The Mascot

by Mark Kurzem

  “According to Uncle, the Soviets wanted to punish the Latvians, especially the high-ranking ones, for their collaboration with the Nazis. What they didn’t understand, Uncle claimed, was that the Latvians were driven purely by patriotism. They didn’t share the ideology of the Nazis. They hoped only for independence.

  “‘Now the Swedish have become interested in Lobe’s background,’ Uncle said, ‘because he’d been the commander of the Eighteenth. If there were even the slightest possibility that he could be extradited to Latvia, there is no doubt he would be executed.

  “‘It doesn’t seem to matter to the Soviets at all that Lobe was never permanently and totally in command of the Eighteenth. Throughout the battalion’s tour of duty in Belarus, Lobe occasionally shared command with Captain Rubenis whenever he was recalled to Riga on other duties. You might not remember him.’

  “I was surprised when I heard this,” my father said, “but it also cleared something up in my mind. I’ve always been a bit confused about who was in command of the Eighteenth. I’ve nearly always recalled Commander Lobe in that position, but I also remember another officer, Rubenis, who occasionally appeared as top dog. I’d heard him addressed as Captain but that was all I knew about him. He showed no interest in me at all, so I rarely saw him.

  “‘Perhaps they should be investigating Rubenis rather than Commander Lobe,’ I heard Uncle say. I couldn’t believe my ears. There seemed to be no loyalty among the desperate. Uncle was clutching at straws to defend the commander, and it struck me as odd that on the one hand Uncle denied that the Eighteenth was in Belarus, while at the same time claiming that another member of the same battalion could be responsible for the crime. Either the battalion was there, or it was not. I thought to myself then that Uncle knew more about the movements of the Eighteenth than he was prepared to let on. But I said nothing, allowing him to press on.

  “‘How on earth could the Eighteenth have been responsible?’ he repeated.

  “I nodded absently because at that moment, while Uncle was speaking, something much more significant struck me: what if the Eighteenth had been in Belarus sooner than claimed? To me, Uncle’s insistence that the Soviets were lying didn’t seem entirely plausible. What if it was the Latvians who were lying about when the Eighteenth had arrived in Belarus? It was in their interest to cover their tracks since they’d participated in atrocities. It wouldn’t take much to create false documents to support their claims. This led me to a new train of thought: what if I had been picked up sooner, before the Slonim massacre, by the Eighteenth? After all, if Commander Lobe had lied so easily about the circumstances in which I was saved, then surely he wouldn’t have hesitated to alter the date the troops had found me. What if I had been with the troops at Slonim?”

  My father paused.

  “But what about official records of the Eighteenth?” I asked him.

  “They may have been altered, too, in order to protect the reputation of the Eighteenth,” my father conjectured. After several pensive moments, he continued, “Of course, I was only a child and had no sense of the passing of time, but what bothers me is even I find it hard to completely accept that I survived alone in the freezing forests for that length of time.”

  “The six to nine months before you were picked up?”

  My father nodded. “A few weeks—that I can imagine—but six months? That would explain my impression that there was snow on the ground when Kulis took me out of the firing line, although I don’t know why I remember butterflies. Perhaps they were around the dead bodies? It may have been in the winter of 1941, and not, as they said, in May of 1942. Thinking about it now, I wonder whether the murder of the people in the synagogue at the time I was with Sergeant Kulis—you remember, don’t you, son?—the incident I told you about…What if that was Slonim?

  “And there’s one more thing,” my father said, “the extermination in my village…would have been in the early winter in 1941.”

  “That sounds right,” I agreed, recalling that the professor from Oxford had made a similar estimation.

  “If only we knew the village’s name,” he said. “Then we could know for certain if any extermination did actually occur there in late 1941, before the Slonim massacre. That would at least make it possible that I could have witnessed Slonim.”

  “And we’d also be able to see if it was physically possible for the Eighteenth to be able to make it to Slonim from where they took you,” I added.

