everything with your ears.
”
“
I’ll do my best.
”
“
And then
…”
“
Yes?
”
“
There is one point which is essential.
”
“
What is it?
”
“
It’s at the core of my blurring memories; thanks to it, the memories are still mine.
”
“
What are you talking about?
”
“
You’ll know at the right time.
”
“
When? Where? Over there?
”
“
Yes. Over there. Or when you come back. But to know it, you must first go there.
”
“
You can’t tell me now?
”
“
I must not, Malkiel.
”
“
And if I come home empty-handed?
”
“
You will not come home empty-handed.
”
Why had Elhanan Rosenbaum insisted that his son, Malkiel, visit his hometown? To dig up what secret? To meet what phantom? To do what ritual penance?
It was only to oblige his already sick father that Malkiel had agreed to leave him for a few weeks. He could not refuse him this favor, perhaps the last he could do for him.
“You must go,” Elhanan repeated, more and more obsessed. “Believe me, you must.”
“Are you hoping I’ll find you there, as a child or a young man? Think again, Father. You’re not over there but here. Entirely.”
Entirely? Not really. Day by day Elhanan Rosenbaum deteriorated. Each morning new regions of his past seemed to have been detached from him, to have vanished. “What are you waiting for, Malkiel? For the last spark to die? For the last door to close?”
Malkiel had no choice.
He had made another journey, several years earlier, far from the excitement of New York, far from his father, who was flourishing as a teacher and psychotherapist.
In Asia, the earth—or rather history—was trembling. Gigantic mass graves had been discovered in Cambodia. The phrase “boat people” had entered the language. “I want to go over there,” Malkiel told his boss. “I
have
to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But I
have
to.”
The sage, chin resting on one hand, studied him for a moment. “Because of Tamar? To put some distance between you?”
“No.”
“Because of your father?”
“Not that either.”
“We have Henry over there. He’s doing a good job. He doesn’t need help, as far as I know.”
“He’s willing to have me come over,” Malkiel said.
The sage sounded annoyed. “You spoke to him before speaking to me?”
“We’re friends.”
There followed a lecture on journalistic protocol and ethics, which ended in a handshake. “If I understand correctly, you already have your visa?”
Malkiel nodded.
He rushed to tell Tamar; to telephone his father. That very night he left for Bangkok. Henry was waiting for him at the airport. “What’s a nice Jewish boy like you doing here?”
“Just looking,” Malkiel answered. Of course Henry knew why Malkiel was there.
“I didn’t book you into a hotel. You’ll stay with me.”
“What I’d like to do—”
“I know. You’d like to leave for the border right away. Let me take care of things. Tomorrow morning we’ll go up together. First you’re going to take a shower. And change. I have tropical clothes for you.”
Good old Henry. The perfect friend. A great reporter, with a Pulitzer Prize, at home everywhere. And ready for anything.
Next morning they entered the camp at Aranyaprathet, not far from the Cambodian border. Thousands of eyes followed their every move. Eyes burning from sunlight, exhaustion, suffering. Malkiel would never forget those eyes, or the devastating smiles of starving children.
“I look at them and I want the whole world to look at them,” Henry said.
“I look at them,” Malkiel said, “and they look back at me. And I think of other children in other places, after the war in Europe.”
They trudged through the camp’s streets and alleys.
“Your pieces are the best you’ve ever written,” Malkiel said. “Nobody can read them without a sharp pang of guilt.”
Day after day, Henry’s dispatches appeared on the frontpage of
The New York Times
, describing men and women
”
“
I’ll do my best.
”
“
And then
…”
“
Yes?
”
“
There is one point which is essential.
”
“
What is it?
”
“
It’s at the core of my blurring memories; thanks to it, the memories are still mine.
”
“
What are you talking about?
”
“
You’ll know at the right time.
”
“
When? Where? Over there?
”
“
Yes. Over there. Or when you come back. But to know it, you must first go there.
”
“
You can’t tell me now?
”
“
I must not, Malkiel.
”
“
And if I come home empty-handed?
”
“
You will not come home empty-handed.
”
Why had Elhanan Rosenbaum insisted that his son, Malkiel, visit his hometown? To dig up what secret? To meet what phantom? To do what ritual penance?
It was only to oblige his already sick father that Malkiel had agreed to leave him for a few weeks. He could not refuse him this favor, perhaps the last he could do for him.
“You must go,” Elhanan repeated, more and more obsessed. “Believe me, you must.”
“Are you hoping I’ll find you there, as a child or a young man? Think again, Father. You’re not over there but here. Entirely.”
Entirely? Not really. Day by day Elhanan Rosenbaum deteriorated. Each morning new regions of his past seemed to have been detached from him, to have vanished. “What are you waiting for, Malkiel? For the last spark to die? For the last door to close?”
Malkiel had no choice.
He had made another journey, several years earlier, far from the excitement of New York, far from his father, who was flourishing as a teacher and psychotherapist.
In Asia, the earth—or rather history—was trembling. Gigantic mass graves had been discovered in Cambodia. The phrase “boat people” had entered the language. “I want to go over there,” Malkiel told his boss. “I
have
to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But I
have
to.”
The sage, chin resting on one hand, studied him for a moment. “Because of Tamar? To put some distance between you?”
“No.”
“Because of your father?”
“Not that either.”
“We have Henry over there. He’s doing a good job. He doesn’t need help, as far as I know.”
“He’s willing to have me come over,” Malkiel said.
The sage sounded annoyed. “You spoke to him before speaking to me?”
“We’re friends.”
There followed a lecture on journalistic protocol and ethics, which ended in a handshake. “If I understand correctly, you already have your visa?”
Malkiel nodded.
He rushed to tell Tamar; to telephone his father. That very night he left for Bangkok. Henry was waiting for him at the airport. “What’s a nice Jewish boy like you doing here?”
“Just looking,” Malkiel answered. Of course Henry knew why Malkiel was there.
“I didn’t book you into a hotel. You’ll stay with me.”
“What I’d like to do—”
“I know. You’d like to leave for the border right away. Let me take care of things. Tomorrow morning we’ll go up together. First you’re going to take a shower. And change. I have tropical clothes for you.”
Good old Henry. The perfect friend. A great reporter, with a Pulitzer Prize, at home everywhere. And ready for anything.
Next morning they entered the camp at Aranyaprathet, not far from the Cambodian border. Thousands of eyes followed their every move. Eyes burning from sunlight, exhaustion, suffering. Malkiel would never forget those eyes, or the devastating smiles of starving children.
“I look at them and I want the whole world to look at them,” Henry said.
“I look at them,” Malkiel said, “and they look back at me. And I think of other children in other places, after the war in Europe.”
They trudged through the camp’s streets and alleys.
“Your pieces are the best you’ve ever written,” Malkiel said. “Nobody can read them without a sharp pang of guilt.”
Day after day, Henry’s dispatches appeared on the frontpage of
The New York Times
, describing men and women
Similar Books
