Sequestered as Justyna and Marek are in their rural tranquillity, she wants you to know that the group will never lose touch with what is happening. They know that the mass killings you witnessed outside Lublin are spreading. Thanks to fearless couriers within the Jewish Quarter of Cracow, Justyna has learned this week of the deportations aktiza and subsequent murders in the death-camp of Auschwitz. In Paula and Cyla, the movement has lost two towers of strength who were expected to contribute significantly. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight. Several important leaders remain in the Jewish Quarter, including Simek, who confessed he once turned you away. He hopes you can return, to receive the welcome you are due. One knock on his door - then two - then another single knock.
This is a time of great and necessary momentum. Despite the most vicious setbacks, the organisation is flourishing. As of January 21st, the United Partisan Organisation was formed in the nerve centre of the Wilno. Their moto: We will not allow them to take us like beasts to the slaughter. It was believed to be the first movement of its kind, and has already spawned others, in Gebultow, in Warsaw, in Hipnitz. The commander in Wilno is known to you, Sacred Flame, and regards your position as one of great strategic importance. He asks that that you do not judge Simek too harshly, and reminds that once upon a time, you too were slow to heed the call to action.
Be that as it may. Deep in every heart, bringing us ever closer together, lay the yearning for vengeance, vengeance for our families taken to the death camps, for the wrongs and sufferings we ourselves had borne.
Sparks are now ready to ignite in every country. If a fire can be lit in one, the flames will sweep across Europe. You are one link in a chain of fire that will cleanse the world. You can only get rid of this evil by digging it out at the roots. Justyna promises that soon her agricultural tools will be gone from her shoulders, replaced with weapons to hurl into the fury of battle at your side. Her hands, once caked in fertile loam, will soon be soaked in blood.
36
That Sabbath I was shattered, having spent the day smuggling food into the Ghetto. I was dozing on the sofa when the knock came on my door. Nobody apart from Rudolf Ditzen bothered me of an evening, and tonight I was in no mood to listen to his theories about the phantom postcards. I lay there waiting for him to cross back to his apartment, but the knocking grew louder. After thirty seconds, it stopped. Ditzen must have got the message.
Padding across the carpet to turn out the light in case he returned, I saw a white square of paper on the carpet next to my boots. It had been pushed underneath the door.
I raced up, yanked the handle and peered round the frame. No sign of Ditzen. But at the other end of the corridor, a tall figure in a leather jacket and cream chequered trousers was about to descend the stairs.
I called out; he stopped.
‘Harry,’ Augustus Brühl cried, squinting into the darkness. ‘I’d given up on you.’
I bent down to grab the paper, a stiff white envelope, sealed, blank. No address, no message. But there was something inside, stiff like a card.
Brühl was walking towards me. ‘Be a sport, hand it over.’
‘Someone slipped it under my door.’
He unfurled his long fingers. ‘Don’t make me beg.’
‘It’s yours?’
‘I wrote a note, in case you were out.’ He plucked the envelope out of my hand. I watched it disappear inside his jacket.
‘A note about what?’
‘Oh for goodness sake, would it hurt you to act like a human being just once in a while. Invite me in. You’re outrageously sober for a Saturday night.’
‘I was asleep.’
He loomed up close and stared into my eyes, breathing whiskey fumes.
‘Let’s do something about that.’
I closed the door and followed him into the kitchen, where Brühl was slamming open my empty cupboards. I’d never seen him out of his uniform. Perhaps this was how the bright young things dressed nowadays. The leather jacket was crude enough, something a factory worker would wear, but it clashed so terribly with the plaid pants. I thought he was wearing a stocking over half his head, until he turned round, dangling a solitary teabag. It was a knitted hat, pulled down over one ear like a fascinator.
‘Don’t say this is all you’ve got to drink?’
‘Forgot to go shopping,’ I said. ‘I think there’s some of Erich’s corn brandy left in the fridge.’
‘Who’s Erich all of a sudden?’
‘My brother,’ I said. ‘You know, the dead one?’
‘Ouch. I deserved that.’
I found the brandy lolling at the back of the fridge in a pool of salad juice. The fat bottle was glazed red, a bratwurst with a diagonal white label at the top like the eye of Cyclops.
‘Juckemoller,’ I said, setting it down on the counter. ‘Any good?’
‘With a beer we could have boilermakers.’
‘If we had a beer.’
‘A Von Collins, then.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Cocktail. Lemon juice and sugar.’
‘I’ll try. Fancy some cold cuts?’
‘Good sport, wouldn’t mind a peck. I’m going to give myself the grand tour.’
‘Go ahead.’
Using a wooden chopping board as a tray, I assembled a bowl of sugar, the lemon and sausage, a chef’s knife, glasses and Juckemoller and carried them through to then living room.
Brühl was leaning on the edge of the table, admiring the Caravaggio.
‘Haven’t seen this beauty since I was at university,’ he said. ‘We took Fine Art in the first year.’
‘It’s Erich’s.’
I directed him to the armchair in the corner and took the sofa opposite, placing the tray on the table between us. Leaning forward, I poured two measures of brandy, stirred in a couple of spoonfulls of sugar, chopped the lemon and squeezed the juice.