  “My village,” my father said with finality, “is the starting point for unraveling my past.”

  Now animated and red-faced, my father continued to recount his meeting with Uncle.

  “After what had occurred to me about the massacre at the synagogue and the presence there of the Eighteenth, including me,” he said, “I knew that I had to be honest with Uncle and with myself. I was torn. I wondered how best to broach what I suspected. I began by telling Uncle that I did have memories of a massacre in a town. He was immediately alert.”

  “‘What do you remember?’ he asked.

  “I was straightforward with him, telling him that I was able only to recall some details. He listened intently to my description of events, and I’d barely uttered my final word when he waved his hand dismissively. ‘Nothing more than impressions,’ he said. ‘Your memories have to be clearer than that, and you need to be sure that your memories are true.’

  “I was surprised and confused by Uncle’s comments. Even though my memories were incomplete, I knew that I had not imagined the incident.” My father’s voice rose as he insisted that he had not been lying. He put his head in his hands. “I did witness that atrocity,” he said, “even if Sergeant Kulis usually tried to keep me from seeing the worst things.

  “And I told Uncle what I later realized about those people—that they must have been Jewish. Much later, I also remembered one man with long strands of hair hanging down either side of his head. And also his large black hat. He must’ve been a rabbi.

  “Uncle didn’t seem to believe me. ‘How could you tell such a thing about these people?’ he asked, sounding outraged.”

  My father wiped his fists across his eyes, as if clearing his vision.

  “I know I was right,” he said to me. “You heard my description of people being killed in the building on fire: you were convinced that the building was a synagogue.

  “Uncle glowered at me. ‘Do you remember if Mr. Lobe was with you?’ he snapped at me. ‘Did you see him commit violence against these people, or not?’

  “I had to be honest with Uncle. I didn’t recall seeing the commander there.

  “‘So what do you know for certain?’ Uncle said gravely. ‘You don’t know if you were in Slonim. You don’t know if Lobe was there. What do you know?’

  “In one respect Uncle was correct. I saw so much violence when I was with the brigade that there was sometimes a confusion of faces and locations. The only soldier I remembered for certain on the day of the killings was Sergeant Kulis because he shot at the burning people. So the Eighteenth was there that day, wherever there turns out to be.

  “So, I felt compelled to answer no to Uncle’s earlier question: I did not see Commander Lobe himself. Uncle jumped at the chance to warn me. ‘If you’re confused, then I would be very cautious about speaking about the past,’ he said. ‘After all, you were only a child. What can a child remember?’ Uncle seemed to relax for the first time since I’d arrived. But I felt beaten down by him.

  “You know, thinking about it now,” my father said to me, “I wonder if Uncle, in fact, knew more than he’d let on about Slonim—that he knew Commander Lobe was implicated in Slonim.”

  “It’s possible,” I agreed, “that Uncle knew the true chronology of when you’d been captured—assuming there is another truth—and was testing the waters about what you actually remembered. He’d have to reassure both himself and the commander that you had no objective details to jeopardize the commander’s defense.”

  My father nodded. “Perhaps
he and the commander had wrongly assumed that I would have no memories, or at best only highly confused ones. The strength of some of my impressions did unnerve him.

  “Talking with you about it now, it occurs to me that Uncle’s behavior was intentional. He had been manipulating me, playing some sort of power game with me. His distant and unfriendly attitude had been a ploy to baffle me so that when he finally chose to relate properly to me, I would be eager to listen to him.

  “I have to admit that his strategy worked. He knew my sense of obligation to the Latvians had been deeply ingrained in me.”

  My father was silent for a moment. “If only I’d stood up to Uncle,” he said, anguished.

  “But you couldn’t remember, Dad,” I replied. “You still can’t.”

  “But why can’t I, when I remember other faces, other details?” He began to castigate himself. “What if somehow I’ve chosen to forget? That I’ve blocked things out because deep down I am loyal to Lobe and the Latvians?”

