Jakob the Liar (7 page)

T
hen at last it is daytime again, daytime at last. We hurry this way and that in the freight yard with our crates; only a few years earlier it would have been described as cheerful, bustling activity. The sentries behave quite normally, shouting or dozing or shoving as usual; they show no alarm or don’t feel it yet. Maybe I am mistaken, but I seem to remember that day very well, although nothing unusual happened, at least not to me. As if it were today, I am standing, so I recall, on a freight car; my job is to take the crates and stack them so that as many as possible will fit into the car. There is another man with me, Herschel Schtamm, and that, come to think of it,
is
something unusual. For Herschel Schtamm has a brother, in fact he has a twin brother, Roman, and the two of them work together and normally are always seen together. But not today. Herschel had a little accident right after starting work. He stumbled while carrying a crate, Roman couldn’t hold the crate alone, crate and Herschel crashed to the ground. Herschel had to suffer the usual beating, but that wasn’t the worst part: in stumbling, he sprained one foot and could hardly walk, so he couldn’t go on carrying with Roman, which is why he is now standing with me on the freight car.

He is sweating buckets, I have never seen anyone sweat like that, and he won’t stop sweating until the Russians have captured this damn ghetto, not a day earlier. For Herschel Schtamm is devout. In his lifetime he was a sexton in a synagogue, we call that a shammes, as devout as the rabbi himself. And then there are the earlocks, the pride of all Orthodox Jews: go and ask Herschel whether he is prepared to part with them. Not for all the money in the world, he’ll tell you, looking at you as if you were mad. How can you ask such a thing? But the earlocks may only be displayed within one’s own four walls, nowhere else. In the street and here at the freight yard one runs into Germans who take a dim view of them: where do we people think we’re living for some of us to be running around in a get-up like that? Cases have been known where a grab was made for the nearest pair of scissors, and to the accompaniment of secret prayers and tears of laughter, the matter was taken care of on the spot, but there have been worse cases too.

Herschel has taken the only possible way out: he hides his earlocks. He is smuggling them through these times. Summer and winter he wears a hat. Presumably one is still allowed to wear a hat: a black fur hat with earflaps that can be fastened under the chin. In the sun the hat is terribly hot, but it was the only one he could get hold of, and for his purposes it is eminently suitable. We nondevout ones, even his brother Roman, smiled and made our little jokes only during the first warm week. After that we lost interest: Herschel must know what he’s doing.

We hoist a crate onto the very top; he wipes the sweat from his face and asks me, while we are picking up the next one, what I think of that business. I know at once what he is talking about and tell him I’m already wild with joy and can think of nothing else. Everything I once owned will belong to me again, everything except Hannah, who was executed. There will be trees again; in my parents’ garden I can see myself sitting in the walnut tree, on such slender branches that my mother is almost ready to faint; right there in the tree I stuff myself with walnuts. My fingers turn so brown from the shells that it takes weeks for the stains to disappear, but Herschel doesn’t seem so enthusiastic.

J
acob lifts a crate onto the edge of the freight car. Why all the hurry? Jacob rushes back to the pile with Mischa at his heels. As of yesterday, Jacob is fortune’s darling, one of the elect. Everyone is after him, the big fellows as well as the little ones; everyone wants to work with him, with the man who has a direct line to God. Mischa was the first in line, the first to lend a hand when Jacob’s eye fell on a crate, and now he’s running after him. The fairest way would be to raffle him off, with so-and-so many blanks and one grand prize; then everyone would have the same chance at the supreme stroke of luck, at what has suddenly become so important: being close to Jacob. Only Jacob looks disgruntled: thanks a lot for that kind of luck, five or ten times today he’s already been asked — confidentially and hopefully, even by complete strangers — what the radio has been saying. Five or ten times he hasn’t known how to answer, has merely repeated what he said yesterday, “Bezanika,” or put his fingers to his lips with a conspiratorial “Sssh!” or said nothing and walked on in annoyance. And all this annoyance has been foisted on him by that stupid beanpole who is now scurrying after him, all innocence, in unwarranted joyous anticipation. Something no one could possibly have foreseen. They are behaving like kids, like people eagerly clustering around a bulletin board. Barring a miracle, it will be at best a few hours before the sentries start noticing. Jacob would have welcomed such a crowd in normal times; his shop was open every day except
shabbes
, all year round, and there was a radio in clear view behind the counter: people could listen to whatever they liked. But there you people mostly stayed away, each of you had to be treated like a king, otherwise you’d leave and not come back; and now you’re treating
me
like a king and won’t leave and keep coming back. A fellow needs a bodyguard for protection against you.

