Free The Testament by Elie Wiesel Page B

He wasn’t, except in matters of happiness; he was happy and unhappy like the rest of us.”
    “What made him happy?”
    “Everything or nothing. A smile. A babbling brook. A word, the right word.”
    “What made him unhappy?”
    “A smile. A babbling brook. A word, the wrong word.” Raissa paused; there was a silence. Then:
    “He
was
unlike anyone else.”
    “Did he love you?”
    It was important, urgent, for Grisha to know whether his father had loved Raissa.
    “Yes, he loved me.”
    “How do you know? Did he tell you?”
    “He told me.”
    “When?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “How did he tell you?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “Try. Think!”
    “I don’t remember.”
    Raissa had raised her voice as she said those last words. A neighbor came in, scowled at them, took a teapot and left.
    “And you?” said Grisha. “Did you love him?”
    “Why these questions? Why now?”
    “Did you love him? Answer me. I have the right to know whether you loved my father.”
    “What right? Who gave it to you? I will not allow you to …” Raissa spoke harshly.
    She controlled herself: “You’re still young, Grisha. You can’t understand. Between man and woman there are many ways of loving.”
    She took a deep breath. “You, it was you he really loved.”
    She had finished putting away the dishes and dishcloths.
    “You didn’t know,” she went on, “you couldn’t know, but he loved you so much … so much it made me jealous.”
    And since Grisha didn’t respond, she hastened to end the conversation. “It’s all so complicated. Others besides me will be able to explain it to you. For instance …”
    “You mean Dr. Mozliak?”
    Grisha went out without waiting for his mother’s answer. An idea haunted him: his father had not been happy, not been happy, not been happy. And his son? Not happy, not happy either. Because of what? His mother, maybe?
    Katya left the window and went to open the door.
    “Oh, it’s you? Come in.”
    It was a ritual: he rapped on the window, she opened the door. As usual, she looked him over carefully.
    “You seem depressed,” she said. “Oh well, I forgot youmay do everything, feel everything without explanation. You’re depressed and that’s that. All right, I’ll do without your explanation; I have no choice.”
    Grisha sank into the sofa, his usual place.
    “Are you thirsty?”
    No, he wasn’t thirsty.
    “Some fruit?”
    No, he wasn’t hungry.
    “Something else?”
    She smiled at him. No, he didn’t feel like
something else
. Not this evening.
    “You’re sure?”
    Yes, he was sure.
    “All right, let’s watch television.”
    Politics, literature, gossip: everything was there. Orators of both the right and the left promised the citizens happiness and good fortune; skeptical journalists answered with “Oh, no! Oh, yes!” The daily news: eight hundred tourists arrived yesterday; twice as many were expected tomorrow for the Day of Atonement. Austria: the government is shutting down the transit camp for Russian immigrants. And those already there? Grisha jumped up. What about his mother? She’ll get here, don’t worry. Besides, Golda Meir is doing her best to get the decision rescinded. She went to visit Kreisky, who didn’t even offer her a glass of water. A spokesman for the government: Everything’s fine, things will improve; a spokesman for the opposition: Everything’s bad, things will get worse, money will lose its value and youth its faith, unless … The election campaign is at its peak. The people ridicule it. The speeches are just a joke. Start again, start all over again. Trust us; help us help you. The politicians, another joke. Only the army is serious: Remember the victory of ’67? The Israeli Army is always on alert. It is powerful, more powerful than ever. It sees everything, knows everything.The Arabs are lying low; they wouldn’t dare do anything foolish. Tomorrow is Yom Kippur.
    “Happy holiday, Grisha. Are you fasting?”
    Yes,