by Steven Uhly
Emil helped the old man to his feet, Mr. Abramowicz lifted up his sleeping daughter, Ariel shut his book very slowly while continuing to read, like someone who feels the need to peer through a closing door, but then he shut it completely and stood up.
Now the first act began, “Get in!” the Bricha people said quietly, Peretz, Avis and others. But some drivers stood there silently, as if they had nothing to do with the affair. These were the German haulers Peretz had been forced to engage, because he lacked sufficient lorries for so many people. Isn’t that dangerous? the shlichim had said in their secret telephone conversations, addressing each other by their aliases, Rudi to Aroch, Alon to Kris, Blacky to the Priest, and they had replied, Yes, it is, but what other option do we have? We’ll pay them well, the Germans always like that, Ephraim Frank had been obliged to do the same, because not even Sally Zeve with his successful Bavarian Truck Company had obtained forty army lorries at a stroke from the Americans.
Get in! First they took their marked suitcases to one particular lorry where men tossed them up to other men on the loading ramp, who caught and threw them inside to other men who stacked them.
Get in, the men helped the women and children up, they had brought blankets and cushions to avoid having to lie side by side like tinned herrings, for now the adults had to sleep too, they were so tired from all the waiting, the thinking, feeling, numbing.
When all the people had been stowed, the drivers went to the backs of their lorries, closed the ramps, pulled down the tarpaulins, climbed into their cabs and slammed the doors. Behind them, in darkness and suspense, sat the pioneers, who at last were now worthy of this name, and felt the vehicles start to move, pulling the familiar rug from under their feet, meter by meter, through the gate, into Potsdamer Chaussee, left, left is toward the south.
The second act was the drive. They drove through the night, lying perpendicular to the direction they were traveling in, Anna lay on a coarse woolen blanket, beside her slept Shimon, on the other side Sarah pressed up to her and slept, the entire floor of the cargo area was covered with people, neatly arranged in rows, feet on the left, heads on the right, it was completely silent, the engines hummed, the shock absorbers squeaked, the loading ramp rattled, it was completely silent, Anna lay on her back and stared at the tarpaulin, it was so dark that she could barely see.
The Soviets had changed their policy. They had calculated that a large number of Jews in Palestine would weaken the British position vis-à-vis the oil-owning Arabs. They had devised a simple, logical rule of three which concluded that a large number of Jews in Palestine was beneficial to the interests of the U.S.S.R. They therefore allowed the Jewish transports to pass without scrutinizing the papers for inconsistencies.
And thus the stop the convoy made when it reached the interzonal border was as brief as an intermezzo. As usual Peretz was sitting in the cab of the front lorry, Avi drove up to the checkpoint, Peretz got out, greeted the man in Russian, showed him the forged pass and the forged group visa for transit, which Ephraim Frank had sent from Munich, identified himself as a U.N.R.R.A. worker, handed over a packet of cigarettes and said goodbye. Peretz was in his element, for him nothing unraveled, here and now he was in the very core of his routine, Peretz with the loudhailer, which he would discard one day, but not now, who could say what he might need it for on this journey? That night Peretz felt good, finally the waiting was over, it seemed as if the past few months had been no more than an interruption, as if this was in fact still the journey from Tulce to Marseille, and he felt, he knew, that soon he would have the chance to make Anna his wife definitively.
They drove on, act two, scene two, Soviet zone, heading southwest, not far from the border with the British zone, but always keeping it at a safe distance, down to the Americans, where the G.I.s turned two blind eyes whenever Jews came knocking with false papers.
Anna lay on her back, on the blanket, on the cargo bed, beneath her the country flew past, above her hung the tarpaulin, and beyond it the darkness soared up to the stars.
She fell asleep. She dreamed she had died and was lying in a vast field, her arms outstretched as if to cling onto the earth, but slowly she took off, no matter how hard she tried to become heavy and sink back down again, she took off, floating higher and higher until she could see nothing but the black night.
58
They had taken the bus from Sereetz to Moisling. The rain was falling more heavily. The windows in the bus were fogged up. This time the two women sat to the right of the gangway. Bad Schwartau, the pond at Trems, the Holstentor, a view of the city, red brick, green steeple roofs, change.
The second bus was practically empty, people were still at work, they would not be going home for several hours.
Why Moisling? Lisa asked, You never said anything about it before. Frau Kramer nodded but said nothing in reply.
They followed the Trave along Moislinger Allee. Apartment blocks for workers, grand, late nineteenth-century houses, tall trees. They changed buses again and went up Moislinger Berg, not a hill as its name suggested, crossing the Trave. Small, old houses separated by fields, waste land and gardens. Lisa found the area desolate, but it was hardly a surprise on a day like this.
When they arrived it was so dark, as if dusk were already setting in. The rain now fell like a curtain, wet and cold, Lisa froze beneath the umbrella. Huddled close together and arm in arm, they walked alongside a high brick wall as far as a small, pointed-gable house. There was the entrance. What’s that? Lisa said with a start when she saw what it was.
