair of his appealed to her. Those eyes drew her in, so blue, so clear, you’d almost say sweet if you didn’t know better. But she knew what deception was. The face is a deception. They deceived you with their faces, people did, they took you in with their looks.

“I mean,” she said, “that the interest must come from both sides. We exhibit interest in your culture, so you must show a little interest in ours. My impression is that most Israelites are not particularly interested in our culture — in fact, not at all. We subsidize museums for the Israelite, meeting halls, and monuments. And that’s fine. He takes, we all take — that’s part of being a citizen — but what does he give? That’s what I’d like to know — what does he give? Don’t take this personally, I’m not saying you don’t give anything. Perhaps you give a great deal, but I’m speaking here in general. Sometimes I see them in the tram and I can’t help thinking that they actually despise us. I see them looking at me, the Israelites, out on the street, even in boutiques where they have no business in coming, at least from the looks of their clothes, and then I think: They despise me. I can feel it. They despise me and my culture. They don’t have to say a word, I can sense it anyway. Without words. A profound contempt. Every time an Israelite looks at me, he hurts me. I feel this horrible pain, an inhuman pain, simply because of his gaze. Because of his eyes resting on me, the way he looks right through me. Do you know what I mean? I’ve never talked to anyone about it, but I can tell you.”

“Mama,” Xavier said. “Don’t talk so much and don’t move so much. I can’t concentrate.”

“Yes, you might be right,” Awromele said thoughtfully.

“What?” the mother asked. “What might I be right about?”

Awromele sniffed loudly; he hadn’t brought a handkerchief. He felt like eating a cookie now; the long walk had made him hungry.

“About being despised. That’s what I mean. There’s a lot of despising going on. It’s something people like to do. My parents, for example, despise each other. My mother’s family, for good reason, despises my father’s family, and they’re quite vocal about it. But since you’re an Israelite, as you put it, yourself, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You’re Xavier’s mother.” Awromele glanced at Xavier, who was finishing up the shading on King David. Awromele remembered the promise they’d made in the park not to feel a thing. He didn’t feel a thing, he knew that for sure, he couldn’t feel a thing, and that was precisely why he wanted to be with Xavier.

The mother looked at him expectantly.

“Obviously, you’re one yourself,” he said. “As Xavier’s mother, I mean. An Israelite. But don’t worry. If you’d rather not have people know, I won’t tell anyone. There are plenty of people who’ll tell you, Oh no, not us, absolutely not. But often enough they are. They just keep it a secret, because they don’t like it, because they’re afraid of the consequences. Because they don’t speak the right language. You have Orthodox Jews who look down on assimilated Jews, and vice versa. That’s true. But as far as your son goes, for example, I never had any problem with the fact that he didn’t know anything. That he didn’t know the prayers, that until recently he was uncircumcised, that he didn’t know any dirty jokes in Yiddish. That’s never mattered to me. I accepted him the way he was, I love him the way he is. If that’s what’s worrying you, I can put your mind at ease.” Awromele rubbed the hand in the cast. It itched.

The mother choked on her own spittle, which she often did when love was mentioned. The testicle trembled in her hand. She started coughing. She popped something in her mouth, a yellow lozenge, and started sucking on it. The tickle in her throat faded.

“But take me, for example. When I look at you, the way we’re sitting here,” said Awromele, “when you see me looking at you, do I cause you pain?” Awromele looked the mother deep in the eye and thought: This woman is the mother of my sweetheart. I must never forget that when I talk to her, I have to remember that. That forges a bond: no matter what she says, whatever else she may claim, that unites me with her.

“Would you like some tea?” Xavier asked. “Mama, shouldn’t we offer Awromele a cup of tea? Isn’t there a kettle on in the kitchen? A little tea, Mama, don’t you think we should offer our guest a little tea?”

His voice was wobbly, as though he were going through puberty all over again.

The mother held up the testicle with both hands. She was serious about her task as a model. “In a minute,” she said. Her arms hurt. Posing for a painting wasn’t as easy as it looked. She hated her son, but she did want to stimulate him to paint. “Yes,” she said to Awromele, “you cause me pain. What did you say your name was again? Exactly?”

