The Use of Man

  20

  Sredoje Lazukić viewed the Occupation with the vindictive pleasure of a descendant viewing the corpse of his haughty ancestor. Yesterday’s circle of constraint, though he had not seen it then as constraint, was broken. Law and order were no more, because they were maintained by an invader with a machine gun across his chest and pale eyebrows and a frown beneath the rim of his steel helmet. Respect was no more: hunger and fear had destroyed it. Patriotism was no more: shame had made a mockery of it.

  Belgrade, the great metropolis, the capital described in school textbooks, the residence of the monarch for whom every Sunday prayers were said in church, was spread out before Sredoje like a junkyard. The surviving inhabitants poked around the still-smoking ruins, retrieving an undamaged picture, a chair in one piece, a jar of jam miraculously unbroken. Worried housewives, their shoulders hunched, roamed the marketplaces, which the peasants warily avoided, buying their food instead in doorways and alleyways at three times the normal price. The taverns were empty, as were the movie houses and the station waiting rooms, because word had got around that the Germans were seizing people at such places of assembly and putting them to work clearing the streets of rubble.

  People sat in their apartments, said nothing, sighed, looked out the windows, drank slivovitz from their meager reserves, and played cards without paying attention. They slept badly, cursed, ground their teeth. Hatred said they should have nothing to do with this gloomy, disrupted new life, but empty stomachs said to hell with hatred, and empty stomachs won. So the people came out, exposing themselves to police seizures and insults, and they observed the curfew, became accustomed to seeing the bodies of hanged men on Terazije Square, and breathed grateful sighs of relief when they reached home. They located the offices of the new authorities and submitted applications for identity cards and ration books. They submitted requests for work or to be given their old jobs back. They curried favor with those who had been the first to associate with the Germans and to gain their confidence. They began to learn German.

  Nemanja Lazukić and his son spent several days at the apartment of his old friend Spasoje Gigić, who was a tax assessor. In that time, Lazukić said almost nothing, opening his mouth only to sigh. Then he set off to make the rounds of those of his acquaintances in Belgrade who had family in Novi Sad, to try to get a message to his wife and learn about the situation there. He came back distraught, but more animated: On its arrival in the town, the Hungarian army had shot a hundred prominent Serbs. This confirmed his fears. But he had outwitted the enemy.

  In the houses where he had sought news, he met refugees like himself, men faced with the inevitability of starting a new life; they had need of his advice and even his help as a lawyer. He obtained a few papers for them, helped with two or three formalities in court, and for this received valuables from them in payment. In the evening, he discussed with Spaso and Spaso’s portly wife, Živana, who had problems with her legs, how to convert these articles into ready cash, because he wanted to relieve the couple of the burden of his and Sredoje’s keep, though for form’s sake they refused at first. Finally they established a number of contacts for him, and from then on the chain of transactions that led from legal services to money assumed a certain regularity. Then the chain shortened: watches, jewelry, and cameras could be used directly as barter, without the necessity of going to the Town Council and court offices. The lawyer became a pawnbroker.

  He got up later now, and stayed in the apartment virtually all day, since people in need brought their possessions to him, and he persuaded potential buyers to come as well. But all this clandestine traffic frightened Gigić’s sickly wife, and as a result of her remarks, tension grew between the old friends. Lazukić looked for a separate apartment for himself. By that time—September 1941—he had good connections in the new underworld of the Occupation; so he succeeded in moving into a bachelor apartment that belonged to an Industrial Bank partner who had been arrested. The place was on Dobrnjac Street, and the furniture was included in the bargain, massive, dark, carved pieces that filled the large single room with shadows. But Lazukić, in keeping with his new profession, which he had unexpectedly taken a great liking to, lowered the blinds halfway, and this made everything still darker.

  He would sit in an armchair behind the desk and, squinting dubiously to left and right, pull out the deep drawers and sift through the items to be sold: rings, gold chains, watches, cuff links, gold and silver brooches with precious and semiprecious stones, all jumbled together. He already had an exact record of every piece in his head, but liked to run them through his fingers. If anyone rang the doorbell, he would rapidly and noiselessly put everything back, lock the drawers, drop the keys into his trousers pocket, go to the door, and after a precautionary look through the peephole, let his customer in. He would cough pointedly in Sredoje’s direction, for him to leave, having no wish to involve the boy in any unpleasant consequences of this unauthorized commerce.