A cemetery. It was large, the gravestones were tightly packed in long rows, narrow paths between them. Carved into the stones were Stars of David and Hebrew writing. You’ve been here before, Frau Kramer said to her granddaughter, who remained silent, overawed by the sight of so many wet graves in which the dead would lie till the end of all time.
The two women wandered slowly between the graves. The cemetery looked abandoned, many headstones had sunk into the earth and were now crooked. Others had tipped backward or forward onto the grave, weeds were rampant, on some gravestones they saw black swastikas that had been daubed on with a thick paintbrush.
Lisa did not want to go any further, she wanted to get away from this place, but her body did not respond, it stayed close beside the old woman, the path was a circuit full of puddles, and although their shoes were already drenched, the women took care and walked around them with big strides. What’s here? Lisa asked. A grave, was all Frau Kramer said. They continued, Frau Kramer hesitated before turning right onto another path. She had not been here in ages, not since that time when the young woman had stood beside her with a face she would never be able to forget.
There it is, she said suddenly, and then they were standing in front of it. A plain headstone behind a small grave. On it was a name Lisa did not recognize. She read the dates, she did some calculations, she looked at her grandmother. She did not understand.
59
Heinrich watched his father, who was sitting in the study smoking a pipe and reading a book. In the glow of a candle that Father had lit, his face looked as if had been carved from wood. Thousands of tiny wrinkles ran across his forehead, cheeks, nose, like a river system branching out in all directions. They were not deep, but sharp like small incisions. His father’s skin had such fine pores that where there were no wrinkles it appeared polished. A reddish glimmer came from the magnificent wrought-iron coal stove that stood at an angle in the corner, practically filling it from floor to ceiling.
Heinrich stood behind the heavy curtain right beside the window, trying to remain absolutely still. It was something he often did without knowing why. With one eye he peered over at his father. Gudrun and his mother were in the kitchen, he could hear them pottering about, metal on china, metal on metal. It smelled of dinner.
Father had put his feet up, they rested on a padded stool that matched the wingback chair he was sitting in. What sort of book was his father reading? Heinrich screwed up hi
s eyes, but he could not make out the title, it almost looked as if the book had no title.
What was Father thinking while he read? Heinrich tried to decipher his expression, but it was impossible. Father was concentrating intensely, so absorbed by his reading that he barely stirred, he would surely notice the slightest movement behind the curtain, the smallest sound.
The hollow of Heinrich’s left knee itched. The more he tried not to scratch, the more it itched. But Heinrich refused to give in, he felt strong, the itch became more potent, he closed his eyes, unable to think of anything else. When he felt he could not hold out any longer he opened his eyes and saw Father looking at the grandfather clock that stood by the wall opposite. He shut his book and stood up. Then he locked it away in his desk and removed the key. Heinrich was expecting Father to go into the kitchen, he must have heard that the clattering had stopped, dinner must be ready and at any moment now Mother would pick up the mallet, beat the Chinese gong and call out, “Dinner!” And then Heinrich would be able to scratch behind his knee at last.
Father did not leave the study. He headed straight for Heinrich. The boy froze. His father had known the whole time that he was standing here, spying on him! At any moment he would pull back the curtain, grab him by the ear and drag him into the kitchen, unconcerned as to whether the boy could keep up or not. Heinrich was terrified. He held his breath and screwed up his eyes as if this were some sort of ruse he could employ to turn the tide.
When nothing happened, Heinrich peered out gingerly from behind his eyelids and saw the long sleeves of Father’s dark-gray jacket right beneath his nose. He saw his father’s large hand, it grabbed and lifted the flowerpot with the dwarf roses, which sat on the window sill. Then the left hand pushed a small, golden key beneath it. Finally the right hand put the pot back down.
Otto Kruse did not discover his son. He kept an eye on the door to the hallway while he hid the key, it was slightly ajar, intentionally so, for this meant that no one in the family would suspect that he might have a secret. He knew that Gudrun was helping her mother in the kitchen. And Heinrich must be reading in his bedroom. The young boy had the potential to get on his nerves, but at only nine years old he was not a threat. Otto Kruse turned and put out the candles by licking his thumb and forefinger and pinching the wicks to extinguish the flame. He liked the slight sting in his fingertips caused by the heat, but more than that he liked the result.
When all the candles had been snuffed out, he left the study without shutting the door.
Heinrich stood in the dark, intensely relieved. He realized he could move again now. But this lengthy exhibition of willpower was pure gold, which he must not carelessly discard. His body ached in various places, his left foot, between his shoulder blades, the back of his neck. At the same time, the longer he held out Heinrich felt a strange feeling of ecstasy surge inside him. To his astonishment he noted that the hollow of his knee was no longer itching.
Only when the gong resounded and his mother called him did he stir.
60
Germany is beautiful, Mrs. Abramowicz said. They were sitting by the tailboard, gazing at the landscape, beneath them black clouds poured from the exhaust, it stank of diesel and yet they sensed how pure and fresh the air must be. The sun had risen over a cloudless sky, the early light shone so intensely that Sarah believed it must be a good omen. They had left the Soviet zone and were approaching Coburg. We’ll have breakfast there, Peretz had said. Behind them drove a dark-green G.M.C. truck, the second in a long procession. The convoy wound its way through the Central Uplands of Germany, each vehicle bore the letters U.N.R.R.A. on the bonnet and on the sides. In some places the fresh paint still glistened.