“Awromele,” Awromele said. “Awromele Michalowitz.”

“You cause me pain, Awromele Michalowitz,” the mother said. “Your presence, your eyes, your look, the odor you exude — because you smell different, I’m sure you’re aware of that. You cause me pain, everything about you causes me pain, everything about you tears me in two, makes me, I’m sorry to have to put it like this, nauseous. I’ve never had the chance to talk to anyone about this, but I can talk to you, because you’ve come here of your own accord. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but the moment you came in here I thought: I can tell him about it.”

“But I don’t despise you,” Awromele said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I hope you believe me. I don’t despise you, not in the slightest; on the contrary, I respect you, because you’re Xavier’s mother.”

The painter tried to lose himself in his canvas, tried with the help of his brushes to forget the conversation going on around him. And the mother said: “So you don’t, well, all right, that’s what you say now, while you’re sitting on my couch, breathing my air, now that you’ve walked on my wooden floor, touched my doorknobs. It’s only logical that you should say that. But the other ones do. You told me that yourself — my sixth sense didn’t deceive me. They despise us. When you said that, I thought: Well, there you have it. So now I know. I’m not trying to justify what’s happened in the past — I can’t do that, I mustn’t do that — but behavior does have its consequences. Those who despise their hosts cannot go on expecting a free meal. We’ve done our best to please the Israelites, we’ve tolerated their synagogues and their slaughterhouses, their clubs, their ritual baths, and whatever else they need. And don’t get me wrong when I say that I’m not judging them. Fundamentally different is neither fundamentally better nor fundamentally worse.” She took a deep breath.

Xavier’s painting was becoming increasingly Expressionistic. The painting now contained the irony of history — he could hear his father say that — and his emotions, they were in it, too, his love for Awromele. So that was the name he would give the painting: The Irony of History and My Love for Awromele. He would show it to the ladies and gentlemen at the art academy in the Venice of the North, and they would have no choice but to admit him then. It was desolate, this painting, desolate as a mountain landscape above the timberline.

The mother took a deep breath and said: “Of course, because we hoped to ward off danger, that’s why we gave the Israelite so much. You have to give your enemy a lot, and not merely because we’ve been raised to turn the other cheek to our enemies, an important ethical principle and one I have always lived by, no matter how difficult that was for me. I have turned my other cheek, each day anew. I haven’t complained, because complaining is for the weak. But what I mean to say is: I’ve always known that you should wrap your enemy in a warm towel and gently rub him dry, that you should give him love and nourishment and something to drink, for that is the only thing that renders him helpless. You have to know your enemy, that’s the start. My father used to say that no one is more to be pitied than the one who doesn’t know his enemy, the man who thinks he has no enemies and is therefore no better than a sitting duck. I have never wanted to be anyone’s sitting duck. I smelled them, the enemies; I heard their footsteps, their voices; I knew they could be in places you wouldn’t expect — in your own home, for example. Your own husband can be your enemy, your own child. The biggest mistake fascism made was to turn against the Israelite. If fascism had absorbed the Israelite, if fascism had said to the Israelite: Come, let us join forces, then fascism would still be a vital movement, it would be the most important movement in Europe. Look at the Palestinians. The Israelite is a fascist by nature — it’s in his blood, it flows through his veins. I’m a member of the Committee of Vigilant Parents, as you may know — an honorary member, because my son was molested and lost his testicle.” She moved the jar a little closer to Awromele, as though she wanted to show him all her son had lost.

Awromele nodded. In the hospital he had already taken a good look at the testicle, but he thought the testicle that they hadn’t cut off was nicer.

