The old man nods to himself, briefly.
—And then I shot Jews. Other people too, partisans, but mainly Jews.
—I see.
—I know what we arranged. I said I didn’t want to talk about it, but that was when I thought you knew. I realized it is impossible to talk about these times unless you know. So I thought I could tell you and then we could go on.
Micha nods. He unties his bag from the handlebars, fingers struggling with the knots. He can’t stand still. He busies himself with the buckles and straps and the bike, climbs up the five steps to the door. Get on with it. Get a few feet of air between himself and the old man, too.
Micha is shaken.
Micha thinks, I didn’t want to know. But it is too late.
—You were interviewing today?
It is Micha’s first phone call home, and Mina sounds happy to hear from him.
—Kind of. Couldn’t really get very far.
—He didn’t want to answer your questions?
—No. It was me. I just couldn’t do it. I left after about ten minutes, cycled around all day.
Mina is quiet for a while. Micha squats down on the floor, leaning back against the phone booth.
—Does he remember your Opa?
—I mean, I haven’t asked him yet.
—Oh.
He murdered Jews.
Micha listens for her reaction. Nothing.
—Kolesnik, I mean. Not Opa. Maybe Opa, too. Probably. Mina. He killed people. He told me today. I just couldn’t stay after that. I couldn’t speak or look at him.
—Are you okay?
—No.
—Micha.
—It’s fine, Mina, sorry. I’m not okay, but it’s fine.
—Micha. Why don’t you just come home?
He knows he could. When he started the phone call, he thought he would. Now that Mina has said it, he’s not sure anymore. He keeps quiet, hears Mina sigh.
—What about you? Are you okay?
—Yes, I’m fine.
—Any news?
—Signed up for a birthing class.
—Really? When does that start?
—Next week. Wednesday night. For mothers and partners. Will you be there?
—Next Wednesday. Don’t know. The one after, though. They’ll go on until the birth, won’t they?
—Yes.
Micha stands up, pushes more coins into the slot in the phone.
—Listen, Micha, I think I’m going to go. I’ve got an early start.
—Oh.
—If you’re okay.
—Yes, I’m fine.
Micha listens for noises in the background on the phone, tries to imagine where Mina is standing in their home. No refrigerator hum, no traffic, no TV. In the hall, lying on the floor with her legs up against the wall. No slippers, just socks on.
—Look. I would come back for the class, only it would mean leaving tomorrow probably, because of the train connections. And that’s a bit soon, you know.
—Yes. I know. We’ll catch up.
—Yes.
—You don’t have to go back to see that man if you don’t want to, you know.
—I know.
—If he upsets you, I mean.
—Yes. I know. I just think I’m so close to finding out.
He says it; he knows it; what he heard today doesn’t change it; the question is still there.
—There must be other ways. Other people to ask.
—I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that. What he did. I mean, it’s terrible, but it probably makes him the best person to ask.
Mina says nothing at first and then she sighs.
—I see. Yes.
Micha hears Mina tapping the phone. With her fingernails, or with a pen. He wonders if she’s drawing on her hands.
—Okay. Well, if you’re okay, I’ll say goodbye.
Micha is quiet. He doesn’t want her to go.
—Bye, Micha.
—Bye.
—Bye.
The old man talks half into the microphone, half to Micha. He is nervous today. First day back in the kitchen. Micha finds it hard to look at him.
—I live here in the village now, but I was born in the next town, and I grew up there, in the first Communist times, before the Nazis came.
Kolesnik lights another cigarette.
—I was nineteen when the Germans came. I translated, and then when I was twenty-one I joined the police.
Micha looks at the tape recorder, eyes fixed straight ahead.
—After that, when the Communists came back, I was in prison.
—Here?
—In Russia. For seventeen years.
Eight more than Opa.
There is silence.
—We can stop.
The old man blinks. Outside, a car passes.
—Maybe it will be easier tomorrow. Another day to get used to it. You can think of some questions, what you want to know from me. Write them down, and you can ask me tomorrow.
Micha has the window open because it is a hot night. Lies on top of the blanket, scratchy wool against the backs of his knees. Insects bat around the light, swarm in the pool of light on the wall.
He can’t sleep. The dark is too full and close, he can’t rest: he closes his eyes and it is all still there.
Micha is grateful for dawn.
—The man who killed himself. The German. I was thinking that you said he was ordered to kill the children.
—Yes.
—What happened if you disobeyed? I mean, could he have refused to do it?
—Yes.
—Yes?
This morning Kolesnik was ready for him, waiting. Cigarettes laid out on the table, vodka and two glasses. No sign of Elena.
The old man shifts his chair forward now. A few centimeters closer in to the table. He thinks a moment or two.
—There were orders, but we were also volunteers.
—You were ordered to volunteer?
