Zugzwang Read Online Free PDF Page B

efforts.
    â€˜Would you like some tea?’ I asked.
    He appeared not to hear me. I repeated the question.
    â€˜
Nu
,’ he answered.
    He muttered an apology at once, both for the refusal and the Yiddish. His Russian was the Russian of the ghetto, fluent enough but guttural and nasal.
    â€˜How long have you been in St Petersburg?’ I asked.
    Rozental glanced nervously at Kopelzon.
    â€˜Two weeks, Avrom Chilowicz,’ Kopelzon said, addressing him as though he were an infant in his care. Turning to me, he explained, ‘Avrom is staying at the Astoria.’
    Just then Rozental’s head twitched in a way that reminded me of a small animal alerted to the presence of a predator. He began to scratch furiously at his scalp. Kopelzon and I watched in silence.
    After some moments I turned to Kopelzon. ‘Thank you, Reuven. Minna will show you out.’
    â€˜Shouldn’t I stay?’ he said, evidently surprised by the request.
    â€˜What goes on between analyst and patient is an entirely private matter.’
    â€˜Of course. But we are all friends here. Avrom is my friend. I’m the only friend he has in St Petersburg. It was I who suggested he see you. I have to stay.’
    â€˜It’s impossible, Reuven. Please.’
    â€˜You don’t understand – I have to stay.’
    â€˜The answer remains the same,’ I said.
    Rozental, preoccupied with whatever it was that irritated his scalp, did not hear any of this, as far as I could tell. I managed to get Kopelzon to the outer office. He was plainly displeased with me.
    â€˜If you want me to treat Avrom Chilowicz,’ I told him, ‘you will have to consent to my doing so in private.’
    Kopelzon made a dramatic, despairing gesture. ‘Couldn’t you just this once make an exception?’
    â€˜Why do you want to be present?’
    â€˜To save you time. Avrom rambles. God how he rambles.’
    â€˜A psychoanalyst cannot ignore anything his patient might say, you know that.’
    â€˜Trust me, you’d do well to pay no attention.’
    â€˜If I were to tell you to use only three of your violin’s strings, what would you say to me?’
    Kopelzon ran his hand over his brow like a man brought to immense suffering by the inability of others to appreciate the full weight of his concerns.
    â€˜The timing is terrible,’ he muttered. ‘There’s so little time. Do you think you can cure him?’
    â€˜It depends on whether he will work with me,’ I said. ‘On whether he is prepared to reflect on his inner world and tolerate psychic pain. And not least it depends on whether his illness is treatable by psychoanalysis.’
    â€˜The tournament starts on 21 April. He has to be ready to play.’
    â€˜It’s a chess tournament, Reuven,’ I said. ‘There’ll be others.’
    â€˜No – there won’t!’ he snapped back. ‘This is Rozental’s chance to prove himself the rightful challenger for the World Championship. He must play.’
    Kopelzon was an exacting and impatient man. Most people found him impossible. I was used to his rigour but even I found his vehemence on this occasion unnecessary and distasteful.
    â€˜Rozental is not just a chess player – he’s a Pole,’ he continued; and, with an unmistakable accusatory emphasis, he added, ‘And a Jew. Or hadn’t you noticed?’
    There are successful men from humble backgrounds who adjust so effortlessly to the trappings of their new lives you would never guess their true origins. And there are those who know only the tailor and the baker, the rabbi and the innkeeper, the tents of the Torah and fields of weeping; removed from this world they do not know what to do or say, or even think. I suppose I had expected a magician with secret and spectacular powers far remote from the resort of men. Instead I found Avrom Chilowicz Rozental, a poor Jew from the shtetl. Yes, I