“I hear them say it every time I attend a committee meeting,” the mother said. “The Middle East is a powder keg. Before long it will come to Europe. What am I saying? The powder keg is already in Europe. We’ve tried not to see it, but it’s here. It’s in our trams, the powder keg sleeps in our homes, it goes shopping in our supermarkets. You, for example, you’re part of that powder keg, which will explode in our unsuspecting faces — you’re an Israelite. I hope you don’t blame me for speaking so openly with you, I’m sure you understand. You seem to me an intelligent young man, and I haven’t spoken for so long. I’ll be honest with you, without beating around the bush: you are my misfortune. The way you sit there, at my table, the way you look at me, the things you’ve brought with you, your hair — there’s no other way I can put it. I’ve never seen my misfortune at such close range, and I’ll be honest: it fascinates me, I’d like to touch you. My misfortune, I’d like to say to you, There you are at last, it was about time, I’ve been waiting for you so long. I’d like to examine you, I’d like to study you. I’d like to sniff at you, the way animals sniff at each other.”

Her eyes filled with tears. The mother put down the testicle, rubbed her eyes, and picked up the jar again.

“I’m not saying that I approve of absolutely everything he did,” she said. “You-Know-Who — that’s who I’m referring to. He made huge mistakes, unforgivable ones, there’s no denying that. But if You-Know-Who had finished what he started, however much I disagreed with it, however much I still disagree with it, but just if, imagine that, just as an experiment in thought, then the Middle East wouldn’t be a powder keg today. Then that powder keg would not be on Europe’s doorstep. If the civilized world had let You-Know-Who finish what he started back then, wouldn’t we be better off today? I’d like to hear what you have to say about that. You’re an insider, you know those people in a way I don’t. You must have thought about it yourself. I’m sure you’ve drawn conclusions, perhaps less pleasant conclusions, but, still. I’d like to hear them.”

“Mama,” Xavier said, sounding as though he had a bad cold, “I’m almost finished; then you can go to bed. Please hold the jar up a little higher, like this, just a little higher.”

“My arm is stiff,” the mother said. She didn’t often get the chance to air her opinions. It did her good to talk to someone, especially to someone as attentive as Awromele. He devoured her words like pure poetry, like the Song of Songs, but written specially for him. The Song of Songs she had composed for her enemy, her favorite enemy, the only one, the final one. She had the feeling that he was devouring her body with his eyes, just as he devoured her words.

“Give your acquaintance a chance to answer me,” she said. “Xavier, take your time and finish your painting. I’m curious to hear what he thinks of it. I don’t mean it personally — you know that, Awromele. This is about a purely theoretical hypothesis. Would the world have been better off if you hadn’t existed?”

Now it was Xavier’s turn to have a coughing fit, which lasted for two minutes. During the fit he dropped his brush again. He was so afraid that his mother would betray him, that his secrets would be brought to light, that his relationship with Awromele would be destroyed. He was like a philanderer caught in the act who thinks, My mistress is lovely, but I wouldn’t want to lose my wife; not that; I need her; in fact, I love her very much.

Awromele didn’t know what to make of all these claims, this argumentation. Xavier had a strange mother. All Jewish mothers were strange, but this one was particularly strange. He remembered the words of the tall boy, the word that had made a great impression on him; he remembered the boy’s legs, his shoes, the spit that had dripped onto Awromele’s face.

“The world would have been better off if I hadn’t existed,” Awromele said. “That’s true. But that doesn’t make me unique. And it doesn’t bother me, either. That’s just the way it is. That’s how things go.”

“Yes,” the mother said, “yes, I understand that.” She sighed deeply. “That’s quite a relief to me. I’m glad you see it that way, too. I used to wonder: Is there something wrong with me? Have I gone mad? But apparently not. It’s also reassuring to know that it doesn’t bother you. Some things simply cannot be undone. You-Know-Who didn’t get to finish what he started; you people are here; those are facts.” She laughed once; she had been feeling rather anxious.

Awromele ran his good hand through his hair. He took off his yarmulke. The ribs the tall boy and his friends had kicked still hurt whenever he breathed deeply. The hand in the cast itched even worse.

“Loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of,” Awromele said.

He looked around, as though in search of support for this statement, but no support came. Xavier painted on, hastily and wildly. He had to get through this, he had to survive this; then he could be alone with Awromele, alone with Awromele for all time.

