Jewish

Literary Supplement

Ai It was obvious that the once bustling little town of my youth

had also fallen on hard times. The people looked diminished,

muted. One could read the sadness and bitterness, the

smoldering anger, in their dry, wrinkled faces, in their tense

greetings, even in the most commonplace exchanges.”

—from The Hooligan's Return

help her sit on the edge of the bed. As soon

as the woman withdrew, the torrent of words

began to flow, unchecked.

"I want you to promise me something. I

want you to attend my funeral."

I did not want this conversation, but there

was so little time, I could not afford to make

a fuss.

by Norman Manea

"You're not going to die, there's no point

talking about it."

"There is for me."

"You're not going to die, we shouldn't talk

about this."

"We must. I want you to be at the funeral.

Promise me."

I could only give her the same answer: "I

"This time your going away feels different.

don't know about my return, I haven't made

You're not coming back. You're leaving me

any decision yet. If I get the grant for Berlin,

here, on my own."

then I'll stay there for six months or a year,

She had been staying with me in Bucharest

whatever the terms of the grant. I haven't

in 1982, when an official mass-circulation

heard. from the Germans yet. Who knows,

newspaper proclaimed that I was an "extra-

the letter may be lying in some censor's draw-

territorial." She knew that was no

er. But I've heard rumors that I got the grant.

compliment. She also knew that the terms

Nothing certain, just rumors."

"enemy of the party," and "cosmopolitan"

were not expressions of praise either.

She was with me when a friend phoned to

She repeated her solemn request. Finally,

I told her firmly but without real strength,

cannot promise."

ask whether my windows had been smashed.

She suddenly seemed diminished, shrunken.

She used to read such signs better than I did.

"This means that you are not going to come?"

We knew, tacitly, what sort of memories were

"It doesn't mean anything. It means that

revived in both of us by those warnings.

I interrupted her, and told her again what

you are not _going to die, and that it's point-

less to talk about it."

me, I want you to be here at my funeral."

"I can't promise. I just can't." I then added,

without even meaning to, "And it's not

important."

"It is for me."

The conversation reached its end, there

was nothing left to say. But I went on any-

way: "Even if I didn't actually attend the

funeral, I would still be there, wherever I was.

You must know that. Just remember that."

I could not begin to guess whether that

answer had satisfied her, and I would never

find out. After November 1986 I never saw

her again. She died in July 1988, when I was

already in America. Father informed me of

her death one month later — not because he

had wished to release me from the obligation

to attend the funeral, but because he knew

that if I came back, I would never again be

allowed to leave. He also wanted to spare me

from the transgression of not observing the

seven days of ritual mourning, the traditional

shiva, which, in any case, he doubted that his

son, however pained, would observe.

I had told her repeatedly over the previous

"Nobody knows when and how."

days. She listened attentively, but without

"Precisely."

curiosity. She had heard it all before.

"That's why we have to talk about it."

Excerpted from The Hooligan's Return: A

"No one knows what will happen to them.

Memoir by Norman Manea, published by

"I would like you to promise me that, in

case I die and you're - not here, you'll come

back for the funeral."

I don't know what might happen to me."

"I just want you to promise. Please, promise

Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright (c)

2003 by Norman Manea. All rights reserved.

NATIONAL FOUNDATION FOR JEWISH CULTURE