The Dark Room

by Rachel Seiffert

  —I have to tell him the bit about Jozef Kolesnik. It’s a small place. He will find out I am talking to him anyway, and I would rather he knew from me.

  —Okay. If you say so.

  She writes for a while, then she stops.

  —You don’t know him very well?

  —No.

  —You don’t know about his family?

  —No, but he knows I am German. He was very welcoming. His mother, too.

  She shrugs and writes some more. Micha feels uneasy now, not sure at all.

  —Listen, you can send what you like, but if you change your mind, just leave out this part.

  She circles five sentences.

  —Those are about your grandfather. It’s up to you, but the letter will still make sense without them.

  • • •

  Micha is late. He gets to the station in plenty of time, but first one train doesn’t come, and then another.

  The people on the platform turn to each other and whisper, filling the unexpected time. Micha thinks of his father, who is always early, and how he will be waiting for him. And he thinks: Why today? Why did the trains go wrong today?

  —Sorry. It was a long meeting.

  Micha’s father shrugs, buys him a coffee. They stand at the kiosk, and commuters hurry their snacks around them. Micha wasn’t planning to lie. I could have told him, about the trains, but it just came out. And it sounds flippant, thoughtless; just exactly like a pointless lie.

  He thinks I came late to hurt him.

  Micha has hurt his father, before he even opened his mouth.

  —I don’t want to say much, Michael. I will be quick.

  He looks around the station concourse.

  —My father was a soldier. He died at Stalingrad, and I never knew him, but I know that he fought soldiers, not civilians, and so I can live with that. It was a war. I can live with that. Askan was in the SS. Waffen-SS, but SS all the same, and he served in the east. This means. To me. This means that there is always the possibility. That you are right.

  Micha stays quiet. He said it.

  Micha looks at his father, watches him shake his head. Vati coughs, and then he goes on.

  —I knew Askan for many years, ten years. I loved him, I love your mother, and she loved him very much. In my heart, you see, I can’t believe that he could kill. In a battle, yes, but not what you think. Not murder.

  —Himmler said it was a battle. A war against the Jews.

  —Michael. Let me finish.

  Micha nods. He is sorry. He lets his father choose his words.

  —However much I don’t feel he could do that. However much. There is always this possibility.

  Micha looks away from his father, down at his cup, allows him to continue without his son’s eyes on his face.

  —I have never told your mother that I think this, and I never will. I am only telling you now because I want to explain. I wanted it to stop with our generation. Yes? Bernd, your uncle, was already born after the war. Do you understand? I didn’t want you and Luise to be touched by it. Askan loved you both. That’s the part of him I wanted you to have.

  Vati gathers his briefcase and coat. Micha can’t look at him, so he doesn’t know if his father is looking at him.

  Mina is right. I don’t know what I have done.

  BELARUS, SUMMER 1998

  It is embarrassing, being here again; Micha hadn’t expected that. The last time he saw Elena Kolesnik, he cried outside her house, and she gave him vodka and wanted him to leave.

  She has made food, good heavy bread, and Micha occupies himself by looking at the photos on the windowsill while she lays the table. One is of Kolesnik and his wife, when they were younger, middle-aged. Both wearing overcoats, buttoned up against the cold. Shoulders hunched, standing on stone steps covered in snow. Arm in arm, hands in mittens, Kolesnik’s wife holds a small bunch of flowers to her chest. Both are looking past the camera, at the ground. Both smiling, but self-conscious, too. When Micha looks up, he finds Kolesnik standing in the doorway.

  —This is the two of you?

  —Yes. Our wedding. We were quite old already when we married, you see?

  —Not so old, really.

  —Yes, we were. Lucky to find each other.

  The old man smiles. He speaks to his wife, and she smiles, too. At Micha. She says something to her husband.

  —Elena says it is our only photograph together. It is true.

  His wife speaks to him again and he nods.

  —We have known each other almost all our lives, and only one picture.

  —Please tell your wife I will take a photo before I go. I will send it to her from Germany.

  Kolesnik translates and his wife nods, blushes, pleased. Micha is pleased, too.

  He watches Kolesnik while they eat. The old man’s hands are broad and hard. Thick skin over large bones, creased fingers with heavy knuckles and wide, flat nails. They move slowly, the hands, from plate to mouth, rest on the table while he chews. Micha looks up at his face, looks away. The old mans eyes were on him, too; watching him watching.

  After they have eaten, Micha and Kolesnik drink vodka together in the kitchen. The old man watches while Micha sets up the tape recorder, loading the batteries, setting the levels. Micha wrote to him about it; told him he would want to tape their conversations, but he can see that Kolesnik wasn’t expecting this today. Shit. Not on the first day.

  —I thought we could just get used to talking? With the tape running?

  —Yes. Good idea, good idea.

  Micha stops the tape, rewinds a little and presses play. Kolesnik’s Good idea hisses back into the room, tinny but clear. The old man smiles, but his eyes flick quickly away from Micha’s. Shocked at the sound of his own voice.

