‘On whose orders?’ asked the other man, who was wearing a faded Lithuanian army uniform.
‘What do you mean, on whose orders?’ replied Vincentas, confused.
‘On whose orders are you photographing?’
‘Nobody gave me orders,’ he replied. ‘These are historic days. I want to immortalize them.’
‘Are you a Jew?’
‘I’m a photographer. I take pictures.’
The rest of the men had approached to check out the unexpected photographer.
The rapist stood up, slowly buttoned his trousers, pulled out his pistol and looked angrily at Vincentas, his eyes so strange that Vincentas’s anus clenched up in fear. Still staring at Vincentas, the man suddenly aimed his pistol towards the ground and shot the girl as she lay there. She had not had time to cover herself up, so she was left with her legs spread, naked up to her waist, her dead eyes staring at the lilac bush that had long since bloomed.
‘I’ll immortalize you, you communist whore,’ said the man, approaching Vincentas. He was bigger and taller than the others, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, a few days’ stubble sprouting on his cheeks. ‘Why are you wasting your time with him?’ he angrily upbraided his accomplice. He punched the photographer in the face, took his camera. The historic days had turned into a nightmare. They could have shot him on the spot.
From the first time Vincentas saw him he thought of the SS officer as the Artist. He did not yet know anything about the man but could tell intuitively that the German took a lot of care over his appearance. Perfectly cut clothes, a small, almost delicate build, a distinct profile, somewhat angular but graceful movements. He simply liked to look good, and he knew that he did.
It was he who had ordered that the arrested men be brought in. The Russian stood by the formation, looking haggard: in his underwear, emaciated, with several days’ beard growth. He was smiling slightly, and not just any old way but with contempt. But it was probably the concussion. Vincentas wasn’t sure how he looked himself but doubted whether it was any better than the Russian officer.
The officer in charge of the partisans gave a command, but the SS officer revoked it. Apparently, execution was not his intention. He slowly circled the Russian prisoner, inspecting him up and down, then turned away from him and waved his hand back in his direction.
‘Clothes are not natural accessories for animals,’ said the SS officer. ‘And man does not merely use clothes to protect himself from the cold. Over time they have become part of his identity. He fuses psychologically with his clothes, they complement him, are an extension of him, they provide not only warmth but an illusory sense of security, a space between his exterior and the imaginary borders of his personal territory. Undress him.’
Two of the partisans quickly ripped off the man’s clothes so that the Russian officer now stood completely naked. Before he had stood erect, had looked almost scornfully at the SS officer, but now he gradually became hunched and covered his groin with his hands, his eyes fixed on the ground.
‘Do you see what a marked difference that makes?’ continued the German officer, in the voice of a fascinated, curious researcher. ‘Stripped of his clothing, an individual will also lose some of his confidence, especially if he is before others who are clothed. Therefore, if you want to gain the upper hand, undress your opponent, take away his ability to hide – and I am not only talking about clothes. Take away his family, his hope, his future, his sustenance and so on – what is most important is that he be unable to hide. Then you will defeat him.’
The SS officer gracefully pulled out his revolver, took a step forward and shot the Russian prisoner in the back of the head.
The prisoner crumpled noiselessly, simply collapsed on the spot where he had been standing. The lecture was over.
Vincentas was struck by the grace of the German’s movement. The SS officer had pulled out his gun as though it were a sword, a rapier in a contest that could have only one victor.
He remembered the young Russian cavalryman who had waved his sword so gallantly and then disappeared around a corner, leaning helplessly back in his saddle, most likely already dead.
His bowels filled with a cement-like weight. A feeling of cold froze his breast, spine and thighs so that if someone had knocked into him he would have shattered into pieces. His mind was empty. The image of some strange glass figurines he had seen the previous Christmas near the Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul flashed in front of him. The sun shone, people sauntered past with hot breath steaming from their mouths, while the figures, which represented the Holy Family, sparkled as if cast in silver.
They stood him against a wall and blindfolded him. He had not slept all night, had imagined that if they should want to blindfold him he would ask them not to, but now he said nothing. As much as he had tried to convince them that he was not a communist agent, no one had listened to him. When he had demanded to be taken to the commander they had laughed. At first he had thought that it was all a joke, but then was overcome by horror at the thought that it is possible to kill a man for fun and that in wartime no one cares, no one will ask how or why. Or for what.
Then he heard the German commander’s voice ordering that his blindfold be removed. Which was better than being stripped naked.
‘Of what are you accusing this man?’ asked the German.
‘Of working for the communists.’
The German nodded. Then addressed him. ‘Why do they call you “the Photographer”?’
‘Because I am a photographer. Before the war I had begun to work in a studio.’
‘Do you know anything about artistic photography?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any photographs?’
