Mendelssohn is on the Roof (22 page)

These were the fairy tales they told each other in the boarded-up railway carriage in the midst of their crying children. Yet it was clear to them all that they had been sacrificed, that no one would stand up for them. They could only hope that their journey would end in the fortress town and not in the East. But even that hope was faint.
Only now did they realise that they were too deeply implicated in the robberies, that those who had received money, gold and precious things by means of their help must get rid of them now, in order to use their stolen riches in peace.

Rabinovich listened to these conversations and felt bitter that he had to travel with people whose acts were so obviously wicked. But didn’t he belong in their category as well? Though he hadn’t provided his masters with gold and jewels, still he had helped them. At their command he had gathered together the confiscated sacred articles and created a museum for the amusement of the enemy. He had entertained visitors arriving from the murderers’ main city. He had violated the most important religious
commandments
and committed the worst sins. Now he must pay the price, for he had blown the ram’s horn to amuse the Reich minister. He had allowed himself to be used in identifying a statue, he had committed the sin of false idolatry by re-creating a Seder in the museum. He had desecrated everything he touched, he had violated virtually all the commandments in order to save his family. And because sins must be paid for in this world, his punishment had caught up with him. The words of the prayers would no longer help him, the consolations of the Psalms would no longer work. His tribe would be wiped out and nobody would be left to say the prayer for the dead in his memory. But perhaps God would have mercy on him, for he had not sinned with any evil intent.

Suddenly they heard the door screech, and it was as if their impossible dreams were about to be fulfilled. The door to the carriage opened abruptly. Which of them would be freed at the eleventh hour? Which of them had
so powerful a protector coming to his aid? They couldn’t see what was happening outside, since the windows were boarded. Then the door opened and they all saw two Czech troopers enter the train with a man in chains. No, it wasn’t a general coming to intercede for any one of them. It was a prisoner who seemed to be coming to join them directly from prison, because he had no baggage with him. The troopers unchained him under the watchful eye of an SS man and then left without a word. The door was slammed shut again. Another noise was heard outside – they must be sealing up the car again. Daylight was beginning to come in through the cracks of the window boards, allowing them to make out the features of the prisoner.

He introduced himself at once and rather cheerfully to the company: ‘My name’s Otto Pokorny and they brought me here straight from prison. I was caught for having false papers. Of course, I was doing something else also, but they never found out about that.’

None of the others answered him, none of the others introduced himself. The helpers of robbers felt they were too lofty to speak to a common criminal. Dr Rabinovich, who didn’t even want to speak to the others, looked at the new man scornfully. As if those bankers’ flunkies weren’t bad enough, to throw in a person like this!

But Pokorny was undaunted by their silence. ‘You can’t imagine what it was like, six months of solitary, just going to Bredovska for hearings and sitting there in a bunker. I never heard a single word the whole time, only people yelling. So talk to me, for goodness’ sake, tell me who you are and where we’re going!’

For a while nobody answered. Then one of the eleven began to speak. He explained what important positions they
had all had, and how they had been protected, and that they were sending them away only now, to the fortress town, no doubt, where they would have important work to do.

He suddenly paused, for he realised that this one was also going with them. If such a person was being sent with them, then they must be going to the East, for there’d be no place for such a person in the fortress town. They’d never have released him from prison if they hadn’t been preparing a worse fate for him. And that same fate must be awaiting them as well. But perhaps they were going to the ghetto, after all. They’d drop them off there and send Pokorny to the East by the next transport.

Otto Pokorny didn’t notice the pause and began to ask questions: What was the news from the front? What were the chances that the Germans would lose the war soon? Then everyone began to speak, except Rabinovich. They told Pokorny about German losses on the eastern front, about Italy’s capitulation, about the destruction of German cities. The news was encouraging. They gave the news eagerly, providing details and anecdotes. It was as if they had become aware of Pokorny’s presence only then and were accepting him as part of their group.

In prison Pokorny had received only rotten vegetables and watery soup for meals and his stomach was contracting with hunger. Now that the car was sealed, they all began to eat ravenously. They didn’t have to be afraid that someone might burst in. They had plenty of food with them and warm clothing. They even had cigarettes. He would have liked to ask them for a piece of bread, but he was sure they wouldn’t share it with him; the food was for themselves and their children.