I passed him a glass and a coaster. ‘Never made a Von Collins before. Don’t be too harsh.’
‘As if I would. Thanks.’
‘Cheers.’
He took a sip, smiled and leant back against the cushion, contemplating the painting again.
‘Do you know the story?’
‘Jesus and Judas?’
‘They say Hitler has the original stashed at the top of Berchtesgarden. Which is odd, when you think about it.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘The style’s so… modern. For the Führer. Doesn’t really fit with the style. Approved Art and all that nonsense.’
I nodded.
‘Caravaggio paints like Americans shoot crime films,’ he said, warming to his theme. ‘Gritty, here and now. Bible scenes from the street, the gutter. None of the bright classical sheen of a Raphael or a Michaelangelo.’
‘If you say so.’
I took the knife, cut some salami and pushed the board across to Brühl.
‘The faces in the crowd were all real people.’ He tossed back a slice and talked while he chewed. ‘Caravaggio’s friends and lovers. That Roman solider and the chap with his hand up on the left.’ He swallowed the last of the meat and clicked his tongue. ‘Was that beef salami?’
I nodded again.
He continued. ‘The same people crop up in most of Caravaggio’s paintings. The scum of the city – rogues, whores, rent boys.’
‘When I meet the Führer, I’ll be sure to warn him.’
‘Imagine. All that degeneracy, hiding in plain sight.’
Blanching, I managed to squeeze out a yawn.
‘I’m boring you with all my art history talk.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’m exhausted.’
‘What have you been doing all day?’
‘Working. I can’t keep up with all these arrests the SIPO keep making.’
‘Harry.’
‘I have no private life, it’s sad.’
‘Now we both know that’s not true.’
‘You flatter me.’
To keep b
usy, I leaned forward to cut more salami. I focussed on the knife until my hand stopped shaking.
Brühl said, ‘I stopped by at Jozefinska this afternoon. I left my gloves there. Didn’t see you though.’
‘I went for a wander.’
‘Like you did Christmas Day when I also missed you?’
‘That was different. I had my father in tow.’
‘Come off it. We both know what you were really up to then.’
‘Getting lost in a blizzard, as I recall.’
I pushed the salami board across the table, but Brühl raised his glass instead.
‘I know about the pecker-checker, too. Another fine story.’
I left Brühl’s slice untouched, but cut another for myself.
‘It all makes sense now.’ He lifted the glass to his lips. ‘I should have known, the first day I set eyes on you.’
The coaster had become stuck to the bottom, and fell off as it attained height, bouncing to his thigh and onto the carpet. He leaned over to pick it up, offering the bare nape of his neck.
***
After scrubbing myself clean, I found Julian Scherer’s card and called him at home. His wife answered.
‘We must have you over for dinner one of these days,’ she said.
‘Very kind.’
A piano was playing in the background. It stopped, then Scherer picked up the receiver.
‘Harry, I wondered how you were getting on.’
‘There’s been an accident.’
‘Christ, not Otto?’
‘No, father’s fine. I didn’t know who else to call.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I think it’s better if you could come over, sir.’
Twenty-five minutes later, Scherer’s Mercedes pulled up to the curb. He had driven himself, as I requested. No chauffeur. I met him outside the elevator. Short-sleeved shirt and cotton trousers and odd socks, I remember that when he took of his shoes. One blue, the other green. He looked healthier in loose-fitting clothes, less like a heart attack waiting to happen. Which was encouraging, for both of us.
We stopped in my hallway, before going further in.
‘He was already drunk when he turned up,’ I said. ‘I gave him brandy, which didn’t help.’
‘Who are we talking about, son?’
I opened the living room door. Augustus Brühl was sprawled in the middle of the floor on an island of sticky red newspaper.
I remember my hands tightening around the knife handle, lifting it back over my head and plunging down into the bare nape of his neck. Hitting spinal cord, the blade skidded into his carotid artery, spraying wet heat across my chin. Brühl sunk to his knees, gurgling, and fell chest first into the table, which collapsed under his weight. I ran to the kitchen and returned with an armful of newspaper to soak up the blood. He drowned in it, eventually. It takes a very long time for a man to die.
‘It was horrible,’ I said. ‘He tried to kiss me. We fought, I grabbed the knife.’
‘Good for you. The hell is he wearing? Jesus, what a disgrace.’
‘What am I going to do?’
‘Nothing.’ A small tip of tongue dabbed Scherer’s wet lips. ‘Go out for a drink. When you get back, all of this will be gone.’
‘Thank-you.’
‘ID.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Have you got his ID?’
‘I haven’t touched him.’
Scherer slid his shoes off, approached the body and patted down the pockets of the leather jacket. He pulled out a wallet and the white envelope Brühl had slipped under the door.
‘Know anything about this?’
‘No.’
He inserted a finger and sliced it open. Inside was a hand-drawn picture of a heart, pierced with an arrow. Scherer opened it and read the inscription. ‘Dear Harry, Be My Valentine.’
‘Valentine?’ I said.
‘The dirty bastard. It’s a stupid American tradition. February 14th.’ Scherer’s face soured. ‘Lover’s Day.’
