Stalemate

by Icchokas Meras

  “Sit, Kasriel. Eat. Come on now,” he said amiably.

  Then I sat down and began to eat.

  I ate for a long time turning every bite over on my tongue.

  Schoger sat in front of me and sadly nodded his head.

  “See, I knew you were hungry.”

  When I wiped my lips, he said softly, “Now drink. We’ll start with the vodka—all right? I love Russian vodka.”

  “Thanks, I’m not thirsty.”

  Schoger became angry.

  “What now! Well, all right, give me your hand.”

  I stretched out my other hand and put it on the table palm down.

  He was surprised.

  “Kasriel!” he cried out. “You want to ruin your other hand too? I won’t allow that. Give the other, the first one. It’s all the same to it now.”

  I stretched out the other hand, the first, and put it palm down on the table. Schoger lifted his hand and brought the gun handle down hard. He hit the table, and the dishes, bottles, and glasses rattled with a chirping ring, but he was not angry that I had pulled away the hand with the blue nails. In it I held a glass of Russian vodka. I wanted to drink.

  “See, Kasriel—I knew you were thirsty,” he said.

  After that I sipped Cognac and washed my teeth with Pilzen beer.

  “Jadzia!” Schoger shouted. “Jadzia!”

  From the other room Jadzia walked in, a thin Polish beauty with a graceful light-haired head.

  “See?” Schoger asked. “This is Jadzia. A good girl. Right, Jadzia?”

  She smiled, showing her straight pearl-white teeth.

  “Now go, Jadzia.”

  She went.

  “We’ll leave her for the next time. All right, Kasriel?”

  “All right,” I replied.

  “Then it’s settled,” Schoger said. “If you’d like, I can show you some photographs. Would you like that? You’ll see hands whose fingers have been chopped off, which cannot be bandaged—that’s what you’ll see…

  “I don’t need any photographs,” I replied, and drank three more rounds of vodka.

  “I knew we’d agree,” Schoger said happily.

  That’s right. We agreed to meet again in a week.

  Now I’m going to see him.

  I walk slowly, my head bowed, through the silent sleeping streets of the ghetto. I’ll go to the small gates, hung between the two brick buildings; I’ll knock five times and then a sixth; they’ll open for me, and the guard will take me to Schoger.

  Schoger is already waiting. Impatiently waiting. On the round table stand Russian vodka, French Cognac, and Czech beer, and in the other room is the Pole, beautiful Jadzia. with the number on her thigh, the good girl.

  I know everything. I know who carries the weapons, and I know where they’re hidden. I learned everything during that week. I knew a great deal even before that, and Schoger has really given me too much time. Ha! The fool! Why did he give me so much time? He could have done it then, the first time. He didn’t have to feed me and give me a drink. He could have chopped off a few fingers, and I would have told him everything. The fool! He thinks that if he doesn’t know something then everyone else is the same sort of dolt. And he wouldn’t have needed two of my fingers; one would probably have been enough.

  Then, the first time, Schoger was as gentle as a lamb. That’s why he’s so calm today. True, he is waiting impatiently, but he knows for a fact that I’m coming, that I’ll knock five times and then a sixth, that I’ll be there.

  Schoger is a clever man.

  I really am coming.

  I have been walking for a long time, and I have long ago grown tired of the yellow moon, which tosses and flips like a pancake, and of the millions of stars, which pierce the heavens like needles of all the colors of the rainbow.

  I’m tired and should rest.

  Right here, just beyond the corner of this house, is a ruin-strewn hole, grown over with weeds and filled with broken furniture. That’s my quiet corner. No one else knows about it. I can sit there all day; I can sit there all night, thinking about myself, about the world of relatives and not absolutes, and about all sorts of Spinozan philosophers.

  Nowhere in the whole world can I rest more comfortably than I can in that high cellar of mine into which the ruin-strewn hole leads, which no one else has yet discovered. There I can think about everything—about animals called men and about men called animals.

  I really must rest. And I can’t go near the gates now. There, pressed against a wall somewhere, stands my father, Abraham Lipman; he stands and waits for his son. He stands without closing his eyes, with his old ears catching each rustle. He stands without moving, like a statue, and waits for Kasriel, his son.

  What will he say to his son? What can Abraham Lipman say to the son who is a superman and is afraid that they will chop off his fingers?

  My father knows where I am going and why I am going.

  Not long ago we had a short talk that is very easy to remember.

  It was like this…

  But first of all I have to rest, I have to sit and have a smoke. There, in the cellar, are a cigarette, a candle, and some matches. There is an overturned block of wood.

  I go to my cellar, light the candle, and sit and smoke. That’s how I rest, and I feel good.

  I don’t need the moon or the stars. The candle flame flickers—a small beacon—and my shadow stretches across two walls, gigantic, ungraspable, the shadow of a true superman.

  I won’t sit here for long. I’ll smoke my cigarette and walk on.