The mother turned her gaze on Awromele; she liked him more than she had expected. He, too, thought the world would have been better off without him. She would have to revise her ideas a bit. Honesty was something she appreciated.

“When my son is done painting,” the mother said, “I’ll offer you a cup of tea.”

To that, Awromele replied: “We communicate by the wrong means, with the help of noises we make with our tongues, our throats, and our lips. We shouldn’t communicate like that, that’s asking for problems, that’s asking for destruction. Our language is the language of the knuckle. The language of the knuckle is the language of love.”

He held out his hand, clenched it to make a fist, and showed the mother his knuckles. She was still holding the jar with the testicle in her left hand, but with her right hand she reached out and touched Awromele’s knuckles, and she couldn’t help it — she shuddered as though she’d received an electrical shock.

“Your skin is soft,” she said.

Awromele smiled; the mother’s hand was still touching his.

“I bet you haven’t done much manual labor.”

“Not yet,” Awromele said. “But that will come.”

“My husband,” the mother said, “had soft hands. He was an architect. He died. My father had soft hands, too; he worked with his hands, but they stayed soft. No matter what he did, they remained soft until his death.”

“Could I sleep here tonight?” Awromele asked.

The mother pulled back her hand.

“Where?” she asked.

“Here,” Awromele said, “in your house? I ran away from home. I couldn’t stay there anymore — they wanted to lock me up. Could I spend the night here? I have nowhere else to go.”

“What about the couch downstairs?” Xavier suggested, moving his brush enthusiastically across the canvas and addressing himself in his thoughts to King David. This was going to be his masterpiece. Masterpieces often looked pretty terrible.

If Xavier survived this evening, he could survive anything.

“I’m not sure I understand you exactly,” the mother said. “From whom did you run away? And I’m not sure I have enough food in the house for guests.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Awromele said, holding up the bag of cookies. “My mother gave me something to take along. I’m used to living on cookies. When I was younger, I would crawl under the blankets and eat chocolate bars, but those days are behind me now.”

Marc, who had been standing silently behind Xavier the whole time, now said: “Of course, the boy can spend the night here. We’ll put some sheets on the couch, and there are enough blankets in the cupboard. Besides, it’s not that cold. I don’t think he’ll even need blankets.”

“There we go,” Xavier said, “finished, the painting is finished, Mama. You can put down the jar now.”

She put it down and rubbed her stiff wrist and forearm. “I wake up in the middle of the night quite often,” she told Awromele. “When I have to use the toilet. I have a tendency to rummage around a lot at night. That’s unpleasant. Well, I only mention it in connection with your own good night’s sleep. In principle, of course, you’re welcome to the couch. Why not? You’re my son’s acquaintance, and although he seldom or never thinks about his mother, his mother always thinks about him. Always about only him.”

“I’m a sound sleeper,” Awromele said. “And I won’t bother anyone. And you don’t have to worry about standing in line for the bathroom tomorrow morning, because I never take a shower in the morning.”

“Oh,” the mother said, “you never shower in the morning? Then when do you shower?”

“Late in the afternoon. Sometimes I skip a day. If you stay under the blankets all the time, you don’t need a shower.”

“Aha,” the mother said. “Is that a ritual practice?”

“No,” Awromele said, “I came up with it myself.”

“I’ll get us some tea,” Xavier said. He took off his smock, put away the brushes he had used, and nodded to Awromele. They went into the kitchen together.

There was hot water in a thermos jug. Even before he had poured the water, Xavier started kissing Awromele, and Awromele kissed back, digging his nails into the palm of his hand and thinking about that time in the park.

For a moment, Xavier was happy.

“What’s with your mother?” Awromele asked after a few seconds.

“She’s a little confused,” Xavier whispered, “from all the commotion. She acts like this fairly often. Don’t worry about it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“I think the things she says are fascinating,” Awromele whispered. “About me being her misfortune. That’s so captivating, don’t you think? No one has ever said that to me before. And it was as though she was looking right through me.”

