‘White rolls are reserved for the Germans,’ Vincentas said in justification.
Aleksandras nodded and sniffed the half-loaf.
‘The whole time I have felt that Judita has a shadow,’ he said, breaking the bread.
‘I don’t know what shadow you’re talking about.’
‘Really?’ he looked at Vincentas. ‘But Judita is living with another man, no? I think she had been seeing him for a long time, even before the war. Of course, we disagreed about certain things …’
‘I thought that you had gone east,’ said Vincentas, hoping to divert the conversation away from Judita, if only briefly.
‘Without my wife? Surely you don’t think that I would have run by myself and left her here?’
‘Well, whatever happened, you disappeared …’
‘We’d had a very bad fight that day. I suggested that we run, and she stubbornly refused to go to Russia. I went into the city. I wandered the streets for a long time, then I was caught by those shits, the partisans, the white armbands … They almost beat me to death. They threw me in the river, but by some miracle I survived …’ Aleksandras bit off a larger chunk of bread and chuckled. ‘Alive! I lay unconscious for a few days in someone’s house, and when I came to they told me that Judita had gone, that she was no longer in our apartment, that new people were living there. And I didn’t even have to move anywhere. I was already in the ghetto zone. The shoemaker Šlimanas and his family had pulled me from the river, from the otherworld. Maybe without good reason? Who knows. That is the whole story. And you? Have you seen Judita? How is she? A work crew recently saw her in the city. She was asking about me.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen her … The situation is this, that –’
‘I miss her. I don’t have a single photograph. I once managed to sneak out into the city, but the new residents would not let me in; the woman said that there were no personal effects left, that they had thrown everything out.’
Vincentas was on tenterhooks. He regretted having come. He didn’t know what he had expected from this meeting. It felt like self-inflicted torture.
‘Do you remember how, before the war, I told you about Kafka’s Metamorphosis?’ asked Aleksandras, breaking the silence.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Vincentas, shaking his head.
‘We had gone on an excursion, we were drinking wine, sitting on the grass, outside the city, and I was telling you about a man who turned into an insect.’
‘Ah, yes,’ nodded Vincentas. Warm memories of those days flooded his chest – Judita’s bare arms, warm, caring, protective, loving.
‘It was a story about a man who woke up one morning and realized that he had turned into an insect. That is exactly what happened to me. I woke up one morning and realized that I had turned into an insect.’
‘When they pulled you out of the river?’
‘The river …’ smiled Aleksandras. ‘It is the river of death. It separates the living from the dead. Did you give the guard something?’
‘A cigarette,’ said Vincentas.
‘You see? Now you have entered the land of the dead. Look around – this is what the world looks like after death. You have been given an opportunity; you are like Odysseus visiting the kingdom of the dead. But I’m not talking about the river, I’m talking about the ghetto, about the prison that the executioners forced us to construct around us with our own hands. Do you know how many people used to live here? Maybe about seven thousand. But thanks to the Nazis about thirty thousand are crammed in here now. There are thousands of us here – thousands of pathetic insects. Each one is allocated six square metres. Not much bigger than a grave. But does an insect need any more than that? Professors, scientists, lawyers, doctors, artists, grandparents and children – we have all become insects here. Do you know what the hardest thing is?’
Vincentas looked around uncomfortably, as though thousands of insects were swarming around him. ‘I’d rather not guess.’
Aleksandras said nothing.
He died on the cross, descended into hell, appeared for a moment in Vincentas’s head. Not Odysseus but Christ. Odysseus was concerned with personal matters, he wanted to return home to his wife. Christ went to the sinners in order to redeem them, to give them hope. Odysseus or Christ – is that the only choice there is in this life?
‘You still think like a human, even though you turned into an insect a long time ago,’ Aleksandras was saying. ‘And people see you as an insect, they treat you like an insect, and there you are still thinking like a human. They give you insect food, and you grumble because you want human food; they tell you to live under the sofa, to crawl into a cave, a crack, to skulk in the damp and the dark, but you want light, you want warmth, you want space. This incongruity is the most awful part of it all.’
‘It will all have to end someday,’ said Vincentas, hardly believing the words himself.
‘Yes, there are fewer and fewer of us. I think it will definitely end. And what is even stranger – more horrible – is that the mind slowly begins to adapt, and you slowly start to think like an insect, you are no longer tormented by emotions, sentiments, cultural needs, the only thing that remains important is to survive. Just like an insect you try to nick a little piece of mouldy cheese, a bite of rotten apple, and you are no longer ashamed of your insect body, your insect state; you are happy that even in the situation you’re in you are still able to find some pleasures – memories of Judita, for example. Now that I know she is alive, and she knows that I’m alive, we will meet, and everything will be fine … I believe that, and that faith warms me. Faith – the most patient warmth there is, and the one that burns most painfully.’
Vincentas watched as Aleksandras stuffed the bread in his mouth, how he gathered the crumbs, and it looked to him that the man sitting opposite him did indeed resemble an insect. A repellent, disgusting insect. And such an insect, such an unpleasant creature will crawl all over Judita’s body, over Judita’s incredible body, that body which now and for ever had to belong to him, to Vincentas.
