Kaddish for an Unborn Child (3 page)

a bald-headed woman was seated in
front of the mirror in a red negligee
, no, he did not grasp the horror of it at all but instead crowned it with further horrors, admittedly in a very good-humored way, by explaining it all, and I understood nothing of the whole explanation except the unclean horror of the facts, or to be more precise, the naked, mysterious and inscrutable factuality of the facts, when he explained that the relatives were
Poylish
, and that
Poylish
women, for religious reasons, shave their hair off and wear a wig, or
shaytl
; then later on, when it started to assume increasing importance that I too was Jewish, since, as gradually became common knowledge, this generally carried a death sentence, probably just so that I should see this incomprehensible and peculiar fact—(namely, that I was Jewish) in all its singular oddity, or at least in a more familiar light, I suddenly realized that I now understood who I was:
a bald-headed woman seated in front of the mirror in a red negligee.
The matter was plain enough, albeit not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible, but in the final analysis, indisputably, it admirably defined my not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible situation, to say nothing of my kinship. In the end, as things turned out, I simply no longer needed it because I came to terms with the notion, that is, the notion of my Jewishness, just as I have come to terms, slowly and one by one, with a succession of other not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible notions, in a sort of crepuscular truce, of course, knowing full well that even these not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible notions will themselves eventually cease when I cease to be, until which time those notions are admirably useful things, including, in the front rank, the notion of my Jewishness—of course, solely as a not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible matter of fact, moreover one which now and again is also somewhat life-imperiling, but then, at least for me (and I hope, indeed am confident, that
by no means
everybody will agree with me on this, while I suppose some will be offended at, indeed I sincerely hope will hate, me for this, especially Jewish and non-Jewish philo- and anti-Semites)—as I say, for me its utility resides precisely in this, this is the only way in which I can use it, no other way: as a not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible and, moreover, occasionally life-imperiling matter of fact that perhaps, purely for its perilousness,
one must try to love
, as we know, though speaking for myself I see no reason for it, perhaps because I long ago stopped trying to live as it were in harmony with other people, with Nature, or even with myself, and what is more, I would see that as nothing short of a form of moral poverty, the same sort of disgusting perversity as in an oedipal relationship or incest between two hideous siblings. Yes, so there I was sitting and waiting for my (ex-) wife in this coffee bar lit like an aquarium, hoping for a pile of new prescriptions and not even thinking about my not pleasant and, above all, none too readily comprehensible and, moreover, periodically life-imperiling existence, while two women at the nearby table chatted and I, virtually as a reflex, started to eavesdrop since they were attractive women, the one more of a blonde, the other more a brunette, and no matter how much and how often they dismayed me (to say no more than that), surreptitiously, if I pay attention, quietly and closely, to the circulation of my blood and my alarming dreams, as a matter of fact I am still, and even so, surreptitiously fond of attractive women, with an unshakable, incorrigible, I might say natural attraction which, for all it purports to be so banally understandable is nevertheless essentially mysterious, since it has almost nothing to do with me, and to that extent is even outrageous and in any event not so readily dismissed as, let's say, my liking for plane trees, which I like simply for their sprawling, blotchy trunks, their splendid and fantastic branches, and their large, veined leaves, dangling as they do, at the right time of the year, like so many listless hands. And I had barely had a chance to join in, if only as a passive party, their conversation, the confidential, one might say stiflingly whispered tone of which instantly intimated a significant topic, when I heard the following words: “. . . I don't know, but I could never do it with a foreigner . . . A black, a gypsy, an Arab . . .” At this point her voice broke off, but I sensed that she was merely hesitating, my sense of rhythm tipped me off that she was not yet finished, no way, there was something still to come, and I was almost beginning to fidget on my chair because, naturally, I knew very well what was still to come, and I was thinking that if she had to rack her brains over it this long, then I would prompt her myself, when finally she added with great bitterness: “. . . a Jew,” and all at once, yet quite unexpectedly, even though I had been counting on the word, waiting for it, watching out for it, almost insisting on it, well anyway, the world all at once went into a spin for a split second, with a sudden, gut-wrenching free-falling sensation, and I thought that if that woman were to look at me now, then I would mutate:
I will be
a bald-headed woman in a red negligee in front of the mirror
, there is no escaping that curse, I thought, none, and I can see only one way out, I thought, and that is, I thought, to get up straightaway from the table and either slap the woman, I thought, or screw her. Needless to say, I did neither, just as I don't do so many other things that I have thought, often with reason, that I ought to do, and this was not even one of those categorical imperatives over whose violation I could more justifiably shake my head; my temper had hardly flared up, so to speak, than it was snuffed out, beside which, like stray shadows, several nasty but familiar thoughts were in the offing: Why should I bother to convince either the woman or myself, since I have long been convinced about everything, I do what I have to do, and although I don't know why I have to, I do it anyway in the hope, indeed the knowledge, that there will come a time when there will be no need to have to, and I shall be free to stretch out on my comfortable bed, after they have first made me work hard for it, of course, after they have whistled out the signal for me to dig a grave for myself, and at present, even though so much time has already passed—God help us!—I am still just at the digging stage. Then my wife arrived, and I, my feelings eased, instantly and, so to say, involuntarily thought, “What a lovely Jewish girl!” the way she traversed a greenish-blue carpet as if she were making her way on the sea, and she stepped, triumphantly yet still timidly ever closer towards me for she wanted to speak with me, because she knew that I am who I am, B., writer and literary translator, “a piece” of whose she had read which she
absolutely
had to discuss with me, my (then as yet future but now ex-) wife said, and she was still very young, fifteen years younger than me, though I was not yet really all that old either, but then already quite old enough, as ever. Yes, that is how I see her now, in this night of mine, in my big, all-illuminating, lightning-bright night and also in the dark night that descended upon me later, much later, yes:
Sometimes I wonder why I spend a lonely night
dreaming of a song . . . and I am once again with you
, I whistle, amazed that I should be whistling, and “Stardust” at that, which is what we always whistled, even though I am now in the habit of whistling only Gustav Mahler, nothing but Gustav Mahler, his Ninth Symphony. But I suppose this is quite beside the point, unless anyone should happen to be familiar with Mahler's Ninth Symphony, in which case they would be able to surmise from its mood, rightfully and with complete justice, my frame of mind, if they happened to be curious about it and were not willing to make do with the direct disclosures emanating from me, from which the necessary conclusions can likewise be drawn.
When our love was new and
each kiss an inspiration . . .

“No!” something bellows, howls, within me, I don't wish to remember, to dunk let's say ladyfingers instead of petites madeleines (unknown, even as unprocurable articles, in this benighted part of the world) into my cup of Garzon tea mixture, though of course I do wish to remember, willingly or not, I can do nothing else: if I write, I remember, I have to remember, though I don't know why I have to remember, obviously for the sake of knowing, remembering is knowing, we live in order to remember what we know, because we cannot forget what we know, don't worry, children, not out of some kind of “moral duty,” no, come off it, it's simply
not at our discretion
, we are not
able
, to forget, that is the way we are created, we live in order to know and to remember, and perhaps, indeed probably, indeed with almost total certainty, the reason why we know and remember is in order that somebody should feel shame on our account if he has gone so far as to create us, yes, we remember for the one who either is or isn't, it doesn't matter, because either he is or he isn't: in the end it comes down to the same thing, the essential point is that we should remember, know and remember, that somebody—anybody—should feel shame on our account and (possibly) for us. Because as far as I am concerned, if I were to set off from my privileged, my ceremonial, I nearly said my sanctified memories, but then, I don't mind, if we are going to use grand words, then so be it: from my memories, sanctified and, indeed, consecrated at the black mass of humanity, then gas would start to leak, guttural voices would croak
Der springt noch auf
, the final
Sh'ma Yisroel
from
A Survivor from Warsaw
would be whimpered, and the tumult of world collapse would raise its din . . . And after that a gentle drizzle of surprise, daily renewed that, would you believe it, I leapt up and so to say concealed again after all,
ich sprang doch auf
