Jaim Benjamin was in great spirits, even better than the day before, an uncommon reaction to a project’s close. Many people whose life stories Isabel wrote experienced a down toward the end of working on their books. The buoyancy of the telling usually gave way to a re-experience of loss, often accompanied by sudden self-consciousness: how would the book be received? What they never voiced, but Isabel imagined, was the question of whether she had done a good enough job. These fits of insecurity passed with the actual publication of the book, for inevitably, from family and friends, the reception was one of unqualified appreciation.
Jaim’s reaction was different. He was not at all concerned about peoples’ responses. To be able to talk to Isabel about the war years had already done him a world of good. Having it appear fixed on paper was just an added plus. He felt unburdened and looked forward to life in the new millennium.
“There it is,” he said to Isabel pointing to the stack of manuscript pages. “It no longer has to be in me. I am free, free.”
“What section would you like to go over?”
“None, it’s perfect. Gracias eskritora.”
“My pleasure,” Isabel said, relieved that she could go home, do her final gleaning of the sentences, and then send the book to Schine, the publisher specializing in Holocaust memoirs. She would have a respite from his hammering refrain: Pages, pages, Isabel, I need, pages, since she wasn’t sure she would write any more books for Schine.
More and more she found herself lost in the hills of Greece, among the tombstones of...
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