Vincentas did not know if it was the best idea, but he decided to show Aleksandras some photographs of Judita. The kind that he would not have shown anyone else. At first Aleksandras looked them over distractedly, almost as if he did not recognize her. Then again, and again.
‘She looks well,’ he said finally. ‘So it is you, then. Are you working for them? You’re a policeman, a white armband? She’s living with a Nazi henchman? Tell me!’
‘I … It doesn’t matter, it just happened that way.’
‘I thought we were friends. And behind my back you were plotting an affair with my wife.’
Vincentas wanted to get away from there as fast as he could. He had had only one thing in mind in coming to the ghetto – to show Aleksandras photographs of his naked wife. He had not thought about what would come next. He imagined that the photographs would automatically resolve everything, without words even. And now he was at a total loss for words. Before the war they had met only a few times, then the Soviets came and Aleksandras had thrown himself into his artistic activities – no, they were not close friends. They were just acquaintances.
‘For a long time?’ asked Aleksandras.
‘You were busy building socialism,’ Vincentas muttered. When the Reds came the concert halls had opened up to Aleksandras, and he had received numerous commissions, put together an orchestra, played on the radio, made recordings, planned to write – maybe even wrote – an opera. Judita had felt lonely.
‘She felt lonely,’ said Vincentas. ‘It’s not her fault. It’s not only her fault.’
Aleksandras suddenly grabbed the remaining piece of bread and threw it in Vincentas’s face. An insect, a real insect.
Vincentas understood that it was time to go.
‘It’s you – you insect!’ Aleksandras spat out through clenched teeth. ‘You and all those like you. You have taken away our homes, our women, our children, but it’s you, you insects, you look like humans, but inside e
ach one of you lives an insect with no conscience or honour, which cares only about satisfying the most primitive instincts – to feed and reproduce and kill all those who are not like you!’
Vincentas retreated slowly towards the door; Aleksandras remained seated at the table, facing away from him. His shoulders shook, and it looked like he was either crying or his entire body was seething with fury.
‘I will still find her!’ Aleksandras shouted in a pained, high voice without turning around. ‘She’s my wife, mine!’
Vincentas left in silence. He could feel his cheeks burning in distress and shame. The soldier escorting him asked, ‘Do you want me to take care of that problem?’
‘Which problem?’
‘You’re screwing his wife, right? What is she – a Lithuanian, a German? She’s not a Jew, right?’
‘No,’ mumbled Vincentas. ‘And how would you take care of it?’
‘No person, no problem.’
‘No person?’
‘Well, we’re talking about a Jew.’
‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. Everything’s fine.’
‘Up to you. I wouldn’t charge much.’
Vincentas hesitated. When he realized that the pause had gone on too long he asked quietly, ‘How much?’
MORTA AND MARIJA
He was already walking towards the gates when he met Jokūbas the Younger, who was carrying some boxing gloves.
‘Mr Photographer, what are you doing here?’
‘I was visiting a friend.’
‘Is it true that you’re a Jew, like Jokūbas the Elder says? Or maybe you have a girlfriend here? Do you like Jewish girls? They say that all the communist big shots marry Jewish girls – is that true?’ Jokūbas the Younger asked mockingly. ‘Let’s go. Our boys are organizing a boxing match.’
Vincentas did not want to go but could not quickly come up with an excuse not to. ‘OK, just for a bit.’
‘Well, we’ll see how it goes. Some are shorter, some are longer,’ laughed Jokūbas the Younger.
For a while they walked in silence.
‘The guard at the gate said something about peeling potatoes,’ said Vincentas. ‘He asked for a cigarette and then … about peeling potatoes.’
‘You still don’t know what that means?’ asked Jokūbas the Younger in surprise.
Vincentas shook his head. Jokūbas the Younger stopped and made an obscene gesture with his hands, thrusting his pelvis back and forth.
‘Here’s what it means,’ nodded Jokūbas the Younger. ‘You know, now it’s not at all the same … At the beginning of the war, at the Seventh Fort, that’s where we stripped them good – that’s where we had some fun. You could pick up as many gold watches, chains, earrings, brooches, medallions, wedding rings as you wanted. They hid everything, of course, but when you stick a hose down a woman’s throat … You get it.’
Jokūbas the Younger was short and thin, with pronounced cheekbones, eyes close together and a long pointed nose – in the twilight he looked like an animal, perhaps a ferret or a stoat.
‘There were about a thousand Jewish women there … We went around and picked out the best ones … it was dark, you shine your flashlight, you check that the face doesn’t look like a rag, we were drinking before that, but a pretty woman is a pretty woman, then you take her to the next room … Boy, did we have some fun. Sure, some of them kicked a lot, had to kill them, but that was some night … a perfect night.’
‘The St Bartholomew’s Day massacre …’
‘What?’ asked Jokūbas the Younger, surprised. ‘Why?’
Fairy tales on the bookshelf, toy soldiers, a rag reeking of lime covering the face.
‘No, nothing. Baltramiejus, was he there, too?’