  “Father,” I said to my Abraham Lipman. “Father, tell the children to hide the weapons somewhere else. And tell all those who carried the weapons to hide. In six days, at night, I’m going to see Schoger again. He’ll chop off my fingers, and I’ll tell him everything.”

  “Kasriel,” my father replied, “my child, do you understand what you are saying to me?”

  “I understand what I’m saying. I can repeat it if you’d like.”

  “You know that the weapons are hidden in the best hiding places and that no others like them will be found and that there are so many people who carried them that they could never all hide.”

  “I know, but they’ll torture me, and I’ll tell them everything. Do as you wish, Father.”

  “I carried weapons; your brother and your sisters carried weapons.”

  “I know, but I’ll tell them everything, Father.”

  “I am Abraham Lipman!” he said.

  “All right, I can repeat it. I will tell them everything, Abraham Lipman. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Listen, Kasriel,” Abraham Lipman replied. “You can do it. I begat you, and I can kill you. But I’m old, so you’ll have to raise your hand against yourself. Do you understand?”

  I laughed. How can a man not laugh?

  “Of course I understand, Abraham Lipman,” I replied.

  That’s what our conversation was.

  How can a man not laugh? I laugh even now. Abraham Lipman, the poor tailor with so many children from Kalvarija Street, whose fingers have as many needle pricks as there are sands in the sea, who each Saturday, holding his tallith in his right hand, slowly ambles to the synagogue—this same Abraham Lipman took care of all the Nietzsches and Spinozas as he uttered his final word.

  That’s enough rest. I’m already rested. The cigarette butt is short and scorches my fingers, burns my lips. I have to get up and go on. If only I don’t forget to blow out the candle.

  I have to go; there’s nothing I can do. Schoger has been waiting for me a long time. He knows that I’m on my way and that I’ll come. No doubt, he spread out the table in advance: Russian vodka, French Cognac, Czech beer, and the beautiful Jadzia. He’s clever, Schoger. He knew that he had to choose me and not my father or brother or sisters.

/>   I’ll go soon; the gates aren’t far. I’ll push my father aside. I’ll knock five times and then a sixth; the guard will open for me and take me to Schoger, and he will demonstrate what the world is when the night is not black but white.

  Schoger is clever, but he gave me too much time. He gave me a week—seven days. God made the world in seven days, and Kasriel found a cellar no one else knew, bricked a hook into the ceiling, and from thin strands wove a strong, thick rope. The rope is tied to that hook; the noose sways just above my head. I’ve pushed the wooden block near. The noose is just right, and the rope is not coarse; it does not scratch my fingers.

  I’ve already trampled the cigarette butt.

  The candle…

  I’ve blown out the candle.

  Stay well, Abraham Lipman, my old father.

  Stay well, people who now are called animals.

  I’ve rested; I’ve blown out the candle. It’s time. My whole life awaits me, the entire world—Russian vodka, French Cognac, Czech beer, and the beautiful Ja—

  The Twenty-Eighth Move

  • 1 •

  The whites had already played for a long time, giving away chess piece for pawn.

  Schoger was silent.

  He tried to keep back the white attack and break through on the right flank.

  The white pieces were having a hard time defending the right flank, but they continued their attack.

  The circle again grew tighter. The people pressed closer.

  Their eyes were no longer so penetrating.

  I am no longer afraid to look at the people. They don’t bother me. Why don’t they bother me now?

  I’m glad that I’m not alone, that there are so many people.

  I’m glad there are so many people.

  • 2 •

  We stand before my father. Esther and I. We have been pleading with him for a long time, but he does not give in.

  “I can’t let you go,” he says.

  “You can.”

  That’s what I say.

  “You’re still children. You’ll die for no reason.”

  “You don’t want….”

  “My child, how could I want that?”

  Esther is silent. She doesn’t dare argue with Abraham Lipman.

  “You know that we’re a new trio now, you know that.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re not too young for that. Right?”

  “You’re not too young.”

  “You see,” I say. “But our third one is missing.”

  “I’m very sorry he’s missing.”

  That’s what my father says. I know that he’s sorry. And not just for Janek. But he still doesn’t want to let us go. I wonder if the men managed to save Janek. I wonder…. And if he is alive, we still don’t know where he is now. It will be hard to find Janek.

  “Yes,” my father says, and adds, “They took them in the direction of Paneriai.”

  “That means Janek’s alive,” I reply. “Think, Father—will the men let them take Janek to Paneriai? He’ll escape; the men will throw him off the truck…even wounded or dead. The men won’t let him be taken to Paneriai. You understand yourself that he can’t be taken away so easily, because he’s Janek.”

  My father is silent; his head is bowed. He understands but is nonetheless silent.

  “You know,” I say to him. “You understand…. We have to look for Janek.”

  “All right.”

  That’s what my father says, and then runs his hands through Esther’s hair. His eyes are deep but gloomy, and around them are scores of wrinkles. I don’t know myself whether my father is old. But there are scores of wrinkles around his eyes.