  “Dad,” I argued, “you feared Lobe and the other soldiers. You may have blocked memories out of terror rather than loyalty.”

  My father nodded, but I could tell he was not convinced. He returned to the incident at Uncle’s.

  “‘You know, young man,’ Uncle said, ‘you can do Mr. and Mrs. Lobe, as well as Auntie and me, a great favor.’ Without waiting for a response from me, Uncle went on. ‘You’d never want to harm them,’ he said and then gave me a thin smile. I waited for him to continue.

  “‘Commander Lobe is preparing a written defense that he wants to present to the Swedish authorities. It would be a fine thing if you showed Mr. Lobe your support,’ he said slowly. ‘Let the authorities know Mr. Lobe didn’t do anything.’

  “I knew then where this talk was leading.

  “‘Some of us have already submitted statements testifying to Mr. Lobe’s good character,’ Uncle said. ‘Mr. Lobe needs your help. A simple statement from you, nothing more than an innocent child at the time, would do much to support his defense.’

  “I didn’t want to anger Uncle again, but I tried to be frank. ‘It’s difficult for me to say anything either way,’ I said.

  “‘Tell the investigators how good Mr. Lobe was to you, how he rescued you,” Uncle insisted. ‘That you cannot remember any wrong-doing on his part. That should suffice. Everybody will believe you in this situation because you were a child of only five or six years. Why would you lie?’

  “‘Precisely because I was a child in your power, and still am,’ I thought to myself. It seemed to me that Uncle had it all worked out in advance and was determined that I cooperate.

  “‘Let me be direct,’ he said, as if he were being perfectly reasonable. ‘You owe Mr. Lobe your life. Now is your opportunity to pay him back. He didn’t have to keep you alive.’

  “I was shocked,” my father said. “I was grateful to be alive, but I didn’t ever imagine that a price tag would be put on my life. And I didn’t think it would be put to me so bluntly.

  “‘You just said Commander Lobe wasn’t a violent man,’ I blurted out without thinking, ‘but now you say he could have killed me, a child, because I was an inconvenience?’

  “Even though it made sense, it had been stupid to make such a comment. Uncle became irate, no doubt believing that I was trying to be clever.

  “‘I know for a fact that the Lobes have very little,’ he said sharply. ‘Think of poor Mrs. Lobe. She’s old now. How could she manage by herself if anything happened to her husband? It would be cruel to deny your help. And very dishonest to condemn a man based on a few vague impressions.’

  “I faltered. The truth was that I’d witnessed other things when I was with the soldiers, and even though I knew no dates and places my impressions were not vague. They were so vivid. I will never escape them.

  “But another part of me wanted to end this struggle. Uncle must have thought my silence was resistance because he rose impatiently and moved toward the window. He peered out into the darkness through a gap in the curtains as if he were expecting someone, then suddenly he turned back to me, his face contorted with barely suppressed anger.

  “‘Do it for me!’ he barked. ‘You owe me your life!’

  “I was dumbfounded by his vehemence.

  “‘I wouldn’t know what to write,’ I tried to excuse myself.

  “‘Let me take care of that,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll deal with this in the morning, before Auntie wakes.’

  “Uncle was calmer by then. He rose and put out his hand to shake mine, and I accepted it. With that he wished me good night and disappeared to his room.

  “I tried to make myself comfortable on the sofa with the blankets and pillow Auntie had left for me, but it took a long time before I finally nodded off. I was torn by what Uncle wanted, but already I sensed his victory over me.”

  As he had been on the subway in London, my father was clearly anguished over what had happened so many years before.

  “I woke early the next morning. It was still dark. Then I noticed a thin line of light coming from the partly opened door to Uncle’s study. I remained as I was, with my head on the pillow, but through the crack I could see that Uncle was already up and dressed. He was at his desk scrutinizing something.

  “I got up and went over. He hadn’t heard me stir, so I tapped lightly on the door. The instant he saw me he stood up and beckoned me in.