Mischa has no idea what furious thoughts are being ignited so close to him, that it is rage that makes Jacob walk so briskly. They haul a few crates, and Mischa imagines that it will go on like this until noon; he fails to notice the hostile looks directed at him from time to time, more and more often. Until the pot boils over, until Jacob stops in his tracks, in the hope that Mischa will walk on, as far away as possible. But Mischa stops too, looking puzzled: he really is totally unaware, so he might as well be told.

“Please, Mischa,” Jacob says in an agonized voice, “there are so many nice fellows here. Do you
have
to haul with me?”

“What’s up all of a sudden?”

“ ‘All of a sudden,’ he says! I can’t stand the sight of your face anymore!”

“My face?” Mischa smiles stupidly; so far his face hasn’t bothered anyone, Jacob least of all. At most there’s been the occasional remark about his blue eyes, when people couldn’t think of anything better to talk about, and now suddenly this little eruption, almost an insult.

“Yes, your face! With that blabbermouth!” Jacob adds, since Mischa seems so completely in the dark. And now Mischa knows which way the wind is blowing: he is the weak link in the chain of silence — Jacob is right. Although that’s no reason to make such a scene, God knows there have been worse things to endure. Mischa shrugs his shoulders: it just happened, too late to change it now. Without a word, before Jacob can get even more worked up, Mischa walks away, which is none of the sentries’ business; later or tomorrow there’s sure to be time for a conciliatory word.

So Mischa goes alone to the crates and quickly finds a new partner; after all, he hasn’t been completely downgraded yet. His powerful arms haven’t been forgotten, they are still appreciated; if you can’t haul with Jacob, at least you can with Mischa. And Jacob also comes alone to the pyramid, doesn’t even see who reaches with him for the crate: his eyes are still glued to Mischa, who eventually disappears without turning around, maybe offended, maybe not. But after a few steps Jacob notices that his new partner doesn’t hold the crate as firmly as Mischa does, not nearly, and he looks at him and sees that the new man is Kowalski, and he makes a face and knows that he has fallen from the frying pan into the fire: Kowalski won’t leave him in peace for long.

Kowalski doesn’t say a word, or rather, he is not just silent, he is restraining himself: how long can he keep this up? He hauls and hauls, which is fine with Jacob. But somehow it irritates him, Kowalski being silent; the red spots on his cheeks haven’t come from exertion. Three whole crates are moved in silence. If Kowalski thinks he can starve him out, he’s mistaken: Jacob will never bring up the subject on his own since he has nothing to tell, but it gets on his nerves all the same. I’ll outwit you, Jacob thinks suddenly. I’ll set a trap for you, a harmless conversation that could make you forget the question you’re still keeping to yourself. What should we talk about? The noon whistle will blow any minute, and then try and find me.

“Do you know of anything to keep from going bald?” Jacob asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Every morning my comb is full of hair. Isn’t there something one can do about it?”

“Nothing,” says Kowalski, clearly implying that the subject doesn’t interest him.

“Surely there’s something? I remember that at your shop you used to treat a customer with some such stuff. … I seem to remember it was green?”

“Just a racket,” says Kowalski. “I treated lots of people with that, but I might just as well have rubbed water into their scalps. Some customers insist on having something rubbed in. And it wasn’t green, it was yellow.”

“There’s nothing that’ll help?”

“You heard me.”

So far so good. They keep on hauling in silence. In Jacob the hope is growing that he is mistaken, that Kowalski has no intention of asking him, that he reached for the crate simply because he was the closest, and the red spots might actually be due to exertion or bedbug bites. Why do we often fail to think of the obvious? There’s no reason to lose faith in all integrity on account of a few bad experiences: Kowalski also has his good side, as countless memories go to show. After all, they were almost close friends. Already Jacob looks at the sweating Kowalski more kindly, a secret apology in his glance, secret because, fortunately, the reproaches have also remained secret. Each new crate that is carried wordlessly to the freight car is leading him away from the suspicion that he has apparently been directing at an innocent person.