  At first Sredoje was reluctant to forsake the comfort of the apartment, especially in bad weather; and, each time, Lazukić had to bribe him with extra pocket money. With this bounty the young man roamed the streets of Belgrade, in search of the pleasures to which he had become accustomed in Novi Sad. But he had no idea where in Belgrade such pleasures were provided, and without friends his own age he had no way of finding out. So in his wanderings he kept his eyes open and followed his instinct on what direction to take. Sometimes this was decided for him when he saw a suspicious character, with a bundle under his arm, walking with a step as uncertain as his own; sometimes it was a woman in a short skirt, who, looking over her shoulder, suddenly ducked into a doorway; sometimes it was a group of men gathered in front of a tavern, which Sredoje would enter.

  As a rule, he would find himself in a small, gloomy room with a few bare tables and a counter, behind which the unshaven proprietor or his slovenly, bad-tempered wife was drying glasses and pouring drinks. Sredoje would sit down and wait patiently. Before long the door in the back would open, and a girl or a woman with heavily painted lips and cheeks, and that look of both indifference and questioning he knew so well, would walk in, neatening her hair. He would order another drink, light a cigarette (he had begun to smoke by then), and study the girl with care: her legs, breasts, neck, hips, and, from her movements and expression, her temperament. He sweated in indecision, afraid that if he approached her, she might laugh at him coarsely and turn him down, because Belgrade, after small, well-mannered Novi Sad, seemed aggressive and direct. Then the woman, at the first, barely perceptible, invitation, would sit at some other customer’s table, ready to drink, laugh, and allow herself to be pawed, allaying Sredoje’s fears when it was too late for him to take action. He continued to observe what went on at that table, noting every gesture, every wink, listening to every word, deriving a masochistic pleasure from the expertise of the other man, whom he envied and hated.

  More and more often, green uniforms made their appearance among the clientele; Sredoje watched these men with special curiosity. The German soldiers usually came in twos, stiffly, as if out of duty and not for enjoyment. From the doorway they saluted the room in general, took off their caps and placed them neatly on the rack, sat at an empty corner table, and ordered beer, which they took a long time drinking. Finally they called a woman to the table, and after coming to an agreement with her, more by gestures than by words, one of them went out with her while the other stayed to hold the table. Then they changed places. They were incredibly quick in the sexual act and obviously well organized: they didn’t get carried away, didn’t get drunk. When both were finished with the woman, they sat and finished their beer, talking together and nodding.

  Sredoje was fascinated. He admired them for being so sure of themselves, so composed, for being able to take their pleasure so deliberately, matter-of-factly, without fuss. But what really enchanted him was the thought that their being in this tavern, this evening, was transitory, that tomorrow they would be in another town,
or in a battle, and would be killed. Sredoje sensed that they would all die, for now the conflict with the vast Soviet Union had begun, and there was no doubt but that eventually Germany must go down in defeat. Yet this only increased his admiration for them: warriors condemned to death. He felt the need to talk to them, to offer his assistance in understanding what for them was an unfamiliar language, to make friends with them, and learn, from the horse’s mouth, where their strength of character came from. But he never approached them; that would have drawn upon him the hostility of his compatriots, who blinked at those uniformed intruders with an affability that masked the same contempt and hatred that they in turn inspired in Sredoje.

  In any case, Sredoje’s wish was soon fulfilled, and without any effort on his part, because the German soldiers—the officers, particularly—found out that articles of value could be bought “under the counter” from his father and began to come to Dobrnjac Street. At first the lawyer did not like to let them into the apartment, but his reluctance disappeared after several profitable deals. Since he spoke no German, on such occasions he did not dismiss Sredoje with a cough. Sredoje began to translate for his father: simple sentences that were easily repeated in the other language. “How much is it?” “Can you make it a little less?” “What else do you have?” But the lawyer was delighted with this modest demonstration of his son’s knowledge. Several months later, even after he had picked up enough of the language to bargain with the Germans himself, he still insisted on Sredoje’s presence. During the negotiations he would sit to one side, deep in the shadow, and from there, nodding his head in satisfaction, would watch and listen as his proposals and answers were turned into foreign words and finally into an agreement.

