‘Harry,’ he said, turning round and removing his cap to reveal a broad glistening dome. The man’s neck strained at his white collar while he squinted compassionately behind thick spectacles. His face was red, snub-nosed and bloated, quite ugly, and could have been mistaken at a distance for a bank-robber with a stocking pulled over his head.
‘Dear boy, I’m so sorry I couldn’t be at the funeral.’
I knew then that any bond that existed between Scherner and Erich Mohnke was not shared with the brother; this was the first time they – that is to say, we - had met.
We shook hands. The handsome jacket was tight around his chest, reinforced with a black belt across his solidly substantial gut. He was perhaps fifty years of age.
‘Your father told me you were in town.’
So Scherer knew my father, and had spoken to him as recently as yesterday. Like the suitcase left on the train, the thought that I might have parents to contend with had never crossed my mind. The sheer lunatic scale and folly of my endeavour was only now dawning on me.
‘Is my timing inconvenient?’ A small tip of tongue dabbed the Oberführer’s wet lips. ‘Depending how long you’re here for, I could always try and reschedule.’
‘Not at all. This is… quite the unexpected honour. Please, you must come up.’
He pushed the cuff back from his left wrist and squinted at his watch. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’ I steered Scherner towards the elevator. ‘Tell me. Have you visited Erich before?’
‘Ashamed to say I haven’t. Yourself?’
I remembered Anton Poplowski’s words: the most successful lies are always sprinkled with just the right amount of truth. The trick is, knowing how much.
‘Before the war, I was in Cracow many times.’
‘Always meant to stop by and see Erich, you know how it is,’ he puffed, breathless from crossing the lobby. ‘I can’t quite believe he’s gone.’
‘We’re all in a state of shock.’
I closed the scissor-gate. The elevator delivered us to the third floor. My neighbour in 3B had not ventured outside their door yet, and the soiled bed-sheet still languished outside my apartment.
‘Sick Child,’ the Oberführer said, backing away as he read the note. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Erich never mentioned you had children. Or that he was an uncle…’
‘The sheet’s not mine,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a word later with the bitch next door about the merits of diligent border-control.’
‘Or we pay her a visit while I’m still here,’ he leered. ‘I do love a spot of aggro in the morning, gets the heart pumping.’
‘Very kind,’ I said. ‘But I should try and stay on relatively good terms with the neighbours.’
Inside, I stepped into the kitchen, immediately filling the pokey space to capacity. The Oberführer waited in the hallway.
‘I only arrived late last night,’ I called, grateful for the distraction of having to legitimately hunt for cups and saucers. ‘This may take some - ’
The first cupboard I opened above the sink was well stocked with tea, coffee, powdered milk and a metal espresso pot.
‘Voila,’ I heard from the hallway.
I set the pot to boil above the flame and rinsed out a couple of cups that had collected a thin film of dust. There were no more chores to make myself busy with.
‘This isn’t a half bad place, you know.’ Scherer had begun to pad about in the corridor. ‘Kitchen’s a bit limited, but I don’t imagine your brother spent a lot of time at the stove.’
‘Frying an egg was Erich’s limit. Let’s go through to the front room. All mod cons there. He’s even got a couple of chairs.’
I showed Scherner to the sofa and doubled back across the room to take the armchair. As I passed the telephone table, I noticed the folded prayer shawl I had left when I rang Lublin train station last night. I stopped and straightened the edges like a lace doily, then placed the telephone on top of it. Only the tassels showed around the base. Scherer hadn’t appeared to notice.
‘How was the reception?’ he said after I pulled my chair towards the sofa and sat down.
‘I don’t know,’ I said evenly. ‘I haven’t used it yet.’
Behind their lenses, his eyes narrowed in confusion. I understood at once my mistake.
‘You were talking about the funeral,’ I said. ‘That was embarrassing.’
‘I spoke to your father on Monday, briefly, to offer my support.’
‘He never mentioned it.’