The full lorries made a noise that drowned out everything else, the warbling of the thrushes and tits, the chirruping of the crickets, the screeching of the hawks that circled above the thick deciduous woodland. And yet all of these things were there and the pioneers knew it and imagined the sounds, for the area they were passing through looked so lovely.
The driver of the lorry behind them was one of the Germans Peretz had hired. His face was rigid, his eyes expressionless, the Jews froze when they caught his eye and avoided looking at him wherever possible. All apart from Emil, he kept staring at the German until the latter lowered his gaze. It was Emil’s first victory, it felt good but had been stressful, and after a while he, too, averted his eyes from his foe, to avoid having to engage in another battle so soon.
The ma’apilim did not know that Peretz, up front in the cab beside Avi, had separated the Germans, At least one of us has to drive between two of you, he had told them. The Germans had shrugged, as if this were unnecessary, but they abided by it. It had not been Peretz’s idea, it was an order from Ephraim Frank, Just so they don’t get any funny ideas, he had said in Munich, and nobody had disagreed. The Germans were capable of anything, the Germans had to be kept under control.
Germany was beautiful on that clear summer’s morning. When uttered together, however, these two words profoundly shocked the passengers. What has the beauty of this landscape got to do with the Germans? wondered Ruth, who should never have been German. But she said nothing, Mrs. Abramowicz was happy, nothing else was that important.
The little children were bored by the never-ending journey. Soon Dana the doll had chatted to everyone, soon Shimon had been in every corner of the cargo area several times, picking up everything he could find with his tiny fingers and trying to put them in his mouth before Sarah could stop him. We’ll soon be there, Mr. Abramowicz told Marja, but this “soon” was like American chewing gum: it got longer and longer, it was sticky and soon tasted of nothing.
In the American zone the convoy no longer needed to conceal itself. It stopped in the center of Coburg, before the eyes of passers-by. Ephraim Frank had booked two hotels, there was German food, the Jews sat alongside each other at long tables and joked and laughed as if they were tourists. And they almost felt as such, for Coburg was picturesque, virtually nothing had been destroyed in the first German town to make Hitler an honorary citizen, the Queen herself had forbidden it, It would be like bombing ourselves, she said, and the generals of the Royal Air Force understood, it was one thing to rename yourself Windsor. But quite another to stop being Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.
When they reached Lindenfels in the Odenwald it was early afternoon. They saw the ruins of the ancient castle with its mighty keep, towering high above the town, the large and small half-timbered houses, black beams between whitewashed walls. They had driven straight through Hesse, Anna knew, she had been watching closely, One final journey on the trail of the Brothers Grimm, but there had been no melancholy, she was too preoccupied with herself, she saw too clearly the woman peering out at the world like a little girl trying to remain naïve, even though it was far too late for that. She felt sorry for herself, as you might have sympathy for a stranger you cannot help. She resolved not to read any German fairy tales to her children.
61
The dead were in conversation. They were telling each other stories about dying.
“Take me, for example!” one of them cried. “I was burned alive! In the Turck synagogue! I screamed! And I’ve been screaming ever since! I can’t stop screaming! I’d love to, but I can’t! Horrific! Horrific!”
“Shhh!” another whispered. “Don’t look over here! I’m hiding! They thought I was dead. But I wasn’t. I was alive! I’m still alive! Then I lay between the dead and didn’t get out and I didn’t dare move even though they were filling the grave with earth. It took a long time for me to die, a verrrrry long time. A verrrrrrrry long time, a verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry long time.”
“I died fighting,” one of them said morosely. “Not like you, who let yourselves be slaughtered like cattle. No, I fought with these hands of mine, with these eyes, with this voice. I killed seven Germans and three Poles before we fell into an ambush and were shot. Brief and painful, like bolts of lightning that pass straight through your body, hot, intense bolts,
I had no idea I was dying when it happened. But I fought!”
“Who are you?” a new voice asked. It sounded unfamiliar, like a young boy’s voice, perhaps it was the voice of the Jew they had picked up outside the synagogue, yes, yes, it must be him. He had recognized all the other voices, even though he could not see a thing because it was as black as ever, so black that you saw nothing, nothing at all. But these voices, he knew them, even that of the man buried alive, he recalled his face in detail, a delicate individual, he had thought back then, Is he really dead? There was something weird about the way he had fallen into the mass grave, about the way he had apparently been hit by bullets. But then, distracted, he had forgotten this man. And now . . . look what happens, all of a sudden someone like that pops up in a dream and talks about himself.
The fighter was fixed in his memory too. Yes, what a hunt that had been! And—Jews aside—the partisans were brave, they had fought like real men. But they had finally fallen into the net. It had been a wonderful hunt, definitely!
But this voice, whose was it? It sounded familiar, it felt as if he had not heard it for ages, could it be that it . . . belonged? Who was . . . ? How could he find out who was speaking whenever there was a break in his dream? Was that even possible, a break in a dream?