Darkness and Company

by Sigitas Parulskis

  And again that day, the day he saw her for the first time, the plum juice on her dark nipple, a target for a bullet, and she is standing by the pit, shivering from the cold, from the lewd, hungry expressions of the drunken men, and she, Judita, is trying to cover her breasts, her nipples, with her hands so that the hideous bearded old man wearing a sheepskin coat girded with a wide leather belt could not see where to shoot, and then it was as though he had awoken from a trance, had come to and seen where he really was, although he would have difficulty saying what that ‘really’ means, and Jokūbas the Younger was ramming a pistol against Morta’s head and shouting, ‘Move, and I’ll blow your brains out! The train races forward, only forward!’ and she wasn’t planning to turn to the side, she was moving rhythmically, it did, in fact, look like an engine racing, Matas was smoking a cigarette, his mind had long since sunk into a dark bog, he took one last puff and stuck the cigarette’s glowing eye into the door of the engine’s firebox, you Jewish girls, you’re so hairy, even your arseholes are covered in fur, shouted Matas, and then Jokūbas the Younger let out a terrifying cry.

  From the unexpected pain she had bitten down on him hard, and Jokūbas was behaving irresponsibly, he had released the safety catch, pain had come before clear thinking, the dead Morta had clenched her teeth hard, and it was all they could do to prise her off, smashing the dead Morta’s face, and they had to try to avoid ripping Jokūbas the Younger’s member off, and Andriejus joked, Jews bite even after they’re dead, Jokūbas the Younger was not laughing, he was in serious pain, the fucking whore, he screamed, then calmed down, he got some powder and calmed down, and they dragged the dead girl into a corner, wrapped her in an old sheet, we’ll cart her away when we leave so there won’t be any fuss, said Jokūbas the Elder, now I want to eat, give me some bloody food, eat and drink, you sons of bitches, because you never know when it’ll be your last supper, they found places to recline in various corners, wherever they found a spot, as there was no table, and Vincentas asked Andriejus where Tadas was, he didn’t know, he was around and now he wasn’t, he’s always like that, there are rumours that he’s been recruited by the NKVD, but now he’s milling around the Gestapo, why do you have such strange names, asked Vincentas, why do you call each other such strange names? Andriejus smiled, it was Jokūbas the Elder, the former seminarian who was thrown out of the seminary, served in the army and did six months’ time before the war for a fight he had with a lieutenant, he thought it up, and it wasn’t a bad idea, we’re Christ’s soldiers, we’re the damned apostles, we cut off bunches of grapes and pour them into the winepress of God’s wrath, and from that press pours blood, and the blood rises as high as the horses’ bits, or whatever, what the hell do I know, ask Jokūbas the Elder, he’s the talker, he’s the great talker, but Vincentas did not ask, he had had enough, he was a glass boxer with glass fists, he wanted no one, no one ever to touch him, he wanted only to sleep, to cover himself up, to cover his head, block his ears, close his eyes and sleep, as far as he could from here, as far as possible from the twilight, from this bloody, boggy, all-consuming twilight.

  SALOME

  She had gone. Judita had disappeared. And that was that. By the time Vincentas returned from the ghetto the sun had risen. He desperately wanted to sleep, his head ached, he was hungry. After sleeping for a few hours he woke up with a bad feeling. Judita still had not returned. He went upstairs to his mother’s. She was sitting, wearing her glasses and knitting.

  ‘I knew it wouldn’t end well,’ she said, putting her knitting aside. She reeked of alcohol. Where did she get it? Maybe she had stocked up. ‘Just yesterday we were making lingonberry jam. She’s sweet, we were chatting like two close girlfriends. She said she wanted to tell you something important. Maybe that was the important news – that she’s leaving you.’ His mother’s brow furrowed. ‘Listen, have you checked if any valuables are missing? Go and check if my jewellery box is there. Bring it to me.’

  He reluctantly brought her the jewels. They both knew it was an absurd procedure, but Vincentas did not have the energy to argue. His mother opened the box and carefully looked through it.

  ‘My ring isn’t here. Do you remember? The one with the little stone, a tsarist general gave it to me … What was his name … ? Aleksandras, I think. He waltzed beautifully. And my brooch is gone.’

  ‘Mother,’ said Vincentas angrily.

  He did not believe that Judita could have robbed her. And he did not want his mother even to joke about it.

  ‘Fine then, fine. I found a good buyer. Do you think I can survive on your salary? I liked her, your Judita. She’ll be back, don’t worry. Women can get like that.’ And his mother smiled mischievously. She knew something that Vincentas didn’t. That irritated him even more.

  ‘Like what? What do you know?’

  ‘Sometimes we just like to go out to be alone, without you – without you men.’

  ‘Are you talking about a convent?’

  ‘Calm down. Everything will be fine,’ his mother waved and once more buried herself in her knitting.