, indeed I'm still here, though I don't why, unless it was pure chance, the way I was born, I'm just as much an accomplice to my sticking around as I was to my coming into this world—all right, I concede, a grain more shame attaches to hanging around, especially if one has done one's utmost to hang around, but that's all, nothing more: I wasn't willing to be taken in like other suckers by the general passion and breast-beating clap-trap about sticking around, God help us! and
in any case
you're always partly to blame
, that's all there is to it, I have stuck around and therefore I am, I thought; no, I didn't even think, I just
was
, simple as that, like a Survivor from Warsaw, like a hanger-on from Budapest who sets no store on his hanging on, who feels no need to
justify
his sticking around, to attach notions of
purpose
to his having hung on, yes, to turn his having hung on into a triumph, however quiet, however discreet and intimate, yet essentially still the only
genuine
, the only
possible
triumph, as the prolonged and propagated perpetuation of this hung-on-to existence, namely my own self, in descendants—in a descendant: you—would be (would have been); no, I didn't think about that, I didn't think that I needed to think about that until this night overtook me, that all-illuminating yet pitch-black night, and the question arose before me (or, to be more precise, behind me, behind my long spent life, since, thank God, it's too late and will now always be too late), the question, yes—as to whether you would be a brown-eyed little girl, with the pale specks of your freckles scattered around your tiny nose? Or else a headstrong boy, your eyes bright and hard as greyish-blue pebbles?—yes, contemplating my life as the potentiality of your being, contemplating it at all, strictly, sadly, without anger or hope, as one contemplates an object. As I said, I didn't think of anything, even though, as I said, I ought to have. Because surreptitiously some kind of mole work was going on here, a grubbing and a machinating that I ought to have known about and, of course, did know about, I just took it to be something other than it really was, though what exactly, I don't know— perhaps some kind of reassuring movement, I suspect, much as a blind old man might suppose the ringing, scraping noise of diggers is the earth-mastering work of sewer laying whereas what they are digging there is a grave, and what is more, a grave specifically for him. In short, I suddenly caught myself writing because I had to write, even though I did not know why I had to, the fact is I noticed that I was working incessantly, one might say with an insane diligence, always working, driven not solely by the need to make ends meet, because even if I did not work
I would still exist
, and if I were existing then I don't know what that would drive me to do, and it is better that I don't know, even if my bones, my guts, have an inkling, to be sure, for the reason why I work incessantly is that while I am working I am, and if I did not work, who knows if I would be, therefore I have to take it seriously because the most deadly serious associations subsist between my continued subsistence and my work, that much is blatantly obvious and not in the least normal, even if there happen to be others, even a fair number of them, who likewise write because they have to write, though not everyone who writes has to write, but in my case there was no getting away from the fact that I had to, I don't know why, but it seems this was the only solution open to me, even if it solves nothing, on the other hand at least it does not leave me in a position of—how shall I put it?—unsolvedness that would compel me to regard it as unsolved even in its unsolvedness and consequently torment me not only by virtue of unsolvedness but also by the shortcomings of this unsolvedness and dissatisfaction over that. In hindsight, I may perhaps have considered writing was an escape (and not entirely groundlessly: at worst I supposed I was escaping in another direction, towards a goal other than the one towards which I was actually escaping and even now increasingly escape), an escape, indeed a salvation, a salvation and absolutely indispensable
demonstration
of myself and, through myself, of my material and moreover, to use grand words, mental world to the one—anyone—who will feel shame on one's account and (possibly) for one; and that night had to ensue for me to see at last in the darkness, to see among other things the nature of my work, which in its essence was nothing more than digging, the continued digging of the grave that others had begun to dig for me in the air and then, simply because they did not have time to finish, hastily and without so much as a hint of diabolical mockery (far from it: just like that, casually, without so much as a look around), they thrust the tool in my hand and left me standing there to finish, as best I could, the work that they had begun. And so all my flashes of recognition were merely recognitions leading towards this recognition, and whatever I did, it all became just a recognition within me that led to this recognition—my marriage, just as much as the fact that I said