Jakob the Liar (9 page)

W
orried faces wherever Jacob looks: What’s going to happen? Here they sit, high and dry, with no idea what is going on in the outside world. These intolerable conditions are already in their third day; this is no longer a power failure, this is a natural disaster. Must we really be the victims of this catastrophe too? They had been rash enough to take the joyful reports for granted; they had become addicted to the advance of a few miles every morning, and all day long there was something to hope for and to discuss. And now this dismal silence. Our first step each morning has led us to the light switch; some of us even got up in the middle of the night. We have pressed the switch and obtained the dreaded response that for yet another day Jacob will be no wiser than we are. Only the electricity will make him all-knowing again, only the electricity that the powers of darkness have turned off, only when the lights go on again in all the rooms, only then will his light shine with a special brilliance. But when will that be?

The one person who is not affected by the new reason for anxiety is Jacob. For once, Jacob is not affected by this calamity. His connection with the outside world has not broken off; what does not exist cannot break off. The connection is as tenuous as it had ever been, only that at last he can admit this. No rhyme or reason the way Fortune chooses which pot will boil, even though it be a very modest Fortune disguised as a power failure. May it last until the first Russian faces take the sentries at the outskirts of the town by surprise. At least Jacob can breathe more freely now, can revert to being just one among many; nobody forces him to know more than all the others, but he must keep up the pretense, a constant pretense, he must feign regret where there is none, regret over the power failure — no easy task considering his relief: You have seen, my friends, that I was doing my best; as long as it was possible I supplied you with the latest and the best. There hasn’t been a day when you have been deprived of comforting reports. How I would love to go on reporting until that longed-for hour arrives, but my hands are tied, you can see for yourselves.

Next morning Kowalski has won the race again: he is hauling with Jacob, except that this time it was no longer really a race. Overnight Jacob has become just another worker, an elderly person with two undeniably weak hands that are no longer in great demand. Kowalski has paired off with Jacob more from habit, or out of friendship; in any case they are hauling together. It is a long time since things have been so quiet between them. To Jacob the crates seem a shade lighter since Kowalski and the others have stopped plying him with questions; to Kowalski no doubt heavier now that answers are no longer forthcoming. Weight, as can be seen, is not an absolute quantity. The last question was whether in Jacob’s building the light — God forbid — had also failed, to which Jacob answered simply and truthfully yes. After such a long time he was quite happy to be able to speak the unadulterated truth, and since then it has been as quiet around him as around anybody else. That’s how it will remain until the electricity is restored, and no one should be surprised at Jacob’s composure.

When the whistle blows for soup, they sit down side by side in the sunshine. Kowalski sighs and spoons and sighs; this is not due to the soup, which tastes neither better nor worse than on any other day. Recently Jacob has learned to dread Kowalski’s presence. Kowalski was the most avid among the curious, letting Jacob neither eat nor sleep and using him simply as a vehicle for his curiosity, relentlessly. But today his presence cannot alarm Jacob; questions would be a waste of words. The sun is shining, they are sitting side by side, peacefully and silently eating, and somewhere in the distance Stalin’s soldiers are approaching at an unknown speed.

“How long do you think this power failure can go on?” Kowalski asks.

“For twenty years, I hope,” says Jacob.

Kowalski looks up from his bowl with an injured expression: that’s no kind of answer between friends. Of course the last few days haven’t been easy for Jacob, the sole connection with the outside world that everybody wanted to take advantage of, we’ve been assaulting and peppering you, and there’s been some risk too, but can one in our situation object to that little extra effort? Who in your position would have acted otherwise? Look for him among us and you will not find him, and then in reply to our modest question we have to listen to such harsh words.

“Why are you so mean?” Kowalski asks.

“You’ll never find out,” says Jacob.

