Free Jakob the Liar by Jurek Becker Page A

right. Mischa has found a way, Fayngold has cooperated, Rosa is happy to be here.
    She is lying on her back, I know, her hands under her head, tonight as always, even though that’s a bit selfish since with a big fellow like Mischa the bed has more than enough to cope with: he has to make do with the edge. There she lies, a faraway look in her eyes; the evening, the most wonderful yet, is over. They have already whispered their sweet nothings into each other’s ears. Although Fayngold is deaf and dumb, they always whisper, as people do who lie as Rosa and Mischa do now. They would whisper even on a lonely island, if, that is, it were absolutely necessary to speak. The night is far advanced; the mute Fayngold has long since been asleep behind the screen of wardrobe and curtain. The hot weather and the news must have worn him out: tonight he was only a brief impediment. After only a few minutes Mischa was satisfied with the sounds coming from the other side and could lavish his entire attention on Rosa.
    Rosa gently nudges Mischa, her foot against his foot, persisting until he is sufficiently awake to ask her what’s up.
    “My parents will be living with us, won’t they?” she says.
    Her parents. They had never come as far as this room. There had always been only the night when Mischa and Rosa were lying together and making love — that particular night and no other. All the following ones were yet to come, and there was no use wasting time thinking about them. But now that the parents are here, let’s look briefly at what may one day happen, let’s peek through the hole in the curtain. Her parents are here, along with an idea of what the future may hold; they can’t be thrown out, Rosa is adamant.
    “They won’t be living with us,” says Mischa in the darkness.
    “And why not? Do you have something against them?” Rosa raises her voice — these are not matters that demand to be whispered — raises it so rebelliously, perhaps, that Fayngold might wake up, but of course she never suspects this danger.
    “Good heavens, is that so important that you have to wake me up in the middle of the night?”
    “Yes,” says Rosa.
    All right. He props himself on his elbows. She can pride herself on having finally chased away his sleep; he sighs, as if life wasn’t already difficult enough.
    “All right. I have nothing against them, nothing whatsoever. I really like them very much indeed, they won’t be living with us, and now I want to sleep!”
    He heaves himself onto his other side, a minor demonstration in the moonlight: their first tiff. Not yet a real quarrel, merely a foretaste of everyday worries. A few silent minutes pass during which Mischa notices that Fayngold has woken up.
    “Mamma could look after the children,” says Rosa.
    “Grandmas always spoil children,” says Mischa. “And I don’t know how to cook, either.” “There are books.”
    Now she sighs, Let’s quarrel later, we’ll have all the time in the world. Rosa has to lift her head slightly because he is pushing his reconciling arm under it: now a kiss to make up, then finally back to sleep. But she can’t simply close her eyes and run away. What she sees she sees: we’ve been waiting a long time for this glimpse into the future. When they knock, when they are standing in the doorway, those Russians, good morning, here we are, now we can start, by that time it’s too late, we can’t wait till then to decide, we must know by then what has to be done first and what next. But Mischa wants to sleep, and Rosa can’t. So many things are mixed up; at least some of them should be straightened out. Important matters will somehow take care of themselves; people of consequence who’ll take care of those are sure to show up. Let’s start with our own little affairs, no one’s going to look after those for us.
    From pondering, Rosa progresses to whispering. First of all there’s the question of the house, one we’d feel comfortable in, but we