Read Online Jakob the Liar by Jurek Becker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jurek Becker
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you I wanted to look at photos or read the old reviews again. But that was a lie; I wanted to listen to the radio. I would go down into the basement, hang something across the door, and didn’t dare. I would sit down, look at the photos or read the reviews, just as I’d told you, and I didn’t dare. But that’s all over now!”
“I had no idea,” she whispers to herself.
“That’s all over, once and for all!” he says. “You were right all the time, it was useless stuff, I don’t need it anymore. There’ll be nothing left, nothing to suggest a radio. Then let them come and search.”
He takes the radio apart, piece by piece, probably the only radio in the hands of any of us; without much fuss he destroys it. The tubes are trodden to dust, an indestructible piece of wire is wound as a harmless cord around a box, the wooden casing is put aside piece by piece and will have to wait a few weeks before being burned. At this time of year any smoking chimney is suspect, but that’s no great tragedy: wood is wood, after all.
“Did you also hear them say that the Russians have almost reached Bezanika?” Mrs. Frankfurter asks in a low voice.
He looks at her in astonishment.
“Didn’t I tell you I never listened?” he may have answered.
M ischa enters his room with Rosa, and that is a whole story on its own. If it is a story when somebody must be lied to in order to make her a little bit happy, that’s what happened with Rosa; if it is a story when bold ruses must be employed and fear of discovery is present, and there must on no account be any slipups, and one’s expression must remain solemn and innocent throughout; if all this yields a serviceable story, then Rosa’s going with Mischa to his room is also a story.
In the middle of the room is a curtain.
Fayngold is the name of the man sleeping in the other bed, it’s because of Isaak Fayngold that they have to go to all this trouble, even if he couldn’t care less. He’s wiped out with fatigue anyway every night, he’s over sixty and his hair is snow white; he really does have other worries, but go ahead and do what you like. At first only the wardrobe had divided the room; to Mischa this seemed enough and to Fayngold more than enough, but for Rosa it hadn’t been sufficient. She told Mischa that, even if Fayngold is deaf and dumb, he still isn’t blind, and the moon shines so brightly into the room, and in any case the wardrobe is too narrow. Mischa cheerfully removed the piece of cloth from the window and fastened it to the ceiling beside the wardrobe. Now the moon could shine in more brightly than ever, but not for Fayngold. The main thing was that Rosa was reassured.
Fayngold is no more deaf and dumb than I or Kowalski or anyone else who knows how to use his ears and tongue, but for Rosa he is as deaf and dumb as a clam. It was clear to Mischa from the start that Rosa would not set foot near his bed because there was another bed next to it with a strange man in it; the understanding landladies and the discreet little hotels with their hall porters who tactfully look the other way and ask no questions — these can be found only in some other town. He knew that under the circumstances she could only say no, she’s not that kind of girl, that’s out of the question. Neither is he that kind of fellow. But if renunciation is to be the ultimate option, there is still ample time for brooding. No one can fault him for that, and Mischa did plenty of it.
One blessed night he was lying awake in bed thinking of Rosa, with Fayngold about to fall asleep in the other bed, and Mischa began to tell him about Rosa. Who she was and how she was and what she looked like and how much he loved her and how much she loved him, and Fayngold merely sighed. That’s when Mischa confessed his burning desire to have Rosa with him for one night.
“By all means,” Fayngold answered, without going more deeply into the problem. “I don’t mind. And now, do let me go to
“I had no idea,” she whispers to herself.
“That’s all over, once and for all!” he says. “You were right all the time, it was useless stuff, I don’t need it anymore. There’ll be nothing left, nothing to suggest a radio. Then let them come and search.”
He takes the radio apart, piece by piece, probably the only radio in the hands of any of us; without much fuss he destroys it. The tubes are trodden to dust, an indestructible piece of wire is wound as a harmless cord around a box, the wooden casing is put aside piece by piece and will have to wait a few weeks before being burned. At this time of year any smoking chimney is suspect, but that’s no great tragedy: wood is wood, after all.
“Did you also hear them say that the Russians have almost reached Bezanika?” Mrs. Frankfurter asks in a low voice.
He looks at her in astonishment.
“Didn’t I tell you I never listened?” he may have answered.
M ischa enters his room with Rosa, and that is a whole story on its own. If it is a story when somebody must be lied to in order to make her a little bit happy, that’s what happened with Rosa; if it is a story when bold ruses must be employed and fear of discovery is present, and there must on no account be any slipups, and one’s expression must remain solemn and innocent throughout; if all this yields a serviceable story, then Rosa’s going with Mischa to his room is also a story.
In the middle of the room is a curtain.
Fayngold is the name of the man sleeping in the other bed, it’s because of Isaak Fayngold that they have to go to all this trouble, even if he couldn’t care less. He’s wiped out with fatigue anyway every night, he’s over sixty and his hair is snow white; he really does have other worries, but go ahead and do what you like. At first only the wardrobe had divided the room; to Mischa this seemed enough and to Fayngold more than enough, but for Rosa it hadn’t been sufficient. She told Mischa that, even if Fayngold is deaf and dumb, he still isn’t blind, and the moon shines so brightly into the room, and in any case the wardrobe is too narrow. Mischa cheerfully removed the piece of cloth from the window and fastened it to the ceiling beside the wardrobe. Now the moon could shine in more brightly than ever, but not for Fayngold. The main thing was that Rosa was reassured.
Fayngold is no more deaf and dumb than I or Kowalski or anyone else who knows how to use his ears and tongue, but for Rosa he is as deaf and dumb as a clam. It was clear to Mischa from the start that Rosa would not set foot near his bed because there was another bed next to it with a strange man in it; the understanding landladies and the discreet little hotels with their hall porters who tactfully look the other way and ask no questions — these can be found only in some other town. He knew that under the circumstances she could only say no, she’s not that kind of girl, that’s out of the question. Neither is he that kind of fellow. But if renunciation is to be the ultimate option, there is still ample time for brooding. No one can fault him for that, and Mischa did plenty of it.
One blessed night he was lying awake in bed thinking of Rosa, with Fayngold about to fall asleep in the other bed, and Mischa began to tell him about Rosa. Who she was and how she was and what she looked like and how much he loved her and how much she loved him, and Fayngold merely sighed. That’s when Mischa confessed his burning desire to have Rosa with him for one night.
“By all means,” Fayngold answered, without going more deeply into the problem. “I don’t mind. And now, do let me go to
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