The Testament by Elie Wiesel Read Free Book Online Page B

his happiness at finding her again inthe afternoon at the same spot. He did not let her out of his sight for the rest of the day, and followed her into the communal kitchen, the grocery store, even the bathroom. He left her only to get into his bed in the room they shared.
    It was not much fun for a boy to grow up in an atmosphere of anxiety and rootlessness. He devoted his energy to comforting his mother—who spent her time comforting him. How did they bear it? They themselves did not know. There was no other way.
    Then one day everything seemed to change for the better. Khrushchev, launching a policy of liberalization, opened the camps, the prisons, the universe of slow death. Files were reviewed, sentences reversed. And so Raissa Kossover received a visit from three solemn-looking officials.
    “We have a communication of the gravest importance for you.”
    “Please sit down.” She seemed agitated and anxious: “There aren’t enough chairs, I’ll run and borrow one from my neighbors.…”
    “Don’t bother, the bed will be fine.”
    Grisha was trying to follow the adults’ conversation, trying to understand: “What is it, Mommy? What do they want?”
    They informed Raissa of the purpose of their visit—an official communication of rehabilitation—and she explained to her son, “It’s good news, Grisha.”
    “But who are they?”
    “They’re sent by … by the Central Committee,” said Raissa.
    “Why?” said Grisha impatiently. At eight, he already mistrusted strangers.
    One of the men, the spokesman, heavy-lidded, with a face that exuded kindness, drew Grisha close and gently explained their presence:
    “We’ve come to talk about your father.”
    Grisha became frightened. He cast a glance toward the bookshelf to see whether his father was still there, in his place, and breathed easier: the visitors had not discovered him. Suddenly, to his great surprise, his mother climbed up on a chair, took hold of the forbidden work and presented it triumphantly to the spokesman.
    Grisha protested: “You mustn’t, Mommy! You mustn’t show them my father, you mustn’t take him out of his hiding place!”
    The man smiled at him: “Why not, Grishinka?”
    “It’s dangerous, you know that, don’t you?”
    “Oh, no, my little Grisha Paltielovich, it’s not dangerous any more—times have changed.…”
    He examined the book, passed it to his aide, who studied it seriously, conscientiously, before giving it to his colleague. All three shook their heads sadly, compassionately, and let out whistles of admiration and long sighs:
    “Yes, yes, no doubt at all, a great work …”
    “He was a real poet, that’s what we heard from high places, you know.”
    “A martyr. What a tragedy, what a tragedy …”
    “And what an outrage!”
    Grisha was lost. Why these outbursts? His mother was drinking them in. Grisha had never seen her so joyful, so exuberant. The visitors took their leave, promising to return to discuss practical arrangements: pension, compensation.… Raissa showed them to the door. She came back, excited, almost in a trance:
    “You see, Grisha, you see, they came! They spoke about your father, that means that from now on you too will be able to talk about him; it also means we can keep his book right here, in the open.”
    For Grisha things also changed at school. His teachers and classmates no longer treated him as a nuisance. Still, whenever he mentioned his father, he was left alone again.
    During that period of his childhood he made two important acquaintances: first Dr. Mozliak, and then the night watchman for the group of buildings they lived in, a strange fellow called Viktor Zupanev, who was to become his protector, his guide, his ally, his best friend.
    Dr. Mozliak was a physician of sorts. Grisha was convinced he spent hours at a time in front of the mirror admiring himself, perhaps even talking to himself. Surely he thought himself irresistible, with his mustache, his hard, cold,