  He went out into the city. He walked around aimlessly, skulking along the streets in the hope of spotting her. Her desirable, incredible figure. The Gestapo? No, it couldn’t be. They would have taken Vincentas and his mother away, too. They would have turned everything upside down.

  He stopped by the translation bureau where Judita had often found work translating from Lithuanian to German. No, she hadn’t been there today; nobody knows anything.

  Jokūbas the Elder? He hates Vincentas. Maybe he doesn’t think he’s a Bolshevik spy any more (Vincentas was almost sure he never had), but he doesn’t like him and wishes him harm.

  It was no good. He even went to the ghetto and gave the guard a cigarette – no, he did not think that a young, fair-haired woman carrying a suitcase or a bundle had come to the ghetto today. If she had decided to go to the ghetto to find Aleksandras, wouldn’t she have needed to bring some of her things?

  Maybe he had been stupid to refuse the offer of the guard’s services – for just thirty packets of cigarettes Aleksandras would have disappeared for all time. Or maybe it was the unconscious but rationally practical sense that sooner or later he would be eliminated. For free. No, he didn’t want to think about any of it. Even though he saw Aleksandras as his rival he did not wish him dead; he did not want and nor did he have any reason to seek revenge. If he had not by pure chance met Aleksandras by the river that evening and been invited to the opera, Vincentas would never have found Judita, he would never have experienced such joy – a joy that was now turning into heartache. Where is she? Where?

  Vincentas returned home. No, Judita’s meagre possessions were where they should be – several items of clothing, some underwear, her shoes were all there, even a folder of translations lay on the table. She was thorough enough that she would not have left a piece of unfinished work. Vincentas was beginning to find it all very suspicious. She would have written something. She would have at least taken several essential items. Now she had disappeared without a trace. She had taken nothing, had left nothing.

  In the evening he began to feel a pressure on his chest. A great hole formed by his heart. It felt as though that hole was expanding and sucking him in. He loved Judita. He didn’t want to lose her. He tried to console himself that it might be better this way. But what was better, and for whom? The Germans were approaching Moscow; soon they would take Leningrad. Somewhere, at the edge of his consciousness, he had a bad feeling that they had no future together. Especially if it continued to go so well for the Germans. Did he have to think about things like the distant future? Nonsense. But it was also shocking that only now, as he felt her loss, did he realize how precious Judita was to him, how much he needed her – how much he missed her smell, her look, her embrace.

  Where could she have gone? To her friend Greta’s, a German woman who had married a Jew? Her husband had been arrested and shot at the beginning of the war. Judita had spoken about that optio
n. When her landlords had thrown her out of the apartment she was renting she had stayed briefly with Greta. It was only later, after the majority of the Jews had been moved to the ghetto, that she had agreed to move in with Vincentas. He didn’t have Greta’s address, although he had some idea where she lived.

  ‘If you should ever begin to feel that I’m a burden, I’ll leave.’

  ‘Where would you go?’

  ‘To Greta’s. She lives on the outskirts. She has often offered to let me hide there. She lives with her daughter. The Nazis killed her husband.’

  ‘Do you think that would be safer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I want you to be with me.’

  ‘I know. But if you ever start to feel that you don’t want that any more I’ll disappear from your life.’

  ‘No, I don’t want you to disappear.’

  ‘And I don’t want to.’

  They were lying naked and tired. Judita smelled of sweat and a mixture of other smells, a mixture that he could never analyse. They were sharing a cigarette, listening to a scratched Louis Armstrong record on the Odeon label. Judita had put her head on his chest; his heart was still beating faster than normal – for a second it seemed to him that his and Judita’s hearts were beating to the same rhythm.

  ‘I was washing your clothes yesterday, and your trousers smelled bad,’ she said, lifting her head.

  He did not know what to say. It was probably the lime, which, for reasons of sanitation, was sprinkled over the pits full of dead bodies.

  ‘I have no idea. I must have rubbed against something.’

  ‘You must have rubbed against it pretty hard. Or swum in whatever awful thing it was.’

  ‘It’s awful everywhere these days. Everywhere. It’s hard to avoid it.’

  ‘Really? It seems to me there’s always an alternative.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple, Judita. It isn’t that simple.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s simple, I’m saying there’s always an alternative.’

  ‘Sometimes there isn’t anything at all.’

  ‘That isn’t true.’ She turned on to her back. ‘A friend was recently telling me a story …’

  ‘Greta again?’ Vincentas asked.

  ‘Yes. She was telling me about a family, about a mixed family, the man was, as it’s now common to say, an Aryan, the woman was not, and because it was a mixed marriage their two daughters were also tainted. Because the husband did not want them to be separated, they were all ordered to move to the ghetto. And, guess what? They committed suicide. The whole family.’

  ‘And you call that an alternative?’

  ‘The husband shot the younger daughter and then himself. And the older daughter shot the mother and then fired a bullet into her own heart. Yes, I do think that is an alternative. One can take that way out, too.’