The waiting went on endlessly. But now there was enough
light in the car. One of them looked at his watch, which they hadn’t taken from him in their haste, and said that it was ten o’clock. At eleven the train began to move.

They moved along slowly, but couldn’t figure out in what direction. All they could hear was the clacking of the buffers. Perhaps they were rolling through fields where people were working, or passing by factories where people were standing at machines. Perhaps they were going by little towns where women were standing in queues with their shopping baskets, or roadside taverns where farmers were idling at the bar drinking bitter beer. They didn’t know where they were going and they were afraid to touch the window boards. Their escorts were travelling in a better carriage somewhere, maybe the very next one, and looking out of the window.

The freight train came to a stop at the end of a line far from a station. They stood there for a long time and could hear carriages being uncoupled: their carriage and that of their escorts were probably being attached to another train. Again an endless wait. Outside, they could hear the voices of railway men – they were still in their native country.

It was almost evening when the new train began to move. It was a goods train again – they could tell by the clacking of the buffers. It moved along as slowly as the previous one. At night they remained standing on a side line
somewhere
. They could feel the two carriages being uncoupled. All night their carriage stood at an unknown station. They were unable to sleep, because it was almost impossible to breathe in their boarded-up car. A little air came in through the cracks and they took turns standing near them and lifting the children towards them.

The night passed thus in uncertainty. The former helpers
of robbers had long since lost their self-importance. Now they were friendly to Pokorny – one of them even gave him a slice of bread. The worst thing was the lack of water. Nobody had thought to bring a thermos. There had been a small reserve of water in the lavatory, but that was soon exhausted. The children cried, ‘Drink! Water!’ That was when those who had continued to have the highest hopes finally understood that they had been sold down the river and that only the smallest speck of hope remained. That tiny snippet of hope was the fortress town. Earlier they had been afraid of it. The very thought of going there had been enough to evoke dread and fear of the transports. Now they dreamed of it as of the Promised Land, where they would meet their friends and relatives, where they would be among their own people and would share the same fate with them. They no longer dreamed of enjoying higher privileges. They would be happy with any work whatsoever.

In the morning their carriage began to move again. Their thirst was becoming unbearable. But even worse was the uncertainty about where they were being taken. None of them dared try to widen the crack in the window boards and look out. Only Pokorny was willing to give it a try. Nothing daunted him. He had come from prison. He knew his fate was sealed, he knew he had nothing to lose. He offered to find out where they were. It was the right moment – the SS guards were still asleep. Surely they had been fortifying themselves with liquor at some tavern during the night.

If the SS men were to discover that someone was looking out through a crack they would punish everyone, not just the offender. That was their method of punishment. All were tormented by the lack of air and by thirst. They watched with passive approval as Pokorny set to work.
With a borrowed knife he managed to widen a crack.
Everyone
waited impatiently to hear what he could see.

‘A field,’ Pokorny announced. ‘Just a field and a village in the distance. It’s impossible to guess where we actually are. Meadows,’ he continued as the train made its way through the countryside, ‘a pond with willows, plains, mountains in the distance.’

He spoke as if he were broadcasting news, slowly and distinctly. But people weren’t satisfied.

‘Are we in Germany?’ one of them asked.

‘No,’ answered Pokorny without turning, continuing to peer through the crack, ‘fields and meadows and ponds like these are found only in Bohemia.’

They were disappointed. They had been travelling so long and they still hadn’t arrived at the fortress town. They wouldn’t be able to endure it, they would choke on the bad air, they would die of thirst. Yet their train must be going somewhere! Perhaps they were just going around and around, perhaps their captors were waiting for them to suffocate.

‘Nothing,’ continued Pokorny, ‘just fields, meadows, gardens and villages.’

Suddenly he cried out. ‘A transmitter,’ and he jumped away from the crack. He thought he had heard a voice in the adjacent carriage.

A transmitter. There were only two in Bohemia. One was on the way to the fortress town. Yes, everything was going to be all right, they were going in the right direction. Another little snippet of hope had appeared. Soon they’d be in the fortress town and their suffering would end. Someone would take care of them there and give them something to drink.

They rejoiced in a steel structure standing in the middle of a field. Earlier they had hated everything that served those others. They weren’t allowed to have radios at home, but they had to listen to the loudspeakers attached to street lamps broadcasting news of victories, boat sinkings, executions. The news was always followed by the same raucous patriotic songs. Lately the loudspeakers had been talking about the savage hordes and the strength of the Reich, and the patriotic songs were even noisier – clearly they were trying to dispel fear. People avoided those particular lamp-posts, but they couldn’t help hearing the ear-piercing voices.

