The writer wished to reply but suddenly remembered something else the buzzing had whispered to him. For a moment his eyes grew wide with astonishment, but though he was unwilling, the spell was stronger than he was, and he replied like one possessed: “Anshel Wasserman, Commander, but I was once called Scheherazade.” Staukeh furrowed his brow. “Schere-? Damn it, where do I know your name from, Wasserman?” Wasserman underwent a small series of mysterious convulsions. A fierce war seemed to be raging inside him. He was arguing with someone. He protested. He screamed: “Enough! I have no strength! Not again! And why music all of a sudden? What does music have to do with—and how will I tell a new story? A new story all over again?” But the invisible partner in the controversy was by far the stronger, and the old Jew, in his gorgeous gown, drooped listlessly and answered, “Rimsky-Korsakov, sir, is the one who wrote the fine musical composition by the name of Scheherazade, but if I may be so presumptuous, that is, yes, I used to write musical riddles for the children’s radio program in Berlin … perhaps you remember? Every Wednesday afternoon? I am he.” And he fell silent, alarmed by the words that had escaped his mouth, signaling to the representative of the editorial staff that he does not understand what’s going on, or why he has to tell these lies. But the representative looked the other way at Staukeh, Sturmbannführer Staukeh, whose face suddenly turned red, and a spark shot through his eyes like a firecracker, and a deeper breath than usual filled his lungs; in short, Staukeh was excited. But very soon he managed to subdue his excitement. Very soon the old expression of venomous scorn covered his face. “The writer of musical riddles, you say? Perhaps sometime when I’m very bored you can come tire me out with that nonsense. I, too, know a little about music. But listen: you’re movinginto my place. You’ll be my House Jew. My gardener, Scheherazade. My petunias have been looking quite miserable lately.” Wasscrman, defeated, with infinite weariness: “And radishes, too, you shall have, Commander.”
TIUD
DOCUMENTATION
A system facilitating the storage and identification of various types of information.
“No,” said Ayala, “that won’t help you, you’ll fail. This whole encyclopedia business is utterly worthless. It doesn’t explain anything. Look at it: you know what it reminds me of? A mass grave. That’s what it reminds me of. A grave with limbs sticking out in every direction. All disjointed. But not only that, Shlomik. It’s also a documentation of your crimes against humanity. And now that you’ve gotten this far, I hope you see that you’ve failed, that your whole encyclopedia is not enough to fully encompass a single day or even a single moment of human life. And now, if you want me to forgive you, if you want to save yourself so that at least part of this disaster will be canceled and forgotten, write me a new story. A good story. A beautiful story. Yes, yes, I know your limitations: I don’t expect a happy ending from you. But promise me that at least you’ll write with MERCY [q.v.], with LOVE [q.v.]! Not See under: Love, Shlomik! Go love! Love!”
TEFILLA
PRAYER
A universal religious phenomenon, a silent or vocalized appeal to the Divinity.
Fried said his prayer at 2205, an hour after Otto brought Kazik to him the first time. The boy, who was then six, had just fallen asleep, exhausted, apparently, from his feverish activity. Fried, also tired, sat down beside him on the carpet. Fried: “Bozhe moi, he’s six already. I wasted so much time before I realized what was going on.” And inwardly he made a DECISION [q.v.] to fight. For the first time in his adult life he made up his mind to fight. And it may seem a strange thing to say about the doctor, who was always so belligerent, but itwas not so: Wasserman testifies that all his life the doctor had been waiting for some decisive battle, some act he could throw himself into with all his might and main, which would yield some sort of meaning to his hitherto purposeless life. This was the reason, incidentally, why the doctor had been such an easy and indifferent victim in every struggle or conflict he had ever encountered. There was nothing he considered worth fighting over. There was nothing he could point to decisively as bad or good. All men’s deeds seemed to him—in the final analysis—totally insignificant. Even when they were aimed against him, he couldn’t find enough outrage inside himself to protest. This is why he had earned the reputation of an arrogant misanthrope. He knew he wasn’t really like that, but he realized too late that he had lost the opportunity to avenge his empty years. The realization came when Paula moved in with him. The doctor discovered, much to his alarm, that all his life had been a BIOGRAPHY [q.v.] he could not even consider his own. It was the fruit of a prolonged mistake and weary negligence. So when the child Kazik was brought to him, after his first moments of hesitation, the doctor knew that he must fight, that this was his last chance. And he swore he would give the child asleep beside him the best of lives, and be the best of fathers, and the best of friends. That he would give the child what he
