Free Abahn Sabana David by Marguerite Duras

slowly toward the table, to the area where the Jews are. She turns back to him. She seems worried, bothered. “The Jew is going to give you his dogs. You can have them.”
    David’s air changes. Happiness seems to break out over him, in his eyes, mixed with the sadness.
    â€œDiane,” says Sabana. “You could take her.”
    David waves his hand to silence her.
    â€œDiane,” she repeats, “the Jew’s dog. She could be yours.”
    The softness of her voice brings tears to his eyes.
    â€œWhat are you doing in the house of the Jew?” she asks, “Leave though the forest.”
    He shakes his head: no. He says, “Gringo would never want that.”
    Silence.
    â€œYou know the forest?” asks Abahn.
    â€œYes,” says David. “Beyond the barbed wire.”
    â€œBig?” Sabana asks.
    â€œWild,” says David.
    â€œThere are jackrabbits.”
    â€œYes.”
    They are silent before this unchanging dream, desperate. Their eyes fixed on some indefinite point in the darkness outside.
    â€œWho told you this?” asks Abahn.
    â€œNo one.”
    He looks out at the dark park.
    â€œ It’s impossible ,” he says.
    â€œDogs, gassed,” says Sabana softly. “Millions of them.”
    â€œYes,” says David.
    They look at the Jew. His eyes are closed.
    â€œThey have been in the family for a thousand years,” says Abahn. “They are part of it. Gringo will set a price.”
    â€œHow?” asks David in a child’s voice.
    â€œFrom the moment he kills them, he ought to explain why,” continues Abahn. “He will say: I kill them because they are worth so much.”
    â€œSuch a rich sum,” says Sabana.
    Silence. The Jew has opened his eyes and is looking at David.
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    â€œI t’s starting up again,” says Sabana.
    Sabana can hear things that David can’t.
    She listens. “The bullets ricochet off the ice. They are on the other side of the park.” She listens again. David watches her. “They’re gone,” she says.
    â€œAgain,” David murmurs.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” David says to the Jew.
    Sabana goes to him, she stops just before reaching him. “You ought to do it,” she says in a low voice.
    Almost imperceptibly, he recoils, never taking his eyes off her. “What?” he asks.
    â€œKill the dogs of the Jew.”
    David doesn’t move. Fear leaves him.
    â€œYou could say to Gringo: I killed the dogs of the Jew as well.”
    David is still staring at Sabana. The fear builds. Like a smile. He sees the blue of her eyes fade out.
    â€œGringo would promote you in rank, you could leave off the work with cement, rejoin the Red Army.”
    David lifts his calloused hands, he pushes the image away, he cries out.
    â€œNO,” he bellows, his hands raised, his eyes closed against the vision of a dog, killed, executed.
    Then he falls silent, his hands fall and grip the armrests of the chair.
    He looks over at the Jews.
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    â€œH e is crying,” says Sabana.
    The eyes of the Jew are closed.
    â€œThere’s crying,” says Sabana. “Someone is crying. It’s either you or him.”
    She turns toward David. David doesn’t understand. He passes his hand over his face, he looks at the wet hand. He doesn’t understand.
    Abahn, sitting next to the Jew, seems to have forgotten him.
    â€œOr he’s sleeping,” says Sabana.
    She pauses, looks at the Jew.
    â€œNo. He’s crying. About you. Or about nothing.” Her tone grows soft. “About nothing.”
    David leans toward the Jew. His face has a pained expression. “He’s not trying to protect himself.”
    â€œNo.”
    Sabana and David watch the Jew. Abahn speaks without looking at him.
    â€œHe is afraid,” David murmurs.
    â€œHe didn’t try to escape,” says Abahn. “He has no reason to feel