‘Coming after your dear mother, it’s been the most abject year. How did Otto seem at the service?’
‘Dignified, unlike myself. I sat through the whole thing in a trance, like it was happening to somebody else. Hardly even remember the hymns.’
‘Often the way with these rituals. I suspect the real grieving has yet to start.’
‘I keep asking myself, why Erich and not me? I’m sure father thinks the same. My brother was a real hero.’
Scherer set his boots apart and leant forward, gripping his knees. ‘Your contribution to the administration is invaluable. There’s more to war than guts and glamour. Men of your father’s generation can’t always find the words to express their pride, but that doesn’t mean they don’t feel it. If anybody should bear the blame for what happened to your brother, you may look no further than myself.’
‘In what possible respect?’
‘It was Erich who requested transfer Warsaw, to be nearer your father. But I was the one who approved it.’
‘You had no way of knowing. The Warsaw Ghetto is not your responsibility.’
‘Those JFO sons of bitches wouldn’t have infiltrated if it was. Now, let’s hear no more of this nonsense. The telecommunication work you’re doing in the East is absolutely vital, Harry. Captain Muller’s been singing your praises.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘I’ve seen a lot of men in your shoes, unfortunately, friends and brothers of the recently deceased. It’s not easy for those left behind. They nearly always start thinking the same thing, that they’ve got something to prove, and I tell you, it’s a death sentence. I want you to promise you’re not going to take any risks when you go back – Russia’s deadly enough and it’s going to get worse before it gets better - ’
‘I’m not - ’
‘I haven’t finished yet. I don’t know all that happened between you and your father, and it’s not my place to speculate, but I know how fond he is of you. If he lost another son now… well, I dread to think.’
The espresso pot began to spit in the kitchen.
‘Lecture over,’ Scherner said, and leant back in the sofa. ‘We’ll have our coffee and then you’ll be rid of me.’
At the worktop, I assembled the tray, coffee and cups, sugar and powdered milk. An opportunity was opening up before me, the beginnings of a plan I had not dreamed imaginable. If I found the correct words for the Oberführer, I would be in a position to help the last remaining Jews of Cracow.
If not, I would be lucky to join them.
‘Afraid all I could find was powdered milk.’ I set the tray down on the table in front of the sofa. ‘It’s Klim though, none of that Polish rubbish.’
‘Black as Himmler’s heart for me.’ Scherner stirred a cube into his cup and tapped the spoon against the rim before returning it to the saucer. ‘Apologies if I overstepped. Your father and I go a long way back, and I feel a sense of responsibility.’
‘Not at all. In fact, your words chimed with something I had been thinking myself.’
He sipped, his tongue dabbing those fleshy lips.
‘The dilemma is about returning to the east, as you intimated. Rest assured, thoughts of bravery are the very last thing on my mind. The truth is, I wonder if I’m ready to go back.’
‘Not a problem. What did they give you, a four-day pass?’
I nodded, recalling the paperwork in Harry’s pocket. ‘Today is the last.’
‘Leave it with me. What do you need? A week? Two?’
‘I’m not sure...’
Scherer set his cup down on its saucer. ‘Given what your family has endured, it would be not unreasonable for the Reich to provide alternative deployment, should you so wish. There are a number of possibilities closer to Dahme, for example, were you so minded.’
‘That’s very considerate of you. But there is something else I must do first.’
‘You have a specific location in mind?’
‘I do. What would you say to my staying right here, in Cracow?’
‘Excellent choice, naturally. As administrative capital, you’d be hard-pressed to find better opportunities. I know for a fact the Telpod factory on Lipowa is about to undergo a massive expansion, and we need good men in liaison.’
‘Actually, I was thinking of right here.’ I turned and pointed down the hallway towards the wall on Tragutta Street. ‘Or rather, there.’
‘The Ghetto?’
For the first time in the visit, Scherer smiled, splitting his bloated face like a knife. ‘I’m not sure what your father would say about that.’