‘I do.’
‘Did you learn to speak German in school?’
‘My mother taught me.’
‘She is German?’
‘No.’
‘Jewish?’
‘She is a singer. And a dancer. A former one.’
‘That sounds very Jewish.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how Jews dance.’
‘Is it true that you are a Bolshevik agent?’
‘These days truth is in the hands of whoever holds the biggest weapon.’
Somehow the conversation with the German was having a calming effect on Vincentas.
The German once again looked him up and down. ‘Come and see me this evening at this address. Be sure to bring some of your photographs.’
And he handed him a slip of paper with an address.
And then it all ended very suddenly. He had felt as though his bowels were full of bloody Christmas icicles, but now the joy of an Easter morning flooded his breast. His knees were buckling, he longed to collapse and bury his head in something soft. In Judita’s breast. But he tried not to show any emotion. Especially not to those bastards who had been ready to blow his brains out.
Jokūbas the Elder, the same tall, heavyset man who had raped the girl in front of him and then cold-bloodedly shot her, approached him and whispered angrily in his ear, ‘Get this into your head, you piece of shit. I don’t like you. I don’t care that the German is standing up for you, that he wants to make you his slut. Just understand one thing – I’m watching you! Sooner or later you’ll slip up, you’ll make a mistake. You’ll try to show off, contact your people, get away. Just one slip, and I’ll strangle you with these very hands, you filthy Bolshevik. Just one slip!’
NIGHT WATCH
He was assigned to stand guard by some kind of warehouse on Daukšos Street. The battalion was in the process of being put together, and Vincentas showed no enthusiasm about serving in it, but Jokūbas the Elder had made sure that he would be part of it. I’ll make a man out of you, he had said, and if you get up to any bullshit, you’re done for. Vincentas did not quite understand what ‘a man’ meant in Jokūbas the Elder’s lexicon, but it was clearly nothing good. So he stood by the building, not knowing what it contained, maybe timber or bricks, without a wea
pon. Only his partner Tadas was armed; Vincentas’s sole means of defence was an armband with the letter T.
‘What’s the point of guarding this warehouse? No one’s going to rob it,’ he said to Tadas a few hours later, by which time it had become deathly boring loitering on a street corner and staring at the occasional passer-by with their suitcases, straw hampers and bundles, lost and frightened and looking around them.
‘Jokūbas the Elder warned me to keep a close eye on you.’
‘And what else did he say?’
‘That you’re a provocateur. Are you a provocateur?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Only after you,’ said Tadas, adjusting his weapon on his shoulder. ‘Some of the others were assigned to guard the water-supply station at Eiguliai – we could be riding around on bicycles – or the ammunition and military warehouse, or the radio station. But here it’s just furniture – dirty Jewish and communist furniture.’
Tadas ordered him to look around carefully so he didn’t miss any uniformed government representatives, while he himself observed the passers-by. He finally picked out an elderly Jewish couple. The man and woman were dragging two heavy suitcases each.
‘Come here,’ Tadas said to them, waving his rifle. ‘Over here, by the wall.’ He led the husband and wife further away along the warehouse wall and ordered them to open the suitcases.
The husband wanted to obey the order, but the woman suddenly protested, ‘You have no right to act like some thug. Why should we show you what’s in our suitcases? Who are you anyway?’
‘I …’ Tadas faltered, blushed and glanced at Vincentas, who turned up his palms helplessly, and then Tadas cocked his rifle, shoved the muzzle next to the man’s mouth and snarled, ‘Open it, you piece of shit!’
The man opened his mouth, and Tadas stuck the muzzle into it. Vincentas heard the metal knock against the man’s teeth.
‘What was that?’ he said, turning to the stunned woman. ‘I can’t hear you! What did you say, you old slut? Say it again, you old hag, say it again. What did you say? What am I?’
The woman did not say a word and opened the suitcases, staying by them.
‘Turn away! Face the wall! Faster!’ ordered Tadas, and he bent over the suitcases. He rummaged through the couple’s belongings, pulling out shirts, underwear, tossing them right on to the pavement. People walking past glanced into the alley without saying anything, only quickening their steps.
‘Get out of here!’ shouted Tadas, and the couple quickly packed up their things and disappeared down the alley.
Tadas came up to Vincentas and showed him a watch, a coffee mill, a Zeiss Ikon camera and a several tins of food.
‘Want some tinned food?’ he asked.
Vincentas was hungry. His stomach felt like a bottomless pit after the hours of standing; he even felt a bit nauseous. But he shook his head. He thought that this tinned food would make him feel worse.
‘Who took my camera?’ he asked Tadas.
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Jokūbas the Elder was in charge of the group that arrested you. They probably sold it and split the money.’ He turned the camera he had stolen from the Jews in his hands. ‘How much would I get for it in the market?’