Kowalski shrugs and goes on eating; there’s no talking to Jacob today. Maybe he’s in a bad mood — as a matter of fact, there have always been days when he was strangely quarrelsome. When one came into his cheerless shop, in the old days, after entering in the best of moods and sitting down at one of the many empty tables and asking Jacob a perfectly normal question, such as “How’s business?” the way anyone would, it sometimes happened that, instead of giving a normal answer, like “Business is thus and so,” as might be expected from an adult person, he would snap back with “What a stupid question — can’t you see for yourself?”

Not entirely by chance, Kowalski and Jacob are joined by two others. Mischa sits down beside them: he’s brought along Schwoch, junior partner of Lifschitz and Schwoch, wholesale and retail stamp pads. At first Jacob assumes that they’ve sat down simply because there is still room here, a little unobserved spot in the sunshine, until he notices that they keep exchanging looks, Mischa’s being encouraging and Schwoch’s undecided. Now he realizes that it’s no coincidence, some unknown factor is involved; he has learned to pay attention to the minutest nuances. Mischa’s looks mean Go ahead and say it, and Schwoch’s mean No, I’d rather you said it, and when all these looks threaten to go on forever, Jacob says between two spoonfuls, “I’m listening.”

“We have sort of an idea,” says Schwoch.

So far so good, there’s always room for a decent idea, good ideas are like air for breathing. Let’s hear what you’ve come up with, then we’ll see.

But Schwoch seems tongue-tied after his tentative opening. He looks at Mischa again, and his eyes convey, I’d rather you said it.

“The thing is this,” says Mischa. “We’ve been thinking: if the power won’t come to the radio, then the radio must go to the power.”

“Is this some kind of a riddle?” Jacob asks uneasily, though there’s no mystery about Mischa’s words. They mean no more and no less than that somewhere in some street in this ghetto the lights are still on, he’ll soon hear in which street; any normal intelligence can put two and two together.

“In Kowalski’s street the power is on,” says Schwoch.

These propitious words, uttered for Jacob’s benefit, reach Kowalski’s ears just as he is scraping out his bowl. His hands stop in midair, for a brief moment he closes his eyes, his lips whisper bitterly, may Schwoch be struck by lightning, and he moves aside. Not far, just a few symbolic inches. He hasn’t heard a thing, let these madmen go on saying what they like, all this has nothing to do with him.

This minor revelation is not lost on Jacob; a pity he can’t smile. There are important things to do before their break is over and Mischa and Schwoch’s plan begins to circulate and is judged worthy of at least some consideration. That with Kowalski they’ll find themselves up against a brick wall is as clear as day to Jacob; there’s no danger from that quarter. Anyone who has lived within earshot of Kowalski all these years knows what a hero does not look like. Trimming your beard in the latest fashion and arranging your hair artistically so that people in the street turn around to look at you, these may be within his scope; but listening to broadcasts on pain of death and passing on their contents — he’s not that stupid. The problem certainly doesn’t lie with Kowalski; the real worry is that someone else will be found — Kowalski’s street is a long one. Someone else may come and say, Hand over the set, we’ll let it play and sing and proclaim heaven on earth.

They must be totally persuaded to drop their plan if nothing is to come of it, and nothing will come of it: it must be the plan’s fault, not Kowalski’s. He must emerge from the affair as a perfectly honorable man; words must be found that disparage the very idea itself and prove its complete uselessness. So, let’s have such proof, but where to find it in a hurry? Maybe Kowalski will come up with the right thing. For once he is Jacob’s ally; they are sitting in the same uncomfortable boat. Kowalski, too, will gnaw away with all his strength at Mischa and Schwoch’s idea; he’ll say anything except that he is too scared. He has to be shoved into the water up to his neck, then he’ll talk; all one can hope is that in this short time he will be able to grow the appropriate angel’s tongue.

“Did you hear what they want you to do?” Jacob asks.

Kowalski turns his head toward Jacob, pretending that his thoughts were far away, and asks with perfect innocence, “Who, me?” And then he asks Schwoch: “What is it?”

“We’re talking about the electricity,” Schwoch explains patiently. “The radio might be taken to your place, mightn’t it?”

Kowalski acts as if he has heard a bad joke. “To my place?”

