The Testament by Elie Wiesel

hospital. You didn’t cry. Bravo, little Grisha. I like that. You’re an intelligent boy, and brave too. Come with me, let’s talk. Oh I know—you can’t talk. Never mind. We’ll have a chat anyhow. Let’s go to my place where we’ll be more comfortable. You don’t know me? But I know you. That’s my job: I know everyone around here and everything that goes on in every apartment, in every family. I know your mother, your neighbors; I know the one you hate and, believe me, I hate that Dr. Mozliak too. A strange doctor.… All right now, come along. We’ll be able to converse better at my place. Since you are mute, how will I manage to understand you? Don’t worry, I’ll get along. I’ve learned to hear the words people leave unsaid, to read the words one promises oneself never to utter as they take shape in the mind. Just make believe you are speaking, and I’ll hear you. Make believe you are speaking and you will be speaking. Do you trust me?
    Grisha did trust him and they became friends—confidants, allies. Grisha needed a father, Zupanev a son.
    They had first met one unbearably hot summer evening. Krasnograd could scarcely breathe—the slightest movement required an effort. Even the flies and mosquitoes were buzzing in slow time.
    Raissa had gone swimming with Mozliak. Grisha, alone in the apartment, was filled with self-pity. He had had a quarrel with Olga, a schoolmate. And then his accident had added to his isolation. At fourteen, he felt trapped, defeated, and ready to provoke yet another accident. So as to punish his mother? Mozliak would have consoled her quickly enough. That could wait. Tomorrow, next year.
    He picked up a newspaper lying on the floor: nothing in it. A book on the night table: boring. He turned the pages without stopping at a single line; he didn’t even know what this novel, written by the most famous of the fashionable writers, was about. He was going to pour himself a glass of water when someone knocked at the door. A short, baldheaded man stood on the threshold.
    “May I come in?”
    Grisha nodded.
    “I saw you, so I said to myself … Excuse me, I haven’t introduced myself: I’m Zupanev, Zupanev the watchman. May I sit down?”
    Grisha pointed to a chair and motioned to him, asking whether he wanted something to drink.
    “No, thanks. I just came over to talk. At this hour there’s no one else in the whole building. They have all gone swimming or to the park. Does it bother you, my coming?”
    Grisha shook his head. Nothing bothered him; nothing annoyed him; nothing excited him.
    “Wouldn’t you like to come to my place? We would be more comfortable,” said the watchman.
    Grisha studied him. The man said he was a watchman. How is it I’ve never really noticed him?
    Zupanev guessed what he was thinking. “You’ve undoubtedly crossed my path a thousand times but you never stopped to look at me. That surprises you? That’s how I am—I don’t attract attention. I’m a human chameleon, orsomething close to it. I blend into the landscape; there’s nothing about me that catches the eye. Everything about me is so ordinary that people look at me without seeing me. But I see them. After all, a watchman’s duty is to watch.”
    How old was he? Sixty? More? Less? He was ageless. As a child he must already have had that round expressionless face, those pale expressionless eyes. He was right: with his rounded shoulders, balding head and heavy walk, he was unlikely to arouse any interest. His features were so monotonous that one skipped immediately from forehead to eyes, from eyes to nose, from nose to lips without a single wrinkle or line to catch one’s eye. Anonymity.
    “Come, my boy,” said Zupanev. “I’ll speak for the two of us. I’ll tell you stories you don’t know and should know.”
    They went down to the ground floor. Zupanev opened a door, asked him to enter, offered him a glass of soda water, which Grisha drank in small sips while looking over the