Vincentas did not have any money. Nor did he have a camera. He did not want to ask Tadas to give it to him for free. Maybe out of timidity, or because of the scene he had just witnessed: the image of the couple being robbed.
THE ARTIST
‘Have you ever seen a severed head?’ He paused, then without waiting for an answer, clarified, ‘More precisely – the process of separating the head from the body? Of course you haven’t.’
He had just been silently looking over a stack of Vincentas’s photographs, which included several nudes of Judita. He had brought them to show the German but now regretted doing so. When he saw those photographs in the SS officer’s hands he suddenly realized that had wanted to show off to him, that there would have to be some compensation for the image that the German had seen: Vincentas powerless, crushed, condemned. In bringing the photographs of his naked lover he had evidently wanted to prove that he, too, had some worth, that he was a man – a man before whom a beautiful woman would bare herself. But when he observed the German perusing the nudes he began to feel even worse, even more pathetic and demeaned. And the SS officer spent more time looking at his lover’s body than at the other photographs.
‘A pig,’ Vincentas finally said.
‘A pig?’ replied the German, surprised. ‘What about a pig?’
‘I have seen a pig’s head being cut off.’
The officer laughed. ‘That would be a vulgar brand of naïvety, no? How different Christian iconography would be if instead of John the Baptist’s head on the platter it had been a pig’s. It would be playful, but weak. Although, if we’re thinking about the origins of Christianity …’ The German fell silent for a moment and then began to laugh loudly. ‘That would certainly be a swinish, a truly swinish prank!’
When he finally calmed down, he stood, moved to the door and turned around.
‘Would you like some coffee? Or something stronger?’
Vincentas nodded. He would like everything. He would have some cognac and then press three grenades against his stomach and blow himself to pieces.
‘I’ll trust you to choose,’ he added politely.
The officer left. Vincentas looked around. The SS officer had established himself in a spacious five-bedroom apartment. Its previous residents had clearly been wealthy. The apartment was furnished with expensive furniture, a solid round table with five chairs stood in the drawing-room; there were tall, wide windows, not less than thirty square metres of woven carpet, and the office to which the German led him contained a small, polished Empire table and a three-seater sofa covered in green silk. Only one detail of the apartment was unusual: every single wall was covered with paintings. In the office almost all of the paintings depicted a decapitated head. Vincentas was not an expert on biblical subjects, but that was exactly what they showed: Saint John the Baptist’s head on a platter.
‘An interesting collection, don’t you think?’ he heard the SS officer say from the doorway.
Vincentas nodded and went back to his place at the table. The officer was followed by his aide, who carried a silver tray reminiscent of similar items in some of the paintings he’d just been looking at, only this tray held not the prophet’s bloody head but two cups, a coffee pot and a sugar bowl.
When the aide left, the officer took a sip of coffee and began to speak. ‘Beheadings and other subjects exist in art for a number of reasons. One is to present a particular story that matters to the artist, to viewers, the society and audiences of that time. A simple purpose – to present a story, a narrative.’
Vincentas picked up his coffee cup, breathed in its aroma deeply and put it back on the table. Coffee like that had become hard to find lately. The officer looked at him in silence, as though expecting some kind of reaction.
‘Hmm,’ he mumbled. ‘Stories … should they entertain the viewer or … ?’ He did not know what more to say. He had never looked at paintings as stories. In truth, until then he had had little interest in paintings.
The SS officer perked up. It seemed that it was enough for him that someone was listening to what he said. ‘Not necessarily. For instance, Giotto’s fresco cycles, which depicted the story of Christ’s life – such narratives introduced people to certain events. You’ve heard tell of the Poor Man’s Bible? They were paintings for ignorant, illiterate people. They would come to church, see paintings of the saints – characters from the Scriptures about whom they had heard from their parish priest, and the characters would be familiar. In effect, churches, temples and other places of worship were the equivalent of today’s cinemas. In that sense, if we’re referring to the Renaissance or the Enlightenment, the artist was fulfilling a fundamental desire, or duty, to tell a story. And that is not related to the specifics of art. History or stories ar
e told by art, cinema, literature and, of course, works of music. In addition, different narratives offer different possibilities for one or another artistic genre to display its tools, to demonstrate its language, its capabilities. If we’re looking at beheading, it’s a desire to tell the stories of Judith and Holofernes, Salome and John the Baptist, David and Goliath. They are all stories, and people like to tell stories, do they not?’
The German looked at him reproachfully, as though perhaps he did not like to tell stories.
Vincentas shrugged. ‘I don’t know, perhaps. I’m not very good at it myself. Maybe I don’t have enough experience. One would need to have something to tell.’
Darkness and Company Page 5