  “Before I could even wish him good morning, he thrust a sheet of paper into my hand, saying, ‘It needs to be signed and witnessed before I send it off.’

  “I read what Uncle had prepared for me. It stated unequivocally that I had no knowledge of Slonim, or of any other incident, adding that I had spent some years in close company with the commander during the war. I viewed Mr. Lobe as a man of good character, it continued, and I remembered nothing of Mr. Lobe as a violent man. I had never seen him kill anyone.”

  My father was subdued.

  “Do you have a copy of it?” I asked, hoping that there’d be one in his case.

  My father shook his head. “Uncle didn’t offer me one,” he said, “and I never thought to ask. I was uneasy and wanted the matter to be dealt with as quickly as possible. Uncle told me that he was going to personally deliver it to a lawyer in Melbourne, a Latvian man, who would then forward it as evidence in support of Commander Lobe’s appeal.”

  “Who was this lawyer?”

  My father leaned back in his seat, squinting as he tried to recall the man’s name. “Eglajs,” he said. “That’s it. Mr. Eglajs.”

  “I wonder if he’s still alive.”

  “If he is, then he must be in his nineties,” my father said.

  “I’ll see if I can track him down,” I said.

  “Why?” My father was surprised.

  “To see the statement, of course,” I answered. “It is a piece of evidence.”

  My father seemed uneasy. “Evidence against who? Why do you want evidence?” he asked.

  “I don’t exactly want it as evidence against anybody in particular,” I said, trying to calm my father’s growing anxiety. “But it is part of the jigsaw of your story.”

  He appeared to accept my explanation and returned to the events surrounding the affidavit.

  “‘We could get it witnessed now,’ Uncle said. ‘There’s a police station nearby.’ So I agreed to do it there and then. What choice did I have? Was I complicit? I looked up to Uncle. I always obeyed him, and now he wanted me to repay a debt. The Latvians did save me, and I didn’t want to bite the hand that had fed me. To this day, I feel guilty about what I did.”

  My father shot me a despairing, almost pleading, look.

  “Uncle coerced you that day. He made you feel guilty for being alive,” I said, trying to console him.

  My father’s hands rested on the kitchen table but were gripped together so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. He stared at me intently.

  “They forced you to keep silent throughout the war,” I said. “They erase
d your identity and turned you into their little mascot.

  “Lobe did save you,” I continued. “From what you are saying I’m starting to think he did so for his own reasons. After the war, the Latvians kept you as an alibi in case things went wrong in the future. If the Latvian soldiers were called to account for their collaboration, what better way to bargain against their own guilt than with an innocent child?”

  My father seemed shocked both by my analysis and by my vitriol toward the Latvians. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You know, worst of all, Uncle couldn’t get me out of the house quickly enough. He didn’t even give me a chance to say good-bye to Auntie. ‘We won’t be long at the police station,’ he said. ‘You may as well continue on from there. Gather your things. I’ll tell Auntie that you wanted to get an early start. She’ll understand.’

  “When we left the police station, Uncle was anxious to be rid of me. He looked at his watch pointedly and told me that he had other urgent business at home. He didn’t even offer to shake my hand. Perhaps he felt as uncomfortable about the affidavit as I did.

  “He walked away from me briskly. Without thinking, I called out to him so that he stopped and turned to look back at me.

  “‘Every day I put the past behind me. Over and over,’ I said. ‘I never talk about it with anybody, not even Patricia. I hope I never have to again. To you or to anybody. You should know that.’

  “Uncle didn’t say a word. He stared at me for several moments as if registering something about me. Then he raised his hand and gave me a brief wave. I watched him until he disappeared around the corner, and then I picked up my case and headed in the opposite direction, toward the train station.”

  I could see that the question of his presence at the Slonim massacre had cast a shadow over my father. He felt guilty for having signed a statement exonerating Lobe when he may have committed a crime. Had his faulty memory prevented justice from being done?