  They sit together in the kitchen among the pots and pans and plates and the tape turns, recording the silence. There is a new loaf of bread on the stove and onions in a box on the floor. Everything in its place; heavy boots by the door, leather mittens hanging from a shelf painted the same color as the wall. Elena Kolesnik walks through every so often, moving between house and garden, ignoring Micha, the rolling tape, working around him, as if he weren’t there.

  —We will stick to our arrangement.

  —Yes.

  Micha answers, although it wasn’t a question. Kolesnik nods. The skin around his eyes creases, resting somewhere between a squint and a smile. Micha knows it is a caution. The old man is drawing a line which both of them can see.

  Micha puts the batteries on charge before he goes to bed, the red light glowing in the black night. He makes a mental note to give Andrej extra money for electricity before he goes home.

  —Can you tell me about what happened? While the Germans were here?

  Kolesnik frowns, tilts his face up a little.

  —So many things happened here.

  Micha thinks he might be mocking him.

  —Yes. I know. But, please, if you could tell me what they did here.

  Micha shuts his eyes, briefly. He knows what they did: they killed. His request sounds naïve. He knows it will sound even more naïve when he listens to the tape again tonight.

  —You could start from when the Germans arrived, perhaps?

  —Yes.

  The old man clears his throat.

  —So. From when the army came?

  —Did they come first?

  —Yes.

  The old man’s shoulders are not set so squarely now, and he takes the cigarette Micha offers him. Kolesnik looks at Micha, old man at young. He has the same heavy skin on his face, thick folds hanging between cheekbone and jaw. It is paler, finer around the eyes, and it puckers there as he smokes.

  —1941, in the summer. We saw the planes and then came the army. And later the SS came with the police, and they stayed. We had a police station and a barracks, and they set up a new government here. Before it was the Communists, you see, so the Germans found new people and made a new government.

  —New Ger
man people?

  —Belarusians and Germans. The Germans were in charge, but they had Belarusians who worked for them, of course. It was the same in the police.

  —And after that?

  —We had curfews, new laws. They changed everything. Schools, roads, farms. We didn’t have the collectives anymore. The farmers had to work for the Germans instead. To feed the army in the east. Those sorts of things, you see. That’s how they changed it.

  Micha waits again, but he doesn’t think Kolesnik will say more of his own accord.

  —And then?

  —What do you want to know?

  —There were Jews living here?

  —Yes, there were Jews.

  —What happened to the Jews?

  —They were killed.

  Kolesnik’s face is blank. He looks straight at Micha while he speaks.

  —Can you tell me who did the killing?

  —Depends who was there. Sometimes just police, sometimes police, SS, army.

  —Waffen SS?

  —Everyone.

  —Germans?

  —Germans, Belarusians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians. Germans mainly.

  —Can you tell me about them?

  —What do you want to know?

  —Who were they? What did they do?

  The old man’s eyes are on his face.

  —I just want to know who the people were, what they did.

  Kolesnik nods, smokes.

  —You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.

  —No. I know that.

  Kolesnik’s words are hard, but his face isn’t. Not so blank anymore.

  —I only want to know about the Germans.

  —Yes, you said. What the Germans did to the Jews.

  —No details. Just people. Events.

  Micha lets the old man think about what he might say. Stretches his fingers, rubs at the blue-red crescent moons left by his nails on his palms.

  —First they made a ghetto. That was the first thing they did. And they stopped the Jews going to school, and also they didn’t let them work, they weren’t allowed to work for themselves anymore, you know. Perhaps that came first.

  Kolesnik shifts in his chair. Micha waits and the old man goes on.

  —Quite soon after they came, they killed all the men, or nearly all the men. All the old ones, sick ones, the boys. They left enough to keep the work up. In the sawmill, other places. Shot the rest.

  —Shot them?

  —Rounded them up in the town at night and in the morning they shot them. They thought the men would be the ones to fight back, you see.

  Kolesnik coughs, briefly, wide palm covering his mouth.

  —More Jews were killed again in the spring, and then they brought Jews from all around, all the villages, and put them in the ghetto. They used some to work and the rest they killed. It went on like that, you see?

  —How long? How long did that go on for?

  —The last shootings were in 1943.

  —Who did the shooting then?

  The old man frowns, irritable.

  —Like I said, police, SS, everyone.

  —Waffen-SS?

  —Don’t remember. Probably. It was in the woods, to the south, beyond the river. They were buried there.

  —When in ’43?

  —Late summer.

  —Late summer.

  Kolesnik stops speaking. Micha is thinking, Opa was here. Same time, same place.

  —No. Early autumn. There were haystacks in the fields.

  Micha looks up. The old man is looking out the window.

  Such a strange thing to remember. Killing and haystacks; they murdered and the seasons changed again.

  —After that. The Jews that were left, they were hiding in the villages, in the marshes, with the partisans. And the Germans, they went looking for them there.

  Micha stares at the old man in front of him. He saw all that. Remembers it. Murder, summer, autumn, winter, spring. The ghetto being emptied and filled and emptied again.

  Micha opens the notebook in front of him. It is reflex, something to do.

  —What are you writing?

  —Nothing.

  —Will you be writing things down while we speak?

  —I don’t know. I thought I might. Do you mind?

  Kolesnik blinks.

  —No. No.