The transmitter was a good sign. They weren’t in a foreign country yet. They were still home.

The train continued its journey the whole day. They should have been in the fortress town long ago. Pokorny didn’t dare look out. Their supplies of food were running low, but they weren’t hungry. They just wanted to drink. They didn’t speak; even the children were quiet.

When at last the train stopped during the night, they sensed they were in a foreign country. The door of the carriage opened abruptly, the blue light of a torch gleamed, an SS man handed them a canteen of water. A drop like that was to suffice for them all! They gave a little drink to the children, and the others were barely able to wet their lips. Their thirst was even more terrible after that. Their carriage and that of the SS men were once again uncoupled. They were standing far from a station. Even when Pokorny looked through the crack he could only see outlines of freight cars. But he had travelled about the world often before the war and he had a way of figuring out the names of towns almost by smell.

‘Dresden,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s Dresden.’

Now they knew they were in a foreign country. They might have hoped they were being sent to a work camp, but none of them besides Pokorny was capable of heavy labour. So they were probably being taken to the East. Now they were overcome with terror, though they were exhausted and weak with thirst.

During the whole journey, day and night, Rabinovich kept silent, repeating prayers to himself, though they would be of no avail to him as a blasphemer. He paid no attention to the talk of the others, he didn’t even take in his sons’ cries or his wife’s moans. He sat on his bench as if he were already dead, as if they had put a shroud over him and were preparing his coffin.

But he gave a start when he heard the word ‘Dresden’. He was the only one in the carriage who knew what the word ‘East’ really meant. Hadn’t the head of the Central Bureau often spoken about people going up the chimney in smoke those times he was in a good mood, those times he used to pat him on the back and say, ‘Good boy,’ as if he were a dog?

They were going to their deaths, it was clear, even he, even his family. Nobody could save them any longer.
Everything
had been planned and figured out long before. How the head of the Central Bureau must be laughing now! That’s why he had been so kind to him the last time he had met him. All the others sitting in this car, and he as well, had made a pact with the devil, and now the devil had come for their lives. Only one of them, that thirteenth one the troopers had brought in in chains, only he had nothing in common with the devil; he was fighting against him, in fact. That man was one of the legendary thirty-six Just
Men and he would share their fate with them. It was good that a Just Man would be in their midst. He would speak for them at the hour of their death.

T
HE COUNTRY INSULTINGLY called the Protectorate was a small country with small joys and pleasures. Because people had to go on living, because they were closed in on all sides, restricted,
conscripted
, arrested and killed according to the whims of their conquerors, people looked for small comforts.

Trips by bike or train to nearby places replaced travel abroad. Rides on little sightseeing boats evoked memories of ocean liners.

The steamboat had been rented by one of the ministries, and Jan Krulis worked for the Historic Preservation
Department
under its jurisdiction. He was able to meet his contact inconspicuously on the boat. Nobody noticed their casual conversation in the midst of the din, the commotion and the blaring music.

They set sail early in the morning; the city was just waking up. They shoved off from a little wooden bridge. The river was quiet, meandering around the islands, splashing at the weirs, playing over the boating pools as if the invaders with fifes and drums and horsetails didn’t exist. It laughed, it was timeless, and it had a woman’s name. People tamed it with floodgates, locks, weirs and bridges. It changed its face a thousand times.

The boat crossed the river to drift towards the first lock, at the end of which rose a statue of a lovely slender young girl. She was meant to represent the river surrounded by its tributaries. It was a portrait of the river in her youth, twisting through meadows, wandering past high cliffs and
deep woods, mirroring castles as she flowed, filling and turning mill wheels. Statues made by foreign hands stood on the stone bridge that spanned her, unfriendly ones, put there by previous invaders. From below they seemed even more grotesque, more convoluted. Then she encountered other statues at the newer bridges, statues that spoke of hope, statues celebrating the end of bondage. They sported wings, as if they wanted to fly for victory’s sake. On yet another bridge stood several substantial statues with solid limbs that seemed to be growing out of the ground, firmly rooted in pedestals one at each end of the bridge.