—In a way. Yes.
—In what way?
Micha can be impatient now. He can show it, and he knows the old man will still answer.
—You could say if you didn’t want to. If you didn’t want to, you didn’t have to.
—There was no punishment?
—No.
—So you think he wanted to kill the children, this man?
—No, I don’t think so.
—No?
—No.
—But if he didn’t have to, if he didn’t want to, why did he do it?
Kolesnik doesn’t answer. Micha takes a cigarette, slides one across the table to Kolesnik. The old man lights it using the end of his old one.
—Couldn’t he have shot to one side, even? Pretended to shoot them but miss?
Kolesnik shrugs. Micha thinks, You, Kolesnik. Did you aim to kill or aim to miss?
—Someone else was always responsible.
Micha looks across the wide kitchen table at the old man, and Kolesnik shrugs again. Not a dismissive gesture; defeated. Micha thinks, Aimed to kill.
—What does that mean?
—Someone else said it was the thing to do. Even if they didn’t order it, not really order it, they still said it was the thing to do. So you weren’t responsible, you see? And then you did it, even though they didn’t order you to do it. So you did it voluntarily. And that way, the ones who gave the orders weren’t responsible either.
Kolesnik draws the circle, and Micha follows it around and around.
And then he just sits.
And then after a while, Kolesnik speaks again.
—It is difficult for me to tell you. I can never explain and you can never understand. I was thinking today that this is good. It is good that you cannot know what was in my head. You are too different.
And Micha thinks, That is too easy. It is too easy to say that.
—Are you different now?
—Maybe so, maybe so. I can’t really say. It’s not for me to say that.
>
—Does it still make sense to you now? What you did?
—No. No. But I do remember that it did back then.
Micha writes to Mina. He can’t phone and tell her what he wants to say. Afraid to say it out loud. That that might make it true. He knows it will disgust her. She might not read it, but he will at least have written it down.
Maybe it was easy. In the circle, like Kolesnik said.
Micha thinks about Opa. Holding a gun. A trench in front of him and the black-green of the trees behind.
Did he aim to miss? If he did, even once, does that make him different? Less bad? Why?
Same time, same place. They came here to kill. That’s what he was here for.
Micha puts the letter in an envelope and seals it. He feels sick, the need to lie down. He takes the letter with him to the bathroom, tears it up and flushes it down the toilet.
For two days Micha doesn’t go back. He doesn’t plan it that way, but first one day goes by, and then another.
It’s not a good connection, and Mina’s voice is tiny amid all the noise. Mutti has been calling her again. Micha knows Mina is angry with him, but he has to keep asking her to speak up. He interrupts her; unwittingly; bad timing; his words overlapping with hers. Each time, he makes it worse.
—She’ll think I’m not passing on the messages.
—No, she’ll just think I’m being lazy. A bad son.
—Why can’t you just phone her, from there?
—I can’t.
—Why, Micha?
—Pardon?
—I said why.
—She’ll know it’s long distance, I’ll have to lie to her.
—You’re making me lie to her. I don’t want to lie to her.
—Has my father called, too?
—I spoke to him last week, I told you.
—Yes.
—How much longer will you be there?
—Mina, I can’t hear.
—How much longer?
—A few days, maybe. I can get a train at the end of the week.
—A few days.
—Yes. You’re okay, aren’t you? The baby’s okay?
—Fuck yes, Michael. Still pregnant, still fucking fine.
She is quiet then. So is Micha. Letting the dust settle.
—I’m leaving the answering machine on. If your parents call, I won’t pick up.
—Will you pick up when I call?
—You’ll be back soon. You don’t need to call again.
Micha holds his breath. Mina can be cruel. So can he.
—My money’s running out.
The pile of coins stands crooked on the shelf by Micha’s fingers. He looks away from them, pretending to himself they are not there.
—Yes, okay. See you soon.
—See you soon.
They wait in silence for the line to go dead. Mina hangs up before the click and burr.
Kolesnik has braced himself against the chair. Ashtray and matches lying ready on the polished wooden arm. Micha hands him the day’s cigarettes and he smokes.
—Did you hate the Jews?
—Yes and no.
—What does that mean?
—It means I found someone to hate.
—Yes?
—I was angry. About my father, about the villages, the farms, the hunger. The Communists.
—What about your father?
—They killed him.
—The Communists?
—Yes. I remember they took him away with five other men.
—What for?
—He was a teacher. He wouldn’t teach what they said. They had taken him away before, but this time he didn’t come back.
Micha looks at the old man. There are no tears, his voice betrays no sadness, he just sits still in his chair, across the kitchen table from Micha.
—So you hated the Jews for that? For your father?
—Yes, you could say that.
—Were the men who took your father Jews?
—No, they were not Jewish. The Communists who took my father were not Jewish.