‘Baltramiejus?’ Jokūbas the Younger was surprised. ‘I can’t remember. He probably was. Most of us were.’
They approached a building that looked like a warehouse. A dim lamp hung from the ceiling. Several dozen men, most of whom Vincentas recognized, were sitting on benches, boxes, rickety chairs and stools. A space had been left clear in the middle of the room.
‘Finally. What took you so long?’ They heard Jokūbas the Elder’s irritated voice.
‘Here,’ said Jokūbas the Younger, holding up the boxing gloves. ‘The parasite didn’t want to give them to me. He got some knuckles in the face.’
A man he had never seen before led two young Jewish women in from the recesses of the room. They were quite sturdy, wearing only shorts and undershirts, like they were about to play basketball. Their sporty appearance clashed with their bright make-up. Two whores who had decided to get some exercise. The girls moved lethargically, as if they were dizzy from medication, alcohol or drugs. Since Vincentas had spotted Andriejus among the spectators that wouldn’t be a surprise. If required he could supply Stalin’s entire army with his special powder.
The man pulled the boxing gloves on to the girls’ hands and shoved them into the makeshift ring.
‘Come on, you whores, box!’ shouted Jokūbas the Younger, and the girls reluctantly started to punch each other. ‘Listen up,’ he continued, ‘place your bets. In the red shorts we have Stalin; in the brown, Hitler!’
He sent a hat around, the shouting and laughing men placed their bets on the boxing girls and two more girls, naked to the waist, walked between the seated men offering snacks. As well as the hat, alcohol and cocaine were circulating, too.
The girls slowly got into it and hit each other more and more violently with their gloved fists. The intoxicated spectators urging them on, Jokūbas the Younger shouting loudest of all.
‘The winner gets everything; the loser, nothing!’
Jokūbas the Elder was sitting with all the rest, but he neither shouted nor laughed. He watched the boxing girls glumly, taking pulls from a bottle that he kept between his feet.
Andriejus leaned towards Vincentas. ‘Our spiritual leader had an unpleasant adventure,’ he said gesturing with his head in Jokūbas the Elder’s direction.
Vincentas shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. What adventure?’
‘He was walking home from a restaurant, at night, with a girl, and he met a couple of Germans. He saluted, appropriately, but they still socked him in the face. You know how Jokūbas the Elder isn’t a pushover – he gave it back to them. A patrol officer appeared immediately and dragged him to the station. The Germans made fun of his documents, called him a Jew-killer and, according to witnesses, he said, now you’re butchering the Jews, next you’ll be butchering us. That kind of thing. Then they let him go. The Gestapo returned his confiscated things – from what I hear the Germans want to smooth it over – but Jokūbas the Elder won’t let it lie; he’ll make a complaint.’
Vincentas said nothing, but he found the fact that a German soldier had punched Jokūbas the Elder in the face somehow gratifying.
The topless girls walked around offering food. He looked at their breasts and could not avoid thinking about Judita, about the afternoon he saw her like that for the first time – naked, holding a juicy plum in her hand, unbelievably attractive, simply radiating eroticism, then the image before him began to blend, to flow, and again he had the strange feeling that he was seeing everything from the side, as though he were not there himself but that his double, a shadow in the kingdom of shadows, was watching the girls beating each other up, Stalin was doing better than Hitler, her breasts were bigger, her punches more fierce, and he saw the girls sitting in the next room, and the men with those girls, and he was not at all surprised that he was one of those very men, and he asked one of the girls, is your name Morta, do you have a sister named Marija, there she is sitting by Our Lord’s feet, by Jokūbas the Elder’s feet, and is listening to His words, and you, Morta, you’re running around and fussing, and you ask why the Lord doesn’t care, why he leaves you to do all the work, why he doesn’t tell Marija to help you, and the Lord replies, Morta, Morta, you worry and suffer over many things, but they are all worthless because only one thing is ne
eded from you, while Marija chose the better fate, one that will not be taken away from her, Vincentas saw Marija, she was caressing Jokūbas the Elder’s prick with her mouth, why are you killing us, asks Marija, why do you hate us, and she looks at Jokūbas the Elder with big, pure eyes, I was pulled from under a pile of corpses, says Jokūbas the Elder, I was supposed to die right at the beginning of the war, I was shot by Jewish commissars, said Jokūbas the Elder, and he struck Marija across the face, and she cried and still continued to pleasure him and then more men appeared in the room, they all wanted Morta to do the same to them, and Morta tried to please them all, but Marija was just Jokūbas the Elder’s, then someone brought in the boxers, their breasts as big and firm as boxing gloves, and some bearded old man from the ghetto security force was talking about how when he shoots Jewish women he aims for the left nipple, when he shoots a man he aims for the belly button, but with women at the nipple, said the old man, that’s bullshit, someone interrupted, no, it isn’t bullshit, argued the old man, I want to preserve their healthy skin, why should the skin be damaged, skin is a good thing, the Germans make all sorts of nice little things out of it, laughed the old man, a hideous, drunken oaf, the kind that shoots people in the back, shoots them lying down, shoots invalids, children, they don’t need breasts, they don’t need …
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