rest. I hear their misgivings at the freight yard and on the way home and in the building. In your naïveté you’ll be the death of us all, they warn; the Germans are not deaf or blind. And the ghetto regulations are not merely suggestions for good behavior; it says right there in black and white what it means to listen to a radio, as well as what happens to those who know that someone is listening and who don’t report it. So calm down and wait quietly in your corner. When the Russians show up they’ll show up; no amount of talking will get them here. And above all stop talking about that wretched radio, about that potential cause of a thousand deaths; the sooner it’s destroyed the better.
That’s the situation, so not everyone is Jacob’s friend, but he is not aware of this, nor has he any way of finding out.
Those who crowd around him, those greedy for news, the hundred Kowalskis, they’ll be sure not to tell him because Jacob might have second thoughts, change his mind, and suddenly decide to say nothing; they’d rather say nothing themselves. And the admonishers would be the last to tell him. They’re not going to send any warning delegation to him, that would be far too risky. They give Jacob a wide berth: no one must be able to testify that they’d been seen in his company.
The earlocked Herschel Schtamm, for example, is one of the others, those who don’t want to hear and see anymore and don’t wish to be accessories. At the freight yard, when, our hands held to our mouths, we evaluate the latest Russian successes, fresh from Jacob’s lips, he moves a few steps away, but not too far, still within earshot I’d say. As long as it’s not a conversation in which he is seen to be involved: that’s obviously what he is worried about. Herschel’s gaze wanders aimlessly over the tracks, or lands on one of us with disapproving severity, yet it is quite possible that under the sweat-inducing fur hat he pricks up his ears like a rabbit.
The power failure that turns Jacob’s radio for days into a life-threatening dust gatherer is, Herschel feels, his personal achievement. Not that he makes any such claim in public: Herschel is not given to boasting, but we heard about this from his twin brother Roman, who spends every evening and every morning in the same room with him and every night in the same bed. He must know, after all. When we ask Herschel how he brought off such a feat — cutting off the power in several streets for several days isn’t exactly child’s play — a benign expression spreads over his face, almost a smile as after surviving a great ordeal, but he refuses to say a word.
And then we ask, “How was it, Roman? How did he manage it?” The last few minutes before going to bed, Roman tells us, are filled with prayer, quietly in a corner, an old habit established well before the radio. Roman waits patiently in bed until their shared blanket can be drawn over their heads. He has long ceased urging Herschel to hurry up and come to bed, having been enlightened as to the incompatibility of prayer and haste. He disregards the monotonous murmuring, the chanting; to listen would be a waste of time since Roman doesn’t understand a word of Hebrew. But recently some familiar sounds have been penetrating his ear. Ever since Herschel has had concrete petitions to send up to God, no longer the usual pious stuff about protecting and making everything turn out for the best, he resorts more and more often to the vernacular. In a fragmentary way, Roman can now listen to what is preoccupying and tormenting his brother: nothing extraordinary — if he were to pray himself, he wouldn’t have anything very different to say. Night after night God is informed about hunger, about the fear of deportation or being beaten by sentries, all of which cannot possibly be happening with His approval; would He please see what could be done about this, soon, if possible, it is urgent, and could He also give a sign that
That’s the situation, so not everyone is Jacob’s friend, but he is not aware of this, nor has he any way of finding out.
Those who crowd around him, those greedy for news, the hundred Kowalskis, they’ll be sure not to tell him because Jacob might have second thoughts, change his mind, and suddenly decide to say nothing; they’d rather say nothing themselves. And the admonishers would be the last to tell him. They’re not going to send any warning delegation to him, that would be far too risky. They give Jacob a wide berth: no one must be able to testify that they’d been seen in his company.
The earlocked Herschel Schtamm, for example, is one of the others, those who don’t want to hear and see anymore and don’t wish to be accessories. At the freight yard, when, our hands held to our mouths, we evaluate the latest Russian successes, fresh from Jacob’s lips, he moves a few steps away, but not too far, still within earshot I’d say. As long as it’s not a conversation in which he is seen to be involved: that’s obviously what he is worried about. Herschel’s gaze wanders aimlessly over the tracks, or lands on one of us with disapproving severity, yet it is quite possible that under the sweat-inducing fur hat he pricks up his ears like a rabbit.
The power failure that turns Jacob’s radio for days into a life-threatening dust gatherer is, Herschel feels, his personal achievement. Not that he makes any such claim in public: Herschel is not given to boasting, but we heard about this from his twin brother Roman, who spends every evening and every morning in the same room with him and every night in the same bed. He must know, after all. When we ask Herschel how he brought off such a feat — cutting off the power in several streets for several days isn’t exactly child’s play — a benign expression spreads over his face, almost a smile as after surviving a great ordeal, but he refuses to say a word.
And then we ask, “How was it, Roman? How did he manage it?” The last few minutes before going to bed, Roman tells us, are filled with prayer, quietly in a corner, an old habit established well before the radio. Roman waits patiently in bed until their shared blanket can be drawn over their heads. He has long ceased urging Herschel to hurry up and come to bed, having been enlightened as to the incompatibility of prayer and haste. He disregards the monotonous murmuring, the chanting; to listen would be a waste of time since Roman doesn’t understand a word of Hebrew. But recently some familiar sounds have been penetrating his ear. Ever since Herschel has had concrete petitions to send up to God, no longer the usual pious stuff about protecting and making everything turn out for the best, he resorts more and more often to the vernacular. In a fragmentary way, Roman can now listen to what is preoccupying and tormenting his brother: nothing extraordinary — if he were to pray himself, he wouldn’t have anything very different to say. Night after night God is informed about hunger, about the fear of deportation or being beaten by sentries, all of which cannot possibly be happening with His approval; would He please see what could be done about this, soon, if possible, it is urgent, and could He also give a sign that
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