“Yes.”

“The radio?” “Yes.”

“Wonderful!”

These idiots want to kill me, he must be thinking; they want to ruin me, as if I don’t have enough to worry about, and they talk about my doom as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“How about you, Jacob? What do you say?”

“Why not?” says Jacob. “It’s up to you. It’s fine with me.”

It only looks as if he’s playing with fire; he knows exactly what to expect from Kowalski, and besides, if Kowalski were suddenly to turn into a hero, he could always change his mind later. But it’s safe to assume that won’t be necessary. Kowalski is an arithmetic problem for six-year-olds.

“Don’t you realize the risk you’re running?” Kowalski asks, utterly astonished at such recklessness. “And what does that mean, anyway: the radio might be taken to my place? Who by? Me? You? He? Who by? Do you intend to carry the radio through the ghetto in broad daylight? Or better still, at night, after eight o’clock maybe?”

He leans back, indignant; it verges on the comical, what they’re suggesting, and they claim to be intelligent people.

“They’re planning on a procession! The patrols and sentries will go to bed during that time, and when it’s over we’ll go and wake them up and say, ‘You can carry on now, the radio is safely at Kowalski’s!’ “

Schwoch and Mischa exchange worried looks; taken apart, their plan no longer seems quite so brilliant, and Jacob also contributes a few significant looks, serious and full of doubt. Kowalski’s outburst seems to have given even him food for thought.

“Besides, there’s another important point,” Kowalski goes on. “By this time many people know there is a radio in the ghetto, but who has any idea that it’s at Jacob’s? We four here at the freight yard and maybe his neighbors. If so far nothing has gone wrong, that’s to say, if so far the Germans haven’t the slightest suspicion, we can assume that there are reliable people living in Jacob’s building. But what makes you think it’s like that in my building? I share with three men: who can guarantee that there isn’t a traitor or a coward above me or beside me or below me? And that he will have nothing more urgent to do than run to the gestapo and tell them what he knows?”

A long pause, Kowalski’s words are assessed and weighed, and in a low voice Schwoch says, “Shit, he’s right.”

Mischa shrugs, undecided, and Jacob stands up, saying, “If that’s how you feel…”

“Why be in such a hurry and run a risk, fellows?” Kowalski says. “The power is bound to come back on again, if not tomorrow then the day after. Then it still won’t be too late for Jacob to tell us how far they’ve got.”

By the time the Whistle summons them back to work, Mischa and Schwoch’s plan is dead and buried. It has been discussed in detail, as is only proper among people endowed with intelligence; its weak points have been brought to light, and it could not withstand the light. It would have been wonderful, what a shame, but clear thinking has opened our eyes. Schwoch and Mischa put their empty bowls back on the handcart. They are almost the last; the sentry is already casting impatient and threatening looks their way.

Once again Jacob and Kowalski form a solitary pair, each relieved of an anxiety, each having survived an ordeal.

“The ideas they come up with!” says Kowalski with a grin, more to himself than to Jacob, thus closing this chapter.

L
ina is standing idly in the doorway, watching Rafael and Siegfried sitting on the curb and whispering together, whispering with exaggerated caution, it seems to her. As soon as someone walks by they stop and squint innocently into the sun. Lina pricks up her ears in vain, her restraint quickly melts away, and she crosses the street to find out what the two show-offs are whispering about. She hears Siegfried maintain that there’s not much time left, and Rafael says that at home they claim it can’t last more than a few days.

Then she is discovered. The two boys look at her nonchalantly and wait with deadpan expressions for the interruption to end. But they can wait forever, Lina doesn’t walk on; she stays where she is and smiles brightly. Until Rafael finally gets up.

“Come on. What we have to discuss is none of her business,” he says.