  * * *

  —

  I knew that only my father could help us. He knows all sorts of ways to get out of the ghetto without being seen, how to hide without being found. He knows the entire ghetto as well as he knows his own needle-pricked fingers, and I sometimes find it strange that a man can know so much. Perhaps you know so much only when there are scores of wrinkles around your eyes.

  “All right,” my father says again. “You can stay home from work one day. I’ll tell them you’re sick. But let’s agree—only one day.”

  “That’ll be enough for us,” I say to my father. “Half a day will be enough—you’ll see.”

  My father smiles sadly.

  “Will I be happy when I see you all again? What do you think?”

  He looks in turn at Esther and at me, at her and at me. I know what he’s thinking, and I lower my eyes. Why do we need that, Father? Why explain it, Abraham Lipman?

  “Tomorrow morning,” my father says, “an enclosed military truck will come into the ghetto to pick up dried wood. The driver will take you out of the city, and you’ll be able to search there. You’ll have to get back on your own. Don’t forget to take off your stars. And don’t forget a needle and thread. Just be careful. God forbid…”

  My father explains to us for a long time how to behave, where to search, and when to come home.

  We know where to search. I just don’t understand one thing.

  “It’s really a military truck?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “And the driver?”

  “A soldier.”

  “A German?”

  “A German, what else?”

  “I don’t know why he’s going to take us….”

  “Ha!” my father laughs. “Can’t a German take you?”

  “No.”

  “You see,” my father says, “the German’s a German, but he’s a little different from the rest. Are you satisfied now?”

  “Hmmmm…I’m satisfied.”

  * * *

  —

  Morning comes.

  The enclosed military truck arrives.

  They load it with wood and leave a small empty corner for us. We crawl into it. The German closes the door. He says nothing. He’s angry and scowling.

  It’s dark in the truck. And quiet, because the motor’s not running. We hear our breathing; the boards smell of sap and press our sides. And far away, outside the truck’s thin walls, someone’s voice can occasionally be heard.

  The motor rattles; the truck shivers.

  We’re moving.

  We feel the uneven stone pavement and the boards that press against our sides. We don’t realize that we’re sitting pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek.

  What’s Esther thinking about now?

  I’m thinking about how awful it is to travel in such darkness—when you’re sitting in an enclosed military truck, when the driver’s a German soldier, when the boards press against your sides and fall on your head, when you feel the uneven stone pavement and the doors are locked from the outside. We travel and sit in silence. We are undoubtedly silent because Janek’s missing and we have to search for him. If it weren’t for him, I would never agree to crawl into this dark, enclosed military truck and with my own ears hear how the door creaks as it is bolted from the outside, how metal rubs across metal.

  “Esther, what are you thinking about?”

  “I’m happy…we’re going, and Janek can’t even imagine that we’re going….”

  I feel sad suddenly.

  Why is Esther thinking about Janek?

  Why did I think about the blind darkness and only then about Janek?

  Janek was right when he said to me, “Don’t be angry, Isia…. You won’t get angry? Don’t be angry, but I just can’t seem to find Meika. You’re a good friend, but I still miss Meika….”

  * * *

  —

  The truck stops.

  The metal bolt clatters.

  “Get out,” the German says in German.

  We climb out. The soldier waits. He could slam the door, get into t
he truck, and drive on.

  Why is he standing here? What is he waiting for?

  “We’re outside the city now,” the German says in German. “Your Janek is certainly not in the city. If you find him, it will be here. Do you see the forest there in the distance? By no means go beyond it. Janek won’t be there either. That’s where Paneriai begins.”

  “All right,” I reply. “We won’t go there. Janek’s not there. He must be right here, nearby.”

  The soldier still stands there.

  “When you go home,” he says, “go straight along this road and then straight along the street. Near the church turn right, and at the fourth street, turn to the left. When you get to the bottom of the hill, wait in the space behind the gates. People pass by there on their way home from work, and the ghetto is right nearby.”

  “I know.”

  The German nods his head. He’s satisfied.

  He stands there, doesn’t slam the door shut, doesn’t get into the cab of the truck, and doesn’t drive away.

  I’m not used to talking to him. Only one German talks to me—Schoger, as we play chess. It’s hard for me to imagine that in front of me stands another German whose words are so completely different.

  He’s not young, just a soldier. His hands are large, his fingers stiff. He hasn’t shaved, and on his cheeks, chin, and upper lip a sparse yellow beard has hammered through his skin. His eyes are gray and tired, and around them are scores of wrinkles, but they are not as deep as my father’s. Of course, he is younger than my Abraham Lipman.

  The German stares at Esther for a long time, and I stare at the heavy hand and the green fading military uniform sleeve that lie on my shoulder.

  “She’s a girl, and you’re already a man,” the soldier, our driver, says with a smile, “and you first of all have to remember that caution brings no shame.”

  He says those last words in Lithuanian, pronouncing them strangely, very humorously. I feel happy, and I laugh.

  Then he touches his hand to his cap, slams the door, gets into the truck’s cab, and turns the truck back toward the city.