Divided into two parts, the city looked out at the river from old palaces and from new houses decorated with little turrets and bay windows, from warehouses, tenement houses and little cottages that had once been part of a village. At a narrow inlet the boat touched the green banks of a big park. Now it was just about to leave the city.

The people on the boat felt happy and contented. Life in the bureaus they worked for was grey, full of fear and anxiety. Although the bureaus had proud names, they were typing pools, do-nothing offices. The new masters seemed to keep them there out of whim. On the boat, people could float through the city and they didn’t have to listen to commands in a foreign language. Everything seemed the same as it had ever been – the smoke from bad coal rising from the chimney, the regular vibrations of the engines, the waves radiating to the shore and then beating against the banks, the roofed bow for those who liked shade and benches at the stern for those who preferred sun. The boat’s slow passage was calming; when the engines were turned off in the locks, the music sounded even louder. The countryside they passed was familiar to everyone; one
man on board could actually name every little hill and identify practically every cottage.

During their break, as the musicians rested with half litres of weak and bitter beer, volunteers went around selling raffle tickets. The raffle was a big deal – one could win a toothbrush, a wooden doll or a metal ashtray.

Krulis’s contact had bad news. The organisation had been exposed, its cover blown. People connected to it, even remotely, had to be warned quickly. The two spoke together quietly. Nobody heard them, thanks to an amateur singer who was singing ‘Crinoline’ as they spoke. She was obliged to repeat the refrain of that popular song several times, and then to sing an encore, another well-known song: ‘Cricket the Musician’. Neither ‘Crinoline’ nor ‘Cricket’ had anything to do with the life people were leading, but these songs were still better than the raucous patriotic songs accompanying the news broadcasts from the Leader’s
headquarters
.

Krulis’s companion wanted to get off inconspicuously at the first stop – the game park and castle – to try to make arrangements and save whomever he could as quickly as possible.

Everyone disembarked, glad to be able to walk around a bit and look at the castle. Krulis took out a piece of bread and skim cheese and lay down in the grass. The castle didn’t interest him. He knew it from the old days.

Barges loaded with goods sailed down the river, heading for the Reich. Every few minutes sirens went off, but they were harmless, familiar sirens; their sound didn’t alarm anybody. Everything was peaceful and friendly; it was as if the river and its surroundings knew nothing about the war. People in the park were laughing, exchanging funny stories,
singing. It was a perfectly ordinary outing. Yet a heavy shadow loomed over the people’s merriment. They had created that carefree world as a defence.

They were defending themselves against death, each in his own way. The invaders rejoiced in death. They celebrated it in their patriotic songs. It was their best friend. But those who had fallen under their rule wanted to live.

Jan Krulis looked out at the countryside. Meadows and fields stretched into the distance. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys. The river, flowing gently and peacefully, belonged to this countryside. It hadn’t yet joined the larger river that would rush through ravines to a foreign land. It still carried the water of its own tributaries with women’s names, filled with goodness and kindness.

As he lay there above the river, he reflected on his fate. He knew that one of these days death would find him, too. It would come to him in the guise of men wearing trench coats and green tufted hats. Then the countryside would dim and take on the darkness of a bunker. It would die, but just for him. Its hills and mountains, its fields and meadows, its forests and rivers would live on. Let them burn it to the ground, let them ravish its fields and transform its meadows into swamps. Grass would still grow out of the ashes, the earth would absorb the water, and people would plough its fields once again. They could never conquer it.

Adela and Greta. Once he had made the decision to fight, he shouldn’t have taken on that responsibility. What would happen to Adela and Greta when they arrested him? They couldn’t stay too long at the Javureks’, and even if they could, who would bring them food? He’d already made another arrangement, and had told the Javureks about the contact, but now that the organisation’s cover was blown,
the contact was blown as well. Who knows, he might have been followed in recent days. If he had been, then of course they would know about the Javureks.

People were returning to the boat and Krulis went back with them. He’d stay on the boat until they reached the vineyard town stop and then he’d decide. His friend had recommended that he slip away from the day trippers there, get on a train and return to Prague. It would be easy to do – many people who weren’t interested in the raffle and didn’t want to waste too much time on the long voyage home would surely be doing the same thing. He wasn’t connected with any group and nobody would notice his absence.