  They sit in silence. The old man waiting dutifully for Micha to speak.

  But Micha can’t say anything, he can only think: Same time, same place. Summer, autumn 1943. He remembers it all.

  Micha closes his book again.

  —Sorry. Do you mind if we stop? I don’t think I want to go on today.

  In the evening, Micha cycles between the villages. Fast at first, but then slowing down.

  When he gets back to Andrej’s, he takes out the photo of Opa and lays it on the small table in front of him.

  Micha knows: he could take this picture with him to Kolesnik’s tomorrow, show him, be direct.

  This is my Opa. Do you remember him killing the Jews?

  Micha listens to the tape again. Same time, same place. He tries to bargain with himself.

  I don’t even need to tell him. Kolesnik doesn’t need to know. I don’t have to say Opa. I can just say Askan Boell.

  In bed, however, he thinks of Kolesnik. The old man’s broad, slow hands, the soft skin around his eyes. His blunt answers. Micha is still too afraid.

  —Can you remember any of the Germans?

  —Yes.

  —Can you tell me about them?

  —What do you want to know?

  —Doesn’t matter. Anything. Just whatever you remember.

  Kolesnik is unsure. Micha thinks he looks almost embarrassed for a while, struggling for words.

  —Anything. Start anywhere. Please.

  —I remember one.

  —What was his name?

  —Tillman. A doctor with the police. He taught them. How to shoot people. The cleanest way, you see. But you didn’t want details.

  —No.

  Kolesnik looks relieved. Micha is relieved. They both sit in silence again.

  —If you can remember the German names, maybe? I thought you could just tell me those?

  The old man remembers a few, quite a few. He lists them slowly, and Micha listens, writes, waits. Surnames and some first names, too, but Askan and Boell are not among them.

  —There were more than that, though? There must have been more?

  —It was a long time ago.

  —Yes.

  Micha thinks while the tape hums. Two more days. He decides to allow himself two more days before he shows the photo.

  —I remember one who shot himself.

  Not Opa.

  —He killed himself?

  —Behind the barracks. After one of the shootings.

  —He thought it was wrong?

  —Yes, I think so. I remember they shot the Jewish children, and then the next day he shot himself.

  —He did it, though? He shot the children.

  —Yes. He did.

  There are long, empty seconds while Micha can’t speak. Kolesnik is watching him, and Micha knows it.

  After a while the old man gets up. He pours vodka, one for each of them, and sets a small, full glass on the table in front of Micha. His hand shakes. Micha looks at him.

  —Sorry.

  Kolesnik nods. He waits until Micha drinks, and then he drinks, too.

  —I think it is better without details. That would be easier for you, probably?

  Kolesnik nods again. Micha thinks the old man might say something, too, and he waits, but the moment passes.

  Kolesnik points at the tape recorder, and though he is feeling braver now, and warmer from the vodka, Micha stays true to his word and turns it off.

  Late afternoon and Andrej plays cards with Micha, the rules of the game clarified through mimed agreement. Give and take: some German, some Belarusian variations, and some confusion and laughter, too.

  T
hey drink vodka and Micha’s stomach burns. He thinks of the paragraph left out of his letter, still unsure whether it was cowardice or good sense not to write those lines. Watches Andrej warm soup on the stove and cut bread. How to explain now. Where to start?

  He wanted to call Mina tonight. Walk to the phone box in the main square and speak to her. Instead, he eats his food, brushes his teeth and gets into bed.

  Kolesnik is standing out on his porch when Micha turns the corner on Andrej’s bike. The old man holds a hand up in greeting as Micha cycles up to the house, and Micha raises his hand, too. A silent hello.

  Kolesnik comes down the steps while Micha unties his bag from the handlebars.

  —Listen, Herr Lehner, I have been thinking.

  Micha stops. He looks up at the old man.

  —You want me to leave?

  Kolesnik looks tired; deep sleep creases in his face.

  —No. No. I was just wondering. Can I ask you something?

  —Yes. Of course.

  Micha leans the bicycle against the house, faces forward, smiles.

  —They didn’t tell you about me. The people at the museum. Did they?

  —They said you remembered the Germans.

  —Yes, but they didn’t tell you what I did while the Germans were here.

  —No.

  —No. I thought they had, you see, when you came before. But your questions. I just started wondering.

  Kolesnik stands very close, and his voice is soft. Micha holds his breath. The old man is so close, it’s like being touched.

  —I think I should tell you.

  —Yes?

  —Yes.

  —I’ll set up the tape, then?

  —No, I’ll just tell you here.

  Micha is confused. The old man is too close. Micha puts his hand out, holds the bike frame. He wants to turn away.

  —My father was a teacher. He taught me languages, Polish and German, and when the Germans came I worked with them. I collaborated. That is the word for it, yes?

  —Yes.

  Micha tries not to let the shock of it show in his face. He can see it. Kolesnik nods, he goes on.

  —Everyone knows. Here, around here. I thought that’s why you came to me, you see?

  —Yes. I see.

  Collaborated. It never occurred to Micha that it could have been that way.

  —It wasn’t regular, the work. But I translated for the SS, for the police. So I knew, you see? What they were doing.