And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,7

is shaky. Ave Maria, Holy Mother, make him stumble and crash. But the farmer’s son knows about the weak rung, and he treads carefully. She counts till she runs out of numbers.

She doesn’t know exactly how old he was. To her he was a man. How could she tell? A breed of giants, mean, deceitful, treacherous.

She never wanted to grow up.

***

The granddaughter stops.

That’s not the story I wanted.

It’s not up to you.

But I don’t want this story.

This is the only one there is.

It’s too late to stop now.

***

In all innocence, not realizing what lay ahead, the granddaughter has chosen to be the story’s addressee. Had she known, she would probably not have volunteered to document it, because the very act of committing the story to paper widens its circle of addressees. Throughout the conversation the granddaughter pretends to be writing, but in fact merely stares at the sweet angel on the cover. Since it was first painted, nearly five hundred years ago, it has managed to generate every possible form of replication. But the granddaughter, like most consumers of paper, has no idea about the artist or about the original painting, and all she can think about is whether the notebook will change as a result of the story. Perhaps this is why she refrains from writing anything down.

***

You were lucky, they told the old woman.

Even without hearing the story, they kept comparing. And the old woman too could not help weighing her own story against those of others, especially since new stories keep cropping up. But she never felt lucky. She’d smile, pretend to be grateful, and fine-tuned her deceptive front to a fine art. From that point on, the crack in the scaffolding began to show. How true are they, the details of her story? How true do they have to be for the story to count? Since this is the first time the story is ever being told, there is no yardstick for comparison.

The old woman wants to tell her granddaughter that the truth does not depend on the storyteller’s will.

Even though she is not making up a thing, the old woman is extra-cautious. She confines herself to what is absolutely necessary, to the parts without which the story would collapse, and she is overcome with despair whenever parts that she did not intend to include leak out anyway. Her laconic speech places her at the bottom rung of the storytellers. Or maybe she is one of those who tell their story best by keeping silent.

4

Stefan, that was his name. The farmer and his wife had all kinds of nicknames for him. Stefcho. Stefaniu. Stefanek. They were his parents. She heard them calling him up above. She could detect the affection in their voices. With her sharpened senses she could detect everything from below. He ate pork sausage, worked on the farm, amused himself with the cats and the dogs. On Sundays he went to church in his finest clothes. The village darling. There was a girl who followed him everywhere. One day she got as far as the mouth of the pit.

Let’s climb down, sweet Stefan.

I’ll let you touch me. You can do whatever you want to me.

No!

The village girl broke into tears, she was so disappointed. Stefan pushed her away from the mouth of the pit. She fell.

Janka was her name. The spike of that name juts out, so trivial.

Even though the old woman is trying to let the story unfold as slowly as possible, she knows it is hurtling towards the point of no return.

Stefan, what are you looking for down there?

Stefan, where are you?

Stefan???

The farmer’s wife, his mother, makes do with calling after him. Soon he’ll be married and have children. There will be an heir to the farm and all that goes with it.

***

Jewish skin, so soft, so smooth.

Jewish undies.

Don’t you dare open your Jewish mouth, or I’ll kill you.

How could she tell it now?

Either way, it will end in death.

***

Wrought in the dark. That’s the point where the story implodes.

***

Maybe we should stop?

It’s the last chance.

We don’t have to keep going.

That’s enough for now.

Who said every story has to be told? Who said every story has to see the light of day? Maybe it is precisely the buried stories that are the perfect ones.

The old woman is tempted to rebury it.

But her granddaughter is committed to the story by now.

***

What’s that there between your legs?

Don’t you dare cry, you scum. Jewish scum.

Just you wait, and I’ll show you.

***

Soaked in her own