But did it make sense to go back by train? If they were after him, he might gain a few hours that way before they arrested him. But he still had to return to his apartment to try to destroy any evidence they might find. He could hope that they weren’t on to him yet and weren’t waiting for him at his apartment. Then he could quickly try to change his name and address. He decided to go back by boat. It might actually be less dangerous, because at railway stations there were often searches for travellers who were smuggling provisions. But who would bother with trippers returning to the city?

They landed at the shore and climbed a steep path all the way up to the castle, surrounded by gardens and parks.

They had ordered a modest lunch for their group at the castle restaurant – they could pay with their food coupons. They would even be allowed wine, but of course only two glasses. But when they arrived at the restaurant they were sorry they hadn’t chosen some ordinary restaurant in town. There in the glassed-in terrace offering views of the river
and the whole countryside were
they
: the whole terrace was theirs. They ate and drank, ordering vintage wines and rare foods, for no rules applied to them and they had as many coupons as they wanted. They sat there all worked up with alcohol, some in uniforms and others in plain clothes. Surely they hadn’t come by boat or train but in their own cars. Among them was a single Czech, but he spoke German. The trippers recognised him. He was a well-known comedian who sang scurrilous songs on the radio about Jews who were moving out, who were not allowed to ride the buses: about columnists who’d crow when the Reich was victorious but who would crawl on their knees afterwards. They must have taken him along as a clown, the after-dinner entertainment. Meanwhile, he sang their rowdy and sentimental songs along with them, making sure that his voice rang out, that it wasn’t lost in the drunken din.

The waiters quickly led the trippers to a special dining room off to the side. The distinguished guests mustn’t be disturbed, the subhumans had no right to stare at them. From the room assigned to them they could see neither the river nor the city; their windows looked out on a
courtyard
. They could hear the cries of the revellers out on the terrace only faintly. The waiters passed out watery soup, meat rissoles with old potatoes and, for dessert, a pudding made without milk. That was their lunch – they didn’t need too many coupons for it.

After lunch Krulis sat down on a bench overlooking the river. After a short while, an older man sat down next to him, obviously wanting to talk. Finally he took the plunge.

‘Are you from Prague?’ he asked.

He didn’t wait for an answer, but continued: ‘This used
to be a nice town, a rich one. The local people hardly knew what to do with their money. And now we’re just a hop and a skip from the border. So that means they can get here from that Reich of theirs very easily, and get to the capital too. They booze here and stuff their faces and we’re supposed to look at them. Well, it’s probably the same in Prague, but it’s not so obvious there, right?’

Krulis was silent. He could no longer look peacefully at the countryside. And maybe this was the shadow following him. No, the man didn’t look the type. He just felt like talking and nobody could overhear from here.

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ Krulis asked him.

‘Oh, I know people, I just have to take one look. I’m a dowser, you see. I’ve discovered all the wells around here. The thing about water, you know, is you have to be truthful to find it. Water knows only the truth. That’s what a person learns from water. In some places the water is very deep, because it’s hiding from human deceitfulness. Water is clean and people make it dirty. This river used to be clean, and look what they’ve done to it. Water doesn’t want to rise to the surface and be among people. I have to come with the rod and persuade it. People in this part of the country need water a lot. Everything grows here. I tell it the truth, that it is time for it to come out and be helpful, even though it means getting dirty, because people need to eat. The water listens to what I tell it, and it comes out. But now my conscience is bothering me, because I’ve also looked for it in the part of the country that now belongs to the Reich. So thanks to me the water has to help those thieves. But water knows the truth and one of these days it’ll show them.’

‘Thank you,’ Krulis said in parting. ‘You are so right about the water. I’ve got to go now.’

‘Good luck. We’ll get them, everything will turn out well. They’re already on the run, and they’ll have to get out of here, too.’

The trippers returned to the boat in groups. Krulis won a pair of cuff links in the raffle.

They sailed against the current for quite a while. Dusk was falling quietly. People dozed off and lovers embraced. Finally the boat landed. The trippers got off carefully and crossed the little bridge to the shore. They were happy to be home, happy to have enjoyed a nice day. It was already dark, and only the river glistened. But when Krulis got off, the light of blue torches suddenly glared in his eyes.

Two men in trench coats stepped up, one in front of him and one behind him. Their guns were obviously drawn although Krulis couldn’t see them.

‘Come with us,’ they barked in a foreign language.

There had certainly been a spy on the boat.