Then the mother came into the kitchen. She was carrying two dirty cups. Xavier let go of Awromele and began toying with the lid of the thermos.

“Let me do that,” the mother said. She put down the cups and took the thermos jug from her son. As she poured the hot water into clean cups, she said to Awromele: “He made a big mistake. He should never have destroyed you people, because it only made you stronger. He should have wrapped you in a warm blanket, the way I’ll wrap you in a warm blanket later on.”

“You don’t have to do that, Mama,” Xavier said.

“Oh yes,” the mother said, “I’m going to wrap your acquaintance in a warm blanket.” And then she nodded amiably at Awromele.

Awromele looked at her in puzzlement. He thought she was a remarkable creature.

They drank their tea in the living room. The painting was drying in one corner of the room. They were silent, except for Marc, who kept talking about the future, even though no one responded to what he said.

At ten minutes to twelve, the mother said, “Marc, go find sheets for our guest.”

Marc got up and went upstairs. The mother turned on the radio. It was playing quiet music, panpipes. “We’ll just wait for the news,” she said. “Find out what state our world is in. Then we can go to sleep.”

The mother cleared the table, and when Marc came back with the sheets she said to Awromele: “The bathroom is upstairs. I’ll fetch a duvet for you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Mama,” Xavier said. “Let me do it.”

“No,” the mother said, “leave this to me. I’ll take care of the duvet.”

Awromele brushed his teeth with Xavier’s toothbrush. The idea that the toothbrush had been in Xavier’s mouth as well made him happy, it gave him the feeling he was attached to someone in this world. Truly attached. When he came back into the living room, the mother was standing beside the couch, holding the duvet.

“This belonged to my late husband,” she said. “He lay under it for almost fifteen years. I kept it, but I never wanted to lie under it myself. And of course Marc didn’t, either. Now it comes in handy. Undress — then I’ll tuck you in.”

Under the watchful eye of Xavier and his mother, Awromele undressed. First his white shirt, then his arba’ kanfot, then his pants and his gym socks, until he was down to his underpants. It took a while, because of the cast on his hand. Marc came down for a look as well.

“So lie down,” the mother said.

Awromele lay down carefully on the couch. The sheets had been neatly ironed; he didn’t want to wrinkle anything. The mother spread the duvet and tucked Awromele in. “This is what You-Know-Who should have done with you people,” she whispered. Her lips brushed Awromele’s forehead. She shuddered again.

Then she went to her bedroom.

“What’s she talking about, anyway?” Awromele asked Xavier.

“No idea,” Xavier said. “She’s confused.” He leaned over and kissed Awromele. “I love you,” Xavier whispered. “Don’t forget that. I love you, but I don’t feel a thing, and as soon as we’re in the Venice of the North I’m going to comfort you. Comfort you so hard and so long, and not just you, but your entire emaciated people.”

Awromele took off his underpants to make it easier for Xavier’s hand. He wondered what Xavier meant with that emaciated-people business, but the pleasure stopped his waking mind. The pleasure answered all questions. The pleasure was one long answer.

IN THE EARLY-MORNING hours Awromele was awakened by the sound of thumping. First he tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but because the couch was rather narrow he couldn’t turn, and going back to sleep didn’t work, either. After staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, Awromele got up to investigate; he wanted to know where the thumping came from.

He put on his underpants. Because he didn’t know his way around the house, he bumped into furniture in the dark.

At last he opened the kitchen door. He saw the mother standing there. There was a little light on above the stove, a light built into the exhaust hood.

The mother was standing at the sink. Her pajama pants were down around her ankles. She had a knife in her hand.

Awromele was about to close the door, but the mother looked up at him. She beckoned him with her finger. Awromele turned, and she said, “Come closer, Awromele Michalowitz.”

He stood there without saying a word. He didn’t dare go away — he couldn’t refuse his hostess such a simple request. The mother coughed a few times. Seconds went by. Awromele stood in the doorway, but he didn’t dare to leave the kitchen. That would be stupid, and stupidity was dangerous.

