He came up to me at the end of the lecture. A dignified-looking man. In a tuxedo. The head of the Jewish community in a large German city. He held it in both hands, not one.
As a token of our esteem—he said, as if he were giving a speech, though he was speaking only to me—we would like to present you with the autobiography of a member of our community, Marcus Rosner.
Thank you, I said.
He handed me the book and added, in a different, more tentative tone: Marcus is…a survivor.
Thank you very much, I said and bowed my head. I am most grateful.
—
Hardcover. Very hardcover. Nine hundred and thirty-six pages. In German. Here and there, an old black-and-white photo. Here and there, a drawing. Ugly. Distorted. Repellent. His handiwork, apparently. On the back cover, a brief text and small photo of him taken on his wedding day in the ghetto. There was no bride in the frame, not even a veil, but from the poles of the wedding canopy being held by three unsmiling men, you could tell it was a wedding. Marcus Rosner himself stood in the center, wearing a gray cap, glancing at the person who looked nothing like a rabbi but was apparently presiding over the ceremony. Maybe the head of the Judenrat?
The next morning, I tried to get Marcus Rosner’s huge volume into my suitcase but couldn’t manage it. I swear, I just couldn’t manage it. The zipper wouldn’t close, really. Then the phone in my room rang and it was Thomas, who had been sent by the publisher to escort me, calling from reception to say that the taxi was waiting, we had a train to catch and we already missed one train because of me.
I don’t like saying it, but I write really well on German trains.
There’s room under each pair of seats, the German countryside at the end of winter—bare trees—isn’t spectacular enough to distract me, no one speaks loudly on his cell, no one recognizes me from reserve duty, from the university, from my ad agency days, there’s no one to greet me with hi bro, what’s happening, what’s up, what’s new, man.
—
I was in the middle of a letter to Dikla when the phone rang. The head of the Jewish community was on the line.
We enjoyed your lecture very much yesterday, he said.
Thank you, I replied in my most modest voice.
To tell you the truth, he continued, when you sent us the title, “How and Why I Discovered I Was a Jewish Writer,” we were a bit surprised. After all, you were born Jewish, so what was there to discover? And yet…you opened our eyes.
Thank you very much.
I’m calling you about a different matter.
Yes.
The reception desk in the hotel called us.
I see.
It seems that you forgot Marcus Rosner’s book in your room.
Oh my God.
Oh my God if he finds out. Imagine the insult.
Of course.
I sent a messenger posthaste to the hotel you will be staying at tonight.
Thank you very much, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Naturally, I won’t tell Marcus. Just confirm by return e-mail that you have received the book.
—
I swear that this time, I fully intended to cram the book into my suitcase after it arrived with a messenger as promised, but the next day was Saturday, and all the stores in the city are closed on Sunday, so I had to buy all the presents for the kids, I had no choice, each one wanted something else, and Noam asked for high, pink boots, which barely fit into the suitcase, so it was either the pink boots or Marcus Rosner’s autobiography, and the phone in my room rang, and I knew it was Thomas, sent by the publisher to escort me, calling from reception to tell me that the taxi was waiting, and we’d already missed two trains because of me, and Noam was going through a difficult period anyway, what was happening between me and Dikla had affected her, even though she didn’t talk about it, and girls that age can be so cruel to each other, and the whole business of outward appearances is critical to their self-esteem, and if I come home without the boots, she’ll be so disappointed—
Having no choice, and with a heavy heart, I made a selektzia. I shoved Marcus Rosner’s autobiography way under the bed and left.
—
The train had almost reached the final station and I was close to finishing the letter to Dikla—when the phone rang.
The tone of the head of the Jewish community was hostile this time, even threatening, but the content remained matter-of-fact.
The book. You forgot it again. Luckily, the hotel owner is Jewish, so he had the sense to call me. Marcus called as well, by the way. To ask what you said about his book. I didn’t tell him. Of course not. As it is, his health is failing. A thing like this could finish him off. You writers, your minds are always somewhere else, aren’t they? I sent another messenger to the next hotel you will be at. At my own expense. Certainly at my own expense. But this time, if you will forgive me, will be the last, yes?
—
The next morning, I didn’t give up. There was no way I could get the book into my suitcase without taking something out, so I removed two shirts, a pair of socks, a slimmer volume I had brought with me, and also a raincoat I especially loved, and left them in the hotel room. I put Marcus inside. He had suffered enough.
In his wedding picture, he had actually tried to smile, but the corners of his smile drooped. And the men holding