Kolesnik raises one hand, broad palm held open in emphasis.
—So why didn’t you hate the Communists?
—I did hate them, but they got away. Before the Germans came. Without being punished for what they had done.
—So you wanted to punish someone?
Kolesnik shrugs. Defeated again.
—You wanted to punish someone for what the Communists had done, and the Jews were there, so you punished them?
—I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t sound right. I know it was wrong, you see? I can’t explain it better than that.
Micha repeats, to himself, I know it was wrong. The room is blue with smoke.
—Did you know it was wrong even then?
Kolesnik nods.
—So why did you do it?
Kolesnik sits in silence and stares at the floor. Even after Micha asks him again, he doesn’t reply. Micha turns off the tape and goes outside and stands in the summer air. When he gets back, Kolesnik is still in the chair.
—You are recording?
—Yes.
—They killed my father. I was angry and hungry, my whole family, and then the Germans came, they told me the Jews were to blame. They told everyone that, you see. All Jews are Communists. Which wasn’t true.
—No?
—No. Some of the Jews here were Communists. But the Belarusians were, too. And the Ukrainians.
—So it was a lie?
—Yes.
—And you believed it?
—No.
—You knew it was a lie?
—Yes. But it was a lie that made sense.
—What does that mean? Can you explain that?
—I know it is bad to say it. I know it is wrong. I knew it then, too.
Kolesnik looks at Micha; Micha looks past him. He doesn’t want to hear this. I don’t need to know. Not him. Opa. Ask him about Askan Boell.
—The first massacres were in 1941.
—Yes.
—And you were translating then. For the Germans.
—Yes, but I saw it all.
—You saw the Germans in 1943, too?
—Yes, and I killed.
Micha can feel the old man looking at him, looking for eye contact. Micha is thinking of a new question, but the old man speaks first.
—I made the choice, you see? I watched the Germans kill the Jews for almost two years, and then I killed, too. It was my choice, do you see?
Micha doesn’t want to answer. He thinks he might turn off the tape, go outside again. He doesn’t know why Kolesnik is telling him this. Not sure he wants to hear any more today.
—Do you see?
—Yes. Well, no. You said you were angry. About your father.
—Yes.
—You thought that killing the Jews would help.
—You’re not listening.
Blunt. Composed. Micha looks at Kolesnik, briefly. Meets the old man’s eyes.
—You thought it would help, but it didn’t.
—It is hard to say this, Herr Lehner, even after so many years. It is difficult to know this about myself, do you see? I can give all these reasons. I lost my father, I was hungry, I wanted to help my family. Orders were orders, I was not responsible, they said the Jews were Communists, Communists caused my pain. Over and over I can say these things. Nothing changes. I chose to kill.
Micha can feel the old man looking at him, but he can’t see him. He presses his fists hard against his eyes, lifts them again, lets the black blood-ache slip away.
Nothing changes.
The old man smokes and looks at the floor.
• • •
Micha writes to Mina in his notebook, knowing he won’t tear the pages out to send. Knowing he should take the paper to Kolesnik, be brave enough to read it out to him.
Did Opa kill? Because he thought he had to? Or just because he could? Did he feel sick, or sorry? Did he hate? Did he cry? Did he
think it was right?
—Did they talk about it? Afterwards. Did you hear what they said?
—I wasn’t one of them. I mean, I was Belarusian.
—You didn’t talk with them?
—I was only there if I was needed to translate.
—So you didn’t hear what they said.
—No. I’m not sure they did discuss it.
—Why do you say that?
—It was always quiet when we drove back. They drank a lot in the trucks and nobody said anything very much. I think the ones who stayed behind in the villages didn’t want to hear about it, and maybe the ones who went to the forests and did the shooting didn’t want to speak. I never wanted to speak.
Kolesnik’s cigarette has burnt down. He flicks the long ash into the ashtray, lights himself another.
—Even before I did it. The first killings, people talked about them, in the village, Belarusian people, but then they stopped. Everyone knew it was going on and no one spoke about it. I knew it was happening and I never said anything.
—And after you did it?
—I got drunk. There was always lots to eat and drink in the evenings afterwards. Lots of music. You didn’t want to speak. Just drink and eat, hear the music, really loud.
• • •
Today we just sat, Mina. It was the same yesterday, too.
Micha could find no courage to ask; Kolesnik stayed with him all day. Let the young man be silent in his kitchen, gave him vodka, bread, found him rags for his tears. They sat for hours, and the tape rolled on and on, and then it stopped, and Micha turned it over, started the recording again.
Micha cycles to Kolesnik’s village, but keeps going, on toward the town. He has the tape recorder with him, but he knows the day will be silent again, so he goes instead to the museum.
The girl by the door doesn’t recognize him at first, but after he smiles and says hello, she nods and points to the