Then suddenly, just before noon, Kowalski puts his sneaky question. Without preamble and in a humiliatingly innocent voice he says, “Well?”

That’s all. Jacob flinches; we know what is meant. Instantly all his rage returns. Jacob feels deceived; the red spots are the same old ones after all. And it wasn’t by chance that Kowalski was closest to the crate; he was lying in wait, working all day toward that infamous “Well?” He didn’t keep quiet for so long out of consideration — he doesn’t even know what that is — he kept quiet because he saw Jacob having an argument with Mischa, and he has merely been waiting for a favorable moment, cold and calculating as he is: Jacob was to be lulled into a sense of security.

Jacob flinches; the worst thing in this ghetto is that you can’t just turn your back and walk away. It isn’t advisable to repeat this ploy too often.

“Anything new?” Kowalski asks more pointedly. He is not in the mood for a prolonged exchange of stares. If you don’t understand my “Well?” then so be it.

“No,” says Jacob.

“You’re not seriously trying to tell me that in wartime a whole day passes and nothing happens? A whole day and a whole night?”

They lift the crate onto the edge of the freight car and go back to the pile. Jacob takes a deep breath, and Kowalski gives him an encouraging nod; Jacob loses his self-control and raises his voice to an undesirable pitch.

“For God’s sake, stop pestering me, can’t you? Didn’t I tell you yesterday that they’re within twelve miles of Bezanika? Isn’t that enough?”

Of course it is not enough for Kowalski if the Russians are within twelve miles of some place called Bezanika and he is here: how could that be enough for him? But he has no time for logical rejoinders, not at the moment. He looks around nervously, Jacob having been less than cautious. In fact a sentry is standing quite close by. They have to walk past him, and he is already looking their way. The uniform doesn’t look right on him; he is much too young for it. They have already noticed him several times. He has a loud mouth but so far hasn’t done much in the way of beating.

“What have you scumbags got to argue about?” he asks as they are about to walk by him. Obviously he hasn’t heard any details, only raised voices, which can be quickly explained.

“We’re not arguing, sir,” says Kowalski loudly. “It’s just that I’m a bit hard of hearing.”

The sentry looks them up and down and rocks on his toes, then turns around and walks away. Kowalski and Jacob pick up another crate without wasting a word over the incident.

“A whole day has gone by, Jacob. Twenty-four long hours. Surely they must have advanced at least a few measly miles!”

“Yes, two miles according to the latest reports.”

“And you act as if you don’t care? Every foot counts, I tell you, every single foot!”

“So what’s two miles?” says Jacob.

“I like that! Maybe for you it isn’t much, you hear the news every day. But two miles is two miles!”

The ordeal is over, Kowalski won’t bother him again today; he is as mute as Fayngold now that he’s found out what he wanted to know.

Jacob has to admit that it wasn’t so bad; actually the words came out quite easily, as he explained to me at length. It was an important moment for him, he told me. The first lie, which may not even have been one, such a little lie, and Kowalski is satisfied. It’s worth it: hope must not be allowed to fade away, otherwise they won’t survive. He knows for sure that the Russians are advancing, he has heard it with his own ears, and if there is a God in heaven, they must come at least this far; and if there is no God, they must come at least this far and they must find as many survivors as possible, so it’s worth it. And if we should all be dead, it was an attempt, so it’s worth it. The trouble is, he has to dream up enough bits of news, for they will go on asking questions, they will want to know details, not just how many miles; he must invent the answers. He hopes his brain will be equal to it. Not everyone is good at inventing things; so far he has invented only one other thing in his life, that was years ago, a new recipe for potato pancakes with cottage cheese and onions and caraway seeds, you can hardly compare the two.

“And besides, it’s important that they’re advancing at all,” says Kowalski reflectively. “I mean, better to advance slowly than to retreat quickly.…”