That’s just what Siegfried thinks too. Drawing himself up to his full height in front of Lina, he gives her to understand that they would beat the daylights out of her if she weren’t just a runt of a girl. Lina accepts the threat impassively, since anyway the two boys turn and disappear into their own building. Lina waits for a few moments; Jacob, who has strictly forbidden her to go into strange buildings, is far away, and Lina follows them in. Carefully sticking her head through the door to the inner courtyard, she catches sight of Siegfried and Rafael going into the shed where, in happier days, Panno the carpenter used to have his workshop; to this day it still reeks of glue. There is no glass in the window of the shed, Lina knows that without checking; she was there herself when Rafael managed to hit the last remaining pane with his first throw. So the nefarious thoughts of the two boys won’t remain hidden for long, not from her. She tiptoes to the dark window and quietly crouches down on the ground. She is ready; they can fire away now.

“What we could do is blow up the military office,” she hears Siegfried say.

“What if they catch us?” asks Rafael.

“Don’t wet your pants. The Russians will soon be here, you heard it, too. Besides, they can’t catch us if we blow them up because then they’ll all be dead. Only we mustn’t let them spot us first.”

Siegfried has always been full of hot air; Lina could bet then and there that nothing will come of it.

“D’you think the top Russian will give us something if we bring it off?” asks greedy Rafael.

“What a stupid question. A decoration, or a real pistol, or something to eat!”

“Or all three?”

“For sure! Wouldn’t that be something? And we wouldn’t tell anybody at home.”

For a second or two there was silence. No doubt the two idiots were imagining all the things the Russians would fish out of their overflowing pockets to reward them for their heroic deeds.

Suddenly Rafael says disconsolately, “Siegfried … it won’t work.”

“Why?”

“Where are we going to get hold of some dynamite? Even if I empty my two cartridges, that’ll never be enough.” 

“You’re right. You got any more at home?” 

“No.”

“Nor have we.”

Lina laughs and puts her hands over her mouth, which almost lets out a shriek; it’s incredible how stupid two ten-year-old boys can be.

Rafael has another idea: “You know what? We’ll lock ‘em up!”

“Who?”

“The gestapos, who else? We’ll just lock up the military office. At night they’re all asleep, and then we’ll lock ‘em up. The doors are at least that thick, and they put bars on all the windows themselves…. They’ll never get out! And then when the Russkies get here we’ll have them all!” Rafael is panting with excitement.

“But we don’t have a key!”

“We’ll find one,” says Rafael confidently. “In my dad’s drawer there’s a ring with at least twenty keys on it. One of them is sure to fit, you’ll see.”

“Not bad at all,” Siegfried grumbles, audibly annoyed at not having thought of this brilliant idea himself. He’d be only too glad to find fault with Rafi’s plan, but there’s nothing wrong with it.

Just then the door to the courtyard opens and little Mrs. Bujok appears, looking for her wayward son, but she can’t see him. She sees only Lina sitting on her heels and smiling. “Have you seen Siegfried?”

Lina is startled out of her absorption; she looks up at Mrs. Bujok and regains her smile. That “runt of a girl” still echoes in her ear. She might as well make hay while the sun shines: Lina gestures with her thumb to the shed behind her. Mrs. Bujok looks menacingly at the shed, pauses for a moment to take a deep breath, then marches in. Lina hears a none-too-gentle slap, then “Ow!” and “How often do I have to tell you to stay close to my window!” and finally one more slap and “You go home too, you rascal!”

As silence settles over the yard, Lina gets up and brushes off her skirt; the performance is over. Mrs. Bujok emerges from the shed; anger has made her red in the face. Siegfried is hanging on to her with one hand while holding the other against his cheek. At least he’s not howling. They quickly leave the yard; Siegfried doesn’t notice Lina.

Lina also goes toward the courtyard door. She is in no hurry. She could stay, actually, but since Rafael is alone, her listening post has lost its value. He might even deign to make do with her now, but she couldn’t care less about that; she no longer feels like it. Let him sit there by himself and stew over which of the twenty keys will fit; nothing’s going to come of it anyway.

So she leaves, turning back once more in the doorway. Rafael is taking his time.

“You’re both pretty stupid!” she shouts across the yard toward the shed, which doesn’t make her exactly popular.