‘If I choose to honour my brother’s death by working to strengthen Ghetto security, I know I will have my father’s blessings. To continue his work in the city he loved. I can think of no nobler calling.’
‘You’ve given the matter some thought, I see.’
‘In truth I have entertained little else.’
‘I suppose I’d be able to keep an eye on you. Ghetto work is a fairly rough guard detail. It’s a lot more hands on, Harry, than repairing telephone lines.’
‘When it comes to crushing Jewish resistance, who has greater motivation than my own?’
‘Motivation isn’t everything. And what do we do with you when it’s crushed?’
‘They’ll always be more Jews.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Scherer said. ‘You graduated Jünkerschule?’
Luckily I had memorized the details on Mohnke’s ID card.
‘Of course. Bad Tölz, 1937.’
’37. First year in-take.’
I smirked. ‘First and best.’
‘You certainly have the necessary self-belief, I’ll give you that.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Not to mention the bloody-mindedness.’
Scherer drained his coffee and tilted the grounds in the bottom of the cup, divining my future.
‘Alright, Harry. You’ve clearly got your heart set on this, and I don’t want to be the one to stand in your way. I think we can work something out. It’ll be subject to approval of course, like all Ghetto details.’
‘Thank-you, Oberführer. I won’t let you down.’
‘Not that I put any stock in superstition, but the timing is quite fortuitous. A few of us are having a little informal get-together tonight. Wine, women, a crap game or two. Willie Kunde will be there, the Ghetto commander. I could make the introductions.’
I grimaced. ‘I don’t want to appear ungrateful but perhaps I could join you another time? I haven’t had a chance to sort through my brother’s belongings yet.’
‘Of course, too soon. I thought it might be.’
‘Not at all. I’m keen to begin my new duties without delay. Work is one of few comforts at a time like this. I was due to report back to Captain Muller tomorrow, as you know. Perhaps Commander Kunde would be able to receive me then instead?’
‘I’m sure he’ll find your zeal as heartening as I do. I’ll tell him tonight. Shall we say 9.00 o’clock at Jozefinska?’
‘Jozefinska,’ I repeated. ‘Inside the Ghetto?’
‘And I’ll let Muller know he’ll be needing a new engineer.’ He gave me a card from his wallet. ‘Any problems, day or night. Call me.’
After returning the Oberführer to his Mercedes, I didn’t know whether to throw up in the gutter or punch the air. The adrenaline wore off before I was back inside my apartment, replaced by dread.
I was not a deceitful man by nature – or perhaps I should say I did not like to think of myself as one - but a master of masquerade I had to become. One mistake, one slip of the tongue, and the show was over, with no chance of a reprieve.
How did an actor go about preparing for a new role? I had no idea, but there was surely a lot of hard work behind the scenes before the drama began. Not just the parameters of one invented life to learn and inhabit, but a whole network of connections to memorize, familial and social, domestic and professional. As if this wasn’t complicated enough, my new life was not invented; it already belonged to somebody else. There was no room for artistic license when playing Harry Mohnke, no scope for improvisation. I had to know every single detail of the man’s life.
I found a pad of hotel stationary in the front room sideboard and sat down to record all I could remember:
Harry Mohnke: difficult relationship with father. Black sheep of family?
Telecoms engineer, Eastern Front
Captain Muller, superiror officer
Erich Monhnke stationed in Cracow
Left this year to be closer family home, in Berg, north-east Germany
Not good with house plants
Didn’t cook
Killed last week in/around Warsaw Ghetto, attacked by Jewish Fighting Orgnaisation.
Hilda brother’s mother, died, this year. Of what?
Father Gert. Friends with Scherer
As I struggled to recall more, I began to feel I was being watched. I put it down initially to a heightened state of paranoia, but the suspicion became so oppressive I had to jump up and look out the window. The Mercedes was gone, of course. No pairs of binoculars were trained on my apartment from the opposite rooftops.
