The Collected Stories

his feelings and without question had obeyed his request and given the mouse some milk. “I am not worthy, I am not worthy,” he muttered. “It is all pure Grace.”
    Herman was not a man who wept. His eyes had remained dry even when he received the news that his family had perished in the destruction of Kalomin. But now his face became wet and hot. It wasn’t fated that he bear the guilt of a murderer. Providence—aware of every molecule, every mite, every speck of dust—had seen to it that the mouse received its nourishment during his long sleep. Or was it perhaps possible that a mouse could fast for that length of time?
    Herman watched intently. Even now, after going hungry for so long, the mouse didn’t rush. She lapped the milk slowly, pausing occasionally, obviously confident that no one would take away what was rightfully hers. “Little mouse, hallowed creature, saint!” Herman cried to her in his thoughts. He blew her a kiss.
    The mouse continued to drink. From time to time, she cocked her head and gave Herman a sidelong glance. He imagined he saw in her eyes an expression of surprise, as if she were silently asking, “Why did you let me go hungry so long? And who is this woman sleeping here?” Soon she went back to her hole.
    Rose Beechman opened her eyes. “Oh! You are up? What time is it?”
    “Huldah has had her milk,” Herman said.
    “What? Oh, yes.”
    “I beg you, don’t laugh at me.”
    “I’m not laughing at anyone.”
    “You’ve saved not one life but two.”
    “Well, we are all God’s creatures. I’ll make you some tea.”
    Herman wanted to tell her that it wasn’t necessary, but he was thirsty and his throat felt dry. He even felt a pang of hunger. He had come back to life, with all its needs.
    The woman immediately busied herself in the kitchenette, and shortly she brought Herman a cup of tea and two biscuits. She had apparently bought new dishes for him. She sat down on the edge of a chair and said, “Well, drink your tea. I don’t believe you realize how sick you were.”
    “I am grateful.”
    “If I had been just two days later, nothing would have helped.”
    “Perhaps it would have been better that way.”
    “No. People like you are needed.”
    “Today I heard you talking to your grandmother.” Herman spoke, not sure if he should be saying this.
    She listened and was thoughtfully silent awhile. “Yes, she was with me last night.”
    “What did she say?”
    The woman looked at him oddly. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were light brown. “I hope you won’t make fun of me.”
    “God in heaven, no!”
    “She wants me to take care of you; you need me more than my daughter does—those were her words.”
    A chill ran down Herman’s spine. “Yes, that may be true, but—”
    “But what? I beg you, be honest with me.”
    “I have nothing. I am weak. I can only be a burden …”
    “Burdens are made to be borne.”
    “Yes. Yes.”
    “If you want me to, I will stay with you. At least until you recover completely.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “That is what I wanted to hear.” She stood up quickly and turned away. She walked toward the bathroom, embarrassed as a young Kalomin bride. She remained standing in the doorway with her back toward him, her head bowed, revealing the small nape of her neck, her uncombed hair.
    Through the window a gray light was beginning to appear. Snow was falling—a dawn snow. Patches of day and night blended together outside. Clouds appeared. Windows, roofs, and fire escapes emerged from the dark. Lights went out. The night had ended like a dream and was followed by an obscure reality, self-absorbed, sunk in the perpetual mystery of being. A pigeon was flying through the snowfall, intent on carrying out its mission. In the radiator, the steam was already whistling. From the neighboring apartments were heard the first cries of awakened children, radios playing, and harassed housewives yelling and cursing in Spanish. The globe called Earth had once again revolved on its axis. The windowpanes became rosy—a sign that in the east the sky was not entirely overcast. The books were momentarily bathed in a purplish light, illuminating the old bindings and the last remnants of gold-engraved and half-legible titles. It all had the quality of a revelation.
    Translated by Alizah Shevrin and Elizabeth Shub

A Friend of Kafka

    I

    I HAD heard about Franz Kafka years before I read any of his books from his friend Jacques Kohn, a