‘Good God.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re not the first.’
‘I feel sick.’
‘He tried this on at New Year’s Eve, at the damned castle. They found him in a cubicle with one of the waiters. Absolutely no shame. Telephone?’
Behind me, he called a man called Muller, gave my address and hung up.
‘It’s Saturday night, you’re out having fun. Stop off at a few bars, make conversation. Go back to some girl’s place and screw her brains out for all I care. Tomorrow’s a new day.’
***
When I came home at midnight, it was like nothing had ever happened.
Scherer’s men had even taken the broken sticks of coffee table and scrubbed the living room carpet.
37
At work the next day, I sat opposite an empty desk. Nobody asked me where Brühl was. I don’t think anybody cared.
Two Gestapo inspectors arrived after lunch, and went straight on up to Wilhelm Kunde. They stayed for no more than ten minutes. Rottenführer Ritschak telephoned immediately afer they left and summoned me to the office. It was the only other time I’d been there since my first day.
A brewery driver had discovered Augustus Brühl’s body behind the notorious Michael’s Cave nightclub in the town centre. His throat had been cut, but the weapon was not found. From Brühl’s clothing, leather jacket and a woman’s hat and trousers, he had been consorting with homosexuals. He had brought disgrace upon the regiment. I was to be in charge of training his replacement in the department for Civil Affairs. Our Spokesman for Jewish Matters, Untersturmführer Karl Mende, would begin his new duties in the morning.
At least now Brühl’s death was public knowledge, I didn’t have to hide my shock. There was little sympathy from the rest of the office. Mende stopped by with his ever-present copy of Der Stürmer to size up his new desk, but offered no words of condolence. He ordered two Jewish ODs to take Brühl’s chair out to the courtyard, where it was chopped up for firewood. Brandt was an overweight man slightly older than myself, with a face only a mother could love, always puckered, and permanent bags under his eyes. His right eye was smaller than his left, or else he kept it in a permanent squint, as if straining to see. After Brühl, and possibly myself, Mende was the least popular man in the office.
I moped around for another couple of hours and left early. Before I went, I took a blank ledger from my desk drawer and, making sure nobody was watching, tucked it into my satchel.
***
The study of language ruled my life before the war began, but I’d barely looked at a book since, much less composed anything more substantial than a short letter. I hated words because I’d seen how the Nazis employed them as a cover for evil, and was guilty of doing so myself. I despised words for they could never hope to express the emotion tormenting my people. And yet, my desire to write was now as strong as the revulsion I felt.
It had taken the death of one man to bring to this, and a Nazi at that. Like them, I had murdered in cold blood. I could never forgive myself.
The war had taken everything. Words were now all I had left.
I sat in the armchair with the ledger on my lap, staring at the first blank page. It was less terrifying than looking at the recently scrubbed carpet at my feet.
Where should I begin?
In Vilno?
In Kiel?
The foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, where I first came into consciousness, aged four?
I decided to start at the very beginning, the earliest memories passed down to me, my mother’s childhood in the Pale of Russia at the tail-end of the nineteenth century.
When Elena was one year old, rioters drove her family out of their home village. The government blamed the Jews themselves for exploiting the masses, who were now - quite justifiably - fighting back. The following year, Jews were officially forbidden from settling in any rural areas, or from buying property.
When Elena Shapiro was three, thousands o
f illegal Jews were rounded up by the police and expelled…
38
At the beginning of March, all Jews were ordered to appear at the Judenrat offices for registration, where they were issued with special identity cards. It was The Department of Civil Affairs’ task to review the daily lists with Symche Spira’s informants, cross-referencing each name for known associates of Jewish criminals, updating our records accordingly.
Each day brought approximately five hundred new names. On average, I processed four-fifths of them, while Karl Mende might have put his newspaper down for long enough to do a hundred. If Mende had been as dedicated to his job as he was to Der Stürmer’s back pages, we would have finished the job in half the time. His inefficiency was an office joke. Mende was typical of the Nazis I’d seen rise to prominence : starting as an unknown groom in cologne, he’d gone on to achieve a modicum of success as a jockey, where he’d fallen under the patronage of Werner Rahm, a horse fancier and old comrade of Heinrich Himmler. Because of that, Mende was now unassailable. He often met Rahm in town for lunch, which meant he’d be gone for the rest of the day. These appointments were the highlight of my week.
To give the man his due, Mende wasn’t just lazy, but brilliantly imaginative in his work avoidance. Often he’d toss a whole ream of Judenrat forms my way, because ‘the letters were too small’. Most Fridays he’d put his feet up, claiming to have forgotten his reading glasses, then hide behind his newspaper for the rest of the day. The chutzpah, as my mother would say.
One afternoon he came back from lunch pushing a handcuffed Jewish boy he’d caught climbing through a hole in the wall with a bag of potatoes. Mende dumped the boy in my desk, told me to do the paperwork, then lurched away to the bathroom. Five minutes later, when I was leading the boy to the cells, we passed Mende in the courtyard, tossing grain to the chickens and clucking like an imbecile.
I Am Juden Page 37