She said, “I’ve been waiting for you, Awromele, for at least fifteen minutes.”

“I was looking for the bathroom,” Awromele said, turning around again. He didn’t go out the door.

The mother put the knife back in the dish rack. “Close the door, Awromele, there’s a draft.” Awromele closed the kitchen door quietly; he didn’t want to wake the others.

The mother turned to face him now. “Come closer, would you?” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you, I knew you would come.”

Awromele turned and took a step towards the mother. Like a sleepwalker, without wanting to.

He didn’t want to go to the mother, who was standing at the sink in the middle of the night with her pajama pants around her ankles; he wanted to go with Xavier to the Venice of the North. He wanted to lie with Xavier in a big white bed, the way he had lain with him in the park. A bed: that wasn’t asking so much. A bed sounded wonderful to him. To slowly become unwashed in that bed.

“At night I make a little noise,” she said. “When I visit my lover. Sometimes I make little cries of ecstasy, but never too loudly, because that would wake the others.”

“Yes,” Awromele said. “I understand.”

“I hope you don’t hold it against me,” she said. “About you being my misfortune. You probably can’t do anything about it. It’s just the way nature arranges things.”

She took the bread knife out of the dish rack.

“I…” Awromele said, “I’m going back to sleep.”

“No,” the mother said, “don’t go to sleep.”

“I really need to get some sleep. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Don’t go to sleep,” she repeated. “I want you to meet my lover.”

She held up the knife. Black and gleaming. “He’s from Italy,” the mother said. “They say that Italians make the best lovers. I wouldn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me. What do you think? Are Italians the best lovers?”

Awromele forced himself to smile. He couldn’t help thinking about his own mother, about his little sister Rochele and everything she had whispered to him about the pelican, and then about the tall boy again, and what he had said. Awromele had never been to Italy: maybe the best lovers did come from there. But he had never thought they would look like this: a bread knife with a black handle.

“Come closer,” the mother said. “I’ve always wanted an Israelite to see this. I knew it would happen one day. Only I didn’t know when, or how.”

“I need to go to sleep,” Awromele said. “Mrs. Radek, I really need to get some sleep.” He was whispering, but he still tried to speak as clearly as he could, so she would understand him, in order to rule out misunderstandings.

“I do it for you people as well,” the mother said. “For the Israelite, so also for you. When I stroke him, my lover, my sweetest, the warmest, the loveliest of all lovers, then others are stroking him as well; then the Israelite is stroking him, too. I stroke him on behalf of others, the way my lover also takes me on behalf of others, forces himself into me on behalf of dozens, thousands of others. That’s how it feels, as though thousands are forcing themselves into me when he takes me.”

She held out her hand, but Awromele didn’t dare take it. Besides, he was standing too far away to take her hand, and he didn’t feel like getting any closer.

“I’ll be going now,” Awromele said. “I’m very grateful to you for letting me stay here for a few hours. I’ll never forget it. It was a pleasure. Shall I fold up the sheets?”

“Stay,” the mother said. “I want you to see this. I want you to get to know my lover. People are cold, Awromele, but not my lover, my lover is hot.”

Now she took a step towards the boy. That was hard for her to do with her pajama pants around her ankles — she had to hold on to the counter. Inch by inch, she shuffled towards Awromele.

And he stood there, remembering that this woman was the mother of his beloved, that Xavier had come out of her, just as Awromele had come out of the rabbi’s wife.

Finally, she stopped. The Italian bread knife was dangling from her right hand. “I’ve often wondered what my misfortune would look like,” she said. “In the evening, when I couldn’t get to sleep: at night, when I woke up, and I always woke up at night. What would he look like, what kind of eyes would he have? My husband wasn’t my misfortune. My husband was the father of my son, my husband gathered me up when I was nothing, an orphan, a rag. My husband was disgusted by me, but that doesn’t matter, Awromele, because so am I.”

