Arnon Grunberg - The Jewish Messiah

“She’s coming towards us,” Xavier said to Awromele. “She’s coming towards us. She’s going to help us.” He had put the wheelbarrow back down; he had to stop and rest every two steps now. He pulled the strips of T-shirt around his hands a little tighter, so the cuts wouldn’t show.

“Ma’am,” Xavier shouted when she was only ten yards away, “I need your help.” He took Awromele’s hand, the one that wasn’t broken, and squeezed it gently. “I’m giving you strength,” he said quietly. “Do you feel it? I’m giving you strength. The worst is behind us now.” He hardly believed it himself.

The woman was rummaging through her purse for change. She sang in a church choir, and she liked giving away money.

“Come a little closer,” Awromele shouted. “We won’t hurt you.”

More and more psychiatric patients had to live out on the street these days. The spaniel’s mistress took that as a personal affront: her own sister was a psychiatric patient. Fortunately, though, she didn’t live out on the street.

At last she found a couple of coins, which she held clutched in her right hand.

“You can come closer, ma’am,” Xavier called out.

These were psychiatric patients, she was sure of it. The face of the half-naked boy somehow seemed familiar. Maybe she had seen him in the park before. She came here often with her dog, Armin, and before that with her husband, who had spent half his life in a wheelchair. The ones people called bums were actually psychiatric patients. She talked about that often with the other members of the choir.

“Come on, Armin, don’t dawdle.”

She dragged the dog along behind her.

The boy’s face really did look familiar. He looked awful, almost naked; he had a black eye, and his hands were bleeding. It was terrible to see what happened when the mental-health people didn’t arrange for shelter. Her sister ended up in an isolation cell sometimes, but even that was better than how these boys had to walk around in the park. She had told the director of the psychiatric hospital: “I’d rather have my sister put in isolation than have you people let her go. Once she starts wandering around town, she’ll go downhill fast.” She never said so, but she actually felt relieved when her sister was put into isolation, because at least then she didn’t have to visit her. It took forty-five minutes to get from her house to the hospital by public transport. He looked young, this boy. And that child in the wheelbarrow, maybe that was his little brother. That’s what you got when you started making cuts in the welfare system: children living in wheelbarrows. She voted a socialist ticket herself.

She took a few steps towards the boys, the coins held tightly in her right hand. They could use them to buy themselves a nice hot cup of tea.

“Don’t be afraid,” Xavier said. “Don’t be afraid, ma’am. Please. We won’t hurt you.”

And then she saw it, at last she saw it: she knew this boy. But not from the park; she knew him from someplace completely different. She was relieved that she’d finally remembered.

“Armin,” she shouted, “stop it. Be good.”

She dragged the dog along another foot or two.

“I know you,” she said. “Or am I mistaking you for someone else? You were in the paper, weren’t you?”

“That’s possible,” Xavier said. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re the one who was molested, aren’t you?”

“The Jew was beaten up,” Xavier said. “By four boys. Just like that. For no reason. He needs to see a doctor.”

“That’s right, I know you,” Armin’s mistress said in a tone that allowed no contradiction. “I saw you on television, too. You were the one who was attacked by that man, weren’t you, that strange man?”

Now she understood completely. This poor child had been molested, and then he had become confused. That happened so often, much more so than people realized. That’s what she told the other people in her choir all the time: once molested, always molested. No wonder they were so confused — when you were abused like that, it turned you into a psychiatric patient. Her sister hadn’t been molested, and she’d still become a psychiatric patient. But that was something genetic. The doctors had explained it to her. She should count her lucky stars that she hadn’t turned out like her sister.

“What was his name again?” she asked. “That man who molested you? He had such a famous name.”

“The papers blew it all up,” Xavier said. “It wasn’t that bad. I need to get him to a doctor — he’s been lying in the park all night. He was beaten up.”

She glanced at the wheelbarrow. “His name is right on the tip of my tongue,” she said. “The name of that man who molested you. Wait a minute, don’t tell me, I’ve almost got it. It was Lenin, wasn’t it, isn’t that what they called him? Pedophile Lenin, that was it, wasn’t it? I’ve got a memory like a steel trap; that’s important, it keeps you from going senile. People who remember a lot, who have to remember a lot of things for their profession, take longer to become senile. That’s why I do crossword puzzles all the time. Not because I like them so much — they bore me to death — but they help against senility. If you don’t do anything and then you get it, you have only yourself to blame. You have those people who sit in front of the TV all day and never bother to remember anything — well, no wonder one day they can’t even remember their own names.”

She peered at the wheelbarrow. Poor little things, that’s what they were, poor little things.

“Ma’am,” Xavier said, “I would really appreciate it if you would…”

She looked at Xavier. He looked different from how he’d looked on television: he wasn’t as tall as he’d seemed.

“On television you looked a lot taller,” she said. “But I guess people say that all the time, don’t they?”

She wasn’t sure whether she should give her money to the boy. She put the coins back in her purse. Maybe it would be better to buy him a sweater, or a nice warm coat. There were special department stores where you could buy perfectly good clothing for very little.

She had nothing to do that day — her husband was already dead, Armin had a heart condition and slept almost all day — there was no reason why she couldn’t buy the boy a warm sweater, or two sweaters; then his little brother would have one, too.

“Yes,” she said, “I read all about you. I even saw you on TV. You were molested by Pedophile Lenin. It’s so nice to meet you in real life. I think you put up a brave fight. I don’t know whether I would have been as courageous as you. I’ve never been molested, but if it happened I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe I’d scream, maybe I’d scream real loud, but maybe I wouldn’t. You never know. It’s so easy to lean back in your chair and say: If I were molested, I’d do this or that. When I read about you in the paper, I often wondered: What would I do if an old man like that started fiddling with me? And, to be perfectly honest, I just don’t know.”

“Ma’am…” Xavier said.

“Müller,” she said, “I’m Mrs. Müller. Oh, I can tell, you’re all confused. And who is that? Is that your little brother?” She bent over the wheelbarrow and saw the ear that was full of clotted blood.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, how awful.”

Then she brought her face up close to Xavier’s, as though to make absolutely sure that this really was the victim of Pedophile Lenin.

“We were attacked,” Xavier said, “by four boys; we need help.”

“Yes,” she said, “I can see that. What can I do for you?”

She rummaged through her purse, but found nothing useful.

“You know what? I’ll go and buy two warm sweaters for you boys. I know what you’ve been through. My sister is in a psychiatric hospital, and she should count her lucky stars. At least I’m happy she’s there. There isn’t enough room for most psychiatric patients, not with all the spending cuts. What did you say your brother’s name was?”