  His opinion of the Germans underwent a change. Sometimes, after a customer departed with a piece, having paid well, Lazukić would compare German gentlemanly largesse and Serbian tight-fistedness, occasionally going so far as to regret his earlier prejudice, for which— he maintained—the local Germans of Novi Sad were responsible; they were dull and small-minded, obviously degenerate, not like these “real” Germans.

  He took a special liking to Captain Dieter Waldenheim, who appeared on the scene as a buyer in the following year, 1942, shortly before the lawyer received the news that his wife, Sredoje’s mother, had been killed in Novi Sad during an air raid. The death of that meek woman, whose whole life was lived in the service of her family, lay between father and son for days, like a black cloud. They had given her too little in return for her devotion and, by leaving her, bore some of the blame for her death. Waldenheim sensed something wrong the moment he stepped into the apartment, where he was no longer a stranger, and asked what was the matter. Lazukić mumbled and waved his hand; Sredoje was silent. But Waldenheim, as he examined the articles the lawyer had set out on the table, asked again, until Sredoje, with no prompting from his father, blurted out what they had heard. Lazukić began to weep. Waldenheim, who was a lawyer, too, did not rise from his chair to express condolences or try to console them; he simply asked if the news was certain, then offered to find out the truth of the affair through his official contacts in Hungary. Lazukić, distressed, thanked him warmly, and after Waldenheim left, he even entertained the hope that by some miracle he would hear from the German that his wife was alive. But that was not to be. Two days later, a soldier rang the doorbell, saluted crisply, and delivered a folded piece of paper, on which was written, in tiny handwriting, in German: “The information has been verified and is unfortunately correct. Waldenheim.”

  The next time the captain put in an appearance, with no mention of the message or of what had passed between them, he was received as a family friend. He, too, felt this unmistakably and visited Lazukić more often, not only to see what was for sale and also to buy, which he did without haggling, and sometimes just to talk. He came with a bottle of slivovitz under his arm and a box of foreign cigarettes. He would take a comfortable position in the armchair, cross his legs, light a cigarette, and, sipping brandy from the glass Lazukić poured for him, ply his hosts with questions. What were they doing? What was new in the neighborhood? In the world of business? How did Sredoje occupy himself? Gradually, Waldenheim penetrated to their past—their life in Novi Sad, Lazukić’s career as a lawyer, and his politics. But he spoke little of himself, and when Lazukić reproached him for that, he laughed. “What you find out about me will be of no use to you. I am not a typical German. I do not drink beer. I do not carry with me a photograph of my wife and children; in fact, I have no wife and children.” And he went on to discuss the character of his countrymen, their habits, even their defects—above all, their coldness and arrogance. “We are still provincial,” he said. “We are not mature enough to rule. Instead of earning respect, we often arouse hatred through ill-considered actions.”

  It was Waldenheim’s view that the Germans should win the confidence of the people they had recently begun to rule by adapting themselves to the local ways of life. “Like the British,” he added. If the talk turned to the shooting of hostages and to arbitrary requisitions, he would sigh, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. He didn’t hide the fact that as an intelligence officer he had to take part in reprisals against the resistance movement, which was gaining ground in Serbia, and in an almost humble tone he begged his new friends not to take part in any disturbances, especially Sredoje, whose youth could easily lead him astray. Lazukić was touched by this expression of concern for them, but Sredoje laughed to himself, because in his wanderings in search of carnal pleasure it had never occurred to him to shoot at the Germans. He wondered if he should confide in Waldenheim, tell him of his secret love for Germans, but he never had the chance to be alone with him, and besides, he didn’t completely trust him. Even physically Waldenheim was different from the Germans Sredoje saw in the streets or in the remote taverns on the outskirts of town. Blond, stocky, and not particularly neat in his dress, with cigarette ash on the pockets of his creased jacket, he had a gentle, almost mocking smile, which played around his full lips and twinkled in his wide blue eyes. Whereas the other German officers and soldiers ignored the civilians in the streets, or kept their distance from them with a disgust they did not bother to conceal, the captain’s blue eyes, looking slightly misty, rested on Sredoje with warmth and attention. But somehow this acted as a warning instead of inspiring confidence.