Abahn Sabana David by Marguerite Duras

he forgets about money. Then he forgets what he learned. Finally, at the end, he forgets his wife, his children. He said, ‘I couldn’t lie in front of them the way I could when I was away from them.’ Is that what he told you, David?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd he left so his children would also leave, later on.”
    â€œThen he left again and again,” says Sabana.
    â€œYes,” Abahn says. “Again.”
    â€œHe lingered among the Jews, burned Jews and gassed Jews, with or without God.”
    â€œYes,” says Abahn. “He was searching.”
    â€œIt’s Staadt where he will die,” says Sabana, “in the penal colony on the road to the Jewish capital.”
    Silence. Abahn does not continue. David waits.
    The silence hovers between them. Abahn closes his eyes. He seems exhausted. David realizes he is lonely, alone, broken down.
    Then Abahn continues:
    â€œI know nothing of life.”
    Silence. No motion at all on David’s smooth and pale face.
    â€œI don’t know anything about my life any more,” says Abahn. “I will die without knowing.”
    David says:
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    â€œNothing,” says Abahn. “In the end: nothing.”
    â€œMe either,” says David. “I don’t know anything either.”
    â€œNo, you don’t.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€¢
    A bahn speaks to the Jew in a slow and even voice. “It’s because you came here that we understand a little more. We know some names, some dates.”
    â€œYes,” says David.
    â€œYou came here one night. You walked the village all that night and all the morning that followed. People met you. They remembered. You smiled.” He pauses. “It was the morning of the second day that Gringo recognized you.”
    He pauses.
    â€œYes,” says David.
    â€œGringo said, ‘No talking to the traitor, no going to see him, no looking at him. He was in the Party and he betrayed it.’” Abahn looks at the Jew. “Did you know that Gringo recognized you?”
    Abahn answers for the Jew, saying to David:
    â€œHe knew. He knew that whenever he went out that he would be recognized.”
    Far off, on the field of the dead, the dogs cry out, howling.
    â€œYou bought this house, a bed, a table, chairs. You stayed here for many days. You burned things, the papers—only after you had started preparations to leave. But it was already too late. Gringo had already alerted the workers of Staadt to your presence.”
    He pauses. Says:
    â€œIn your life, you kept only guard dogs.” Turning to David, he says, “Why?”
    â€œHe played with them in the evening.”
    â€œThe dogs didn’t know,” Abahn says.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThey didn’t know that he is Jewish. Neither did you, David?”
    â€œNo,” says David.
    Silence.
    â€œMany days passed,” says Abahn. “Many weeks. Many months. The autumn.”
    Silence once more. David waits, sitting up in his chair, his eyes tense.
    â€œAfterward, a long time after, Gringo said to you, ‘You’re talking to the traitor? You’re listening to what the Jew says? You don’t know what he did?’ You said you didn’t know. Gringo was amazed. He said, ‘How? Everyone knows. He questions the Party line on the Soviet concentration camps. You don’t know this?’”
    Abahn’s voice cracks in places. He gasps for air. He breathes with difficulty.
    â€œYou didn’t understand what Gringo said to you. That the Jew was what he still is: any Jew.”
    â€œYes.”
    Abahn gasps for air. There is nearly no air.
    â€œYou spoke with him again. Against Gringo’s orders, you kept speaking with the Jew because the Jew had dogs.”
    â€œNo!” cries David.
    â€œAnd that was forbidden also.”
    David nods weakly.
    Abahn wants to speak more. He struggles to get there, he gets it out