Walking back, I noticed for the first time the painting on the living room wall above where I’d been sitting: a gloomy rendering of Jesus Christ’s betrayal and seizure by Roman soldiers. Up close, I could see Christ’s hands clasped before him in weary resignation, his head averted. His hooded eyes looked down at my empty chair as if to say, Judas.
It was too much to bear; the painting would have to go.
I gripped the frame just below the top corners and lifted it from the hook. Concealed behind, embedded in the wall, was a black and gold safety deposit box. I pulled the door, but of course it was locked, and needed a combination.
The only number I could think Erich might have used was his apartment’s telephone line. I tried it, several times, forward and back, before giving up on the safe and rehanging the picture over it. I bumped my chair further along the wall, out of Christ’s sight.
Two hours of frantically ransacking the rooms failed to turn up the combination. I was obsessed. At the start of the day, I didn’t even know there was a safe. Now I could think of nothing else. What did he keep in there?
At noon I stopped, exhausted, close to fainting.
There was half a loaf in the kitchen, mottled with blue mould. I discarded the bread, chewed the crust and chased it down with bites from a liquefying onion. The food was better in prison.
Wrapping myself up in Erich’s raincoat, I left the appartment, braced for the blast across the Vistula. There was one more act of cultural desecration that I hadn’t witnessed on my tour last night.
In one of my mother’s last letters, she dubbed the German actions against her adopted city as The War Against Statues.
Dear Mother, statues were only the beginning.
The grocery store on Izaaka Street abandoned by my family when they fled to the countryside was now called ‘Schmidts’. Mr. Zygot’s workshop next door had been re-annexed and was now a florist’s kiosk. A swastika replaced the Star of David my mother had been forced to display in her shop window.
I could not bring myself to browse inside.
16
Next morning, I found a box of brushes under Erich’s sink and buffed my boots until they sparkled.
I ironed stiff creases into my dress trousers and pressed a clean shirt from the wardrobe.
I polished the insignia on my tunic and picked lint from the sleeves.
Finally, examining myself in the mirror with a grim smirk of satisfaction, I was ready.
Leaving through the front entrance, I doubled back on Tragutta to Dabrowskiego in case the soldiers were still humiliating ditch-diggers out back. I approached the Ghetto from the Lworska gate, which seemed to be guarded by at least three separate authorities. German sentries with ferocious Dobermans, Polish Blue Police and a strange hybrid I did not recognize, three young men wearing street jackets and trousers, but matching berets with yellow ribbons. When a stoop-shouldered member turned to salute me, I saw Star of David bands around their arms.
Ordnungsdienst.
There had been rumours of a Jewish Police in the Wilno Ghetto, but this was first time I had seen them. It was Gestapo custom to appoint a few able-bodied Jewish men as wardens of their fellow prisoners, like Kapo system at Camp Moda. For an extra ration of bread, they would implement Nazi rules, report violations, and generally become the eyes and ears of the Gestapo. The youngest of the yellow berets at the Lworska gate even sported an adulatory stripe of moustache under his nostrils.
The open wound of the Ghetto oozed before me, teeming with rats and misery. I had never seen so many people standing idly in the mire, freezing - very possibly - to death. Endless crowds in every dreary direction, bodies ejected from over-stuffed apartments with nowhere to go.
I stepped back to the gate. ‘Place is a damned zoo.’ When he didn’t reply, I said, ‘Commander Kunde’s office on Jozefinska?’
‘This is Jozefinska,’a German sentry nodded, pointing to the grim thoroughfare from which I’d retreated. ‘Number 37 down there on the left.’
If a musician were tasked with scoring a tour of Dante’s underworld, he could have done worse than wander two hundred metres along Jozefinska for inspiration: gun-shots, dogs barking, children wailing, the amplified stomp through glassless windows of boots on stairways, doors ripped from hinges, the constant call-and-response of German yelling and Yiddish screaming, interspersed with the occasional futile moan.
I Am Juden Page 26