“Yes,” Awromele said, “yes, yes. Of course.” Now he remembered the name the tall boy had mentioned as he spoke the language of shoes and knuckles. Kierkegaard. A strange name. Kierkegaard. It sounded like a company that made Swedish crackers, and he thought of the matzos his people had to eat at Pesach, the whole time keeping his eye on the mother’s lover.

“I had a hunch,” the mother said, “but I wasn’t completely sure. Now I know for sure, and it’s strange, it’s as though I’ve known my misfortune the whole time, as though you’ve always been there, from the very first day of my life, from the moment I met my husband. My husband liked to do it violently, so he could forget that I disgusted him. He explained that to me once, in a moment of weakness. Violence was the only thing that could make him forget how I disgusted him. Everything about me disgusted him, my hair, my mouth, my teeth, the way I smelled, my caresses, my holes — some holes less than others, but he told me, There’s not a whole lot of difference. Because sometimes he really talked to me. Then he was tender, then he explained things: why he had to assault me, why he couldn’t do it any other way, why that was the only way he could show his love. It doesn’t surprise me that my misfortune is pretty, and young, and blond. That’s how it should be, young and pretty and blond.”

She gasped for breath; she was dizzy. She had to hold on to the counter. “I talk with him,” she said, “with my lover, every night, here in the kitchen, before he takes me, before he tears me open like an animal. Before he does that, I talk with him. I caress him. His blade is cold at first, but that’s only appearances; he’s as warm as a person could never be. They try to be, people do, but they’ll never be as warm as my lover. I tell him everything while I caress him. He likes that, it thrills him.”

She held the knife out in front of her.

“I want you to caress him, too. Now that I’ve seen my misfortune, now that I never again have to wonder exactly what it looks like, that misfortune of mine, now that I know that, now I want you to caress my lover. Neither of us should have existed, Awromele. But it’s too late to do anything about that now.”

She swallowed the wrong way, coughed, and wiped her mouth with her free hand. Then she said: “He likes being caressed, he loves that, he loves being called little names. Caress him and say something to him.”

She held the knife under Awromele’s nose.

“I can’t,” Awromele said. “It’s very sweet of you to offer. But I really have to go home now — my family is waiting for me — some other time, I’d be delighted. It sounds like fun, when I’m a little less pressed for time.”

“No,” the mother said. Her voice sounded furious, sharp as an ax. “Not some other time. Caress my lover. They’ve forgotten about you. If you hadn’t existed, I would have been happier. But they’ve forgotten about me, too. I’m just as forgotten as you are. That’s why I want you to stroke my lover. I want my lover to feel the hands of my misfortune, the soft hands of my misfortune.”

Awromele moved his good hand towards the knife, placed his index finger carefully against the blade.

“Stroke it,” the mother said, “stroke it. You’re cold, my lover is hot.”

Awromele carefully moved his finger up and down.

“That’s good, the way you do it,” the mother said. “He likes that, it thrills him. This is the love of my life, Awromele. When I’m not around anymore, I want you to remember what the love of my life looked like. I want you to tell other people: Mrs. Radek had one great love in her life, and I stroked him.”

Awromele held his finger still, but the mother said: “Don’t stop. Go on. Talk to him, talk to him in your language, that horrible language of yours, the one that causes me such pain, the language in which you people speak to your God. Say to my lover the prayer meant for your God. My lover wants to hear your prayers, he wants to hear prayers that aren’t meant for him, and so do I. I want to finally hear a prayer in the language of my misfortune.”

“That’s impossible,” Awromele said. “I have to go now. But I’ll come back, and then we’ll do everything you say.”

“Say it,” she said, “say the prayer.” She put her left hand on Awromele’s shoulder, squeezed his shoulder, then moved her hand up until it was resting on Awromele’s hair, while his finger kept stroking the mother’s lover.

“Pray,” she said. “You’re my misfortune; you have to pray for me. No one else will, no one else is allowed to.”

Awromele thought: If I do it, maybe I can get out of here, and I mustn’t forget that she’s the mother of my beloved. And so, as he continued to stroke the knife, he said: “Shema Yisrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad.” He said it quickly and sloppily, the way a timid boy might order a loaf of bread in a crowded bakery. His voice trembled. His hand trembled. He had no feeling left in the finger that was stroking the knife.