  To depart for the afterlife. After making love it seemed absurd to Vincentas. There is no reason to go anywhere, everything that is good is right here. But, unfortunately, so is everything that isn’t. And the fact that one is constantly facing evil in this life must be the firmest proof that we won’t have to pay for pleasures experienced here somewhere over there in eternity. We pay for everything here. For everything. In spades.

  Maybe she had departed, too, and not just from his life. To eternity. Would Judita have had the strength and courage to kill herself? I don’t know her at all – a chill came over Vincentas. They had known each other for almost two years; at first they would meet only briefly, then they would suffer long weeks of separation, and now, when they had the chance to be together – for eternity, till death parted them – Judita had simply vanished.

  After night fell someone knocked cautiously on his door.

  He jumped to his feet. Judita had a key.

  It was a man from the brigade. Tadas. It was Tadas.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

  Vincentas looked around. He and Judita had been careful to avoid leaving any signs of a woman’s presence around: clothes, footwear, jewellery, even too much order. Judita liked to tidy. She just didn’t like to cook. Lately, more often than not, she had been sullen rather than happy.

  ‘As you can see.’

  ‘I can see.’

  Tadas sat down on a pile of boards stacked next to the wall. He tapped it with his hand.

  ‘Good material.’

  ‘It’s for coffins. They’ve been dried for coffins. I bring them in here so the heat from the stove isn’t wasted.’

  Tadas laughed.

  ‘I always wanted to have my own apartment so that I wouldn’t have to talk in the morning, wouldn’t have to say good-night to anyone in the evening, so that I could sit in the dark and look out of the window and just watch people walking down the street, nothing else.’

  ‘This is a closed yard. You can’t see people walking by.’

  ‘A coffin is something like an apartment,’ said Tadas, ignoring Vincentas’s comment. ‘Small but secure. And just for one. It’s good that it’s just for one. I wouldn’t want to end up in a pit with a crowd.’

  ‘There’s no window.’

  He looked at Vincentas. ‘What window?’

  ‘A coffin doesn’t have a window.’

  Tadas shook his head. ‘She’s really pretty, that Jewish girl, and doesn’t even look like a Jew.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know.’

  Vincentas knew. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘We were shooting in the Ninth Fort … In the ninth heaven, as Jokūbas the Elder likes to say … They were undressed, stamping around by the pit, suddenly I hear my name … I see Emma, a fiery brunette, naked, reaching her hands out to me and she’s saying, save me, I don’t want to die … We went to school together; she looked like Marija. We even kissed. She was probably in love with me. That was the first time I saw her naked. And the last,’ Tadas chuckled strangely. He looked disconcerted, depressed, unhappy.

  ‘There’s always an alternative,’ Vincentas said carefully, adding cautiously, ‘Some kind of …’

  Tadas nodded. ‘I could have saved her, God knows, but it was too late. Too late.’ He stood up and pulled a silver chain with a small precious stone from his pocket. ‘This is what’s left of her. She gave it to me so it wouldn’t get lost. She said if it was too late, I should at least take it.’

  Tadas put the piece of jewellery away, pulled his pistol from under his belt, cocked it and put it back under his belt.

  ‘Come on. And bring your camera.’

  They walked along the darkening city streets. It was unnerving knowing that an armed man was walking behind him, one who had abducted Judita. What had he done to her? What was he planning to do to Vincentas? Tadas tried to avoid the main streets, choosing alleyways and smaller streets.

  In one of those streets they approached an abandoned house. The building was crumbling, there had been a fire on the second floor, but part of the building was intact. It looked like the fire had been recent and that the residents had moved out. Or it had been a Jewish home. That was more likely.

  ‘What a dump,’ Vincentas said, coming to a stop.

  ‘Forward,’ Tadas muttered. Could he be hiding Judita in this house? What does he plan to do with her? He’ll kill her. First he’ll rape her, and then he’ll finish her off. He’ll force him to watch. To photograph it. His blood began to freeze. Maybe he’ll shoot him, too. Should he run to the nearest German soldier and ask for help? To help him save a Jewish woman he has been hiding in his apartment, with whom he has lived as man and wife, deceiving the Reich and mocking the sacrament of marriage? How would he explain it all?

  They continued.

  The master of the house opened the door. It was the Artist. He was wearing a long velvet dressing-gown. He was in an excellent mood.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  Vincentas entered.

  He could hear music coming from the main living-room and light from candles, not electricity, was shining th
rough an open door.

  Vincentas turned around. The Artist gave something to Tadas, who nodded, looked at Vincentas, winked slyly and disappeared. He received his thirty pieces of silver. He had done his dirty work. He would wait in the vestibule like a dog on a doormat. When had he met the Artist? Had he informed on Judita? How had he found out? Had he seen the photos in his darkroom? Damn it – he had shown the Artist the photographs of Judita himself the first time he had been called to the SS officer’s apartment. He had wanted to show off and had betrayed her.