“Again,” the mother said.

And Awromele repeated the prayer. Just as quickly, just as quietly, and, for the first time since meeting the tall boy and his friends in the park, without embarrassment.

“Yes,” she said, “that was good. Now he can take me again like an animal, in the place where he always takes me, every night, like a hot, panting animal, because that’s what he is, my stainless-steel lover, a hot, panting beast, a sweet brute, untiring, always ready for love, always in the mood, never a headache.”

She moved her left leg forward. “Look,” she said.

Awromele saw the wounds on her left thigh, the scars, the scabs. The old wounds, the wounds from yesterday, the wounds from a week ago, the wounds that were jabbed open again and again. A battlefield, her leg was. He felt like screaming, but he was afraid it would wake someone. The mother’s hand was still resting on his head.

He wanted to run away and never come back. Away from this house, away from this city, away from this country.

“Stay,” she said, “stay, Awromele. You know that song, the one about Jewish blood that splatters from the knife? I’ve sung it often; it has a nice melody, it sticks with you. Do you know that song? I’m sure you’ve heard it before. Do you know it? Do you want me to sing it for you?”

She turned her lover around, aimed him at her left thigh.

“This is sweet,” she said. “This is living. You’re too young to understand that, and, besides, you’re my misfortune. Young, with curly blond hair, that’s how I want to remember my misfortune. If you people had been exterminated, I wouldn’t have had any misfortune, but what else would I have had?”

She set the knife to her thigh and pushed it in slowly.

This time Awromele really did cry out, but the mother put her hand over his mouth. “What do I have to say?” she asked. “Quick, what do I have to say? How does the prayer go?”

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it hard. As though that were all she had the strength to do, as though she couldn’t do anything else.

“Shema Yisrael,” said Awromele.

“Shema Yisrael,” said the mother.

“Adonai eloheinu,” said Awromele.

“Adonai eloheinu,” said the mother.

“Adonai echad,” said Awromele.

“Adonai echad,” said the mother.

Then she pulled the knife out of her leg.

She put her hand over Awromele’s mouth right away. The blood flowed like a hesitant little mountain brook in early spring.

“It’s love,” the mother said. “Awromele, it’s love, it’s the only love on this earth, the purest, the loveliest, it’s the only love worthy of the name: the hatred of the Jews. You know, my father had hands just like yours, hands just as soft as yours.”

“I didn’t know that,” Awromele said. “He must have been a special man. I think I’ll get my things together.”

“You won’t forget me?” the mother asked. “You won’t forget me and my lover?”

“No,” Awromele said, “never.”

The mother let him go.

He took a few steps back, turned, and opened the kitchen door, then looked over his shoulder. The mother was still standing there with her lover in her hand. The battlefield of her left leg was illuminated softly by the lamp in the exhaust hood. She looked at her misfortune and knew for a fact that it was love, her father’s love, too. She would never doubt it again, now that she had seen her misfortune up close.

Awromele said, “Have a pleasant night, and thank you for everything.”

He closed the kitchen door carefully and ran upstairs, to Xavier’s bedroom. He shook Xavier till he was awake.

“What is it?” Xavier asked. “Did we oversleep?”

“No, we didn’t oversleep,” Awromele said, “but I want to go. Are you going with me? Xavier, let’s go now.”

In the kitchen, the mother was carefully cleaning her lover with hot water and dishwashing liquid. “My little one,” she said, “my sweetest. You’re the loveliest of all. The warmest.” She caressed the knife, the way she would never caress anyone again. “Shema Yisrael,” she said to the knife that was the love of her life. She had remembered those words — the rest she had forgotten. “Shema Yisrael.”

Then she had to drop the knife in order to clutch the counter with both hands. She felt dizzy, but happier than she had ever felt before.

And down her left leg still flowed a mountain brook. A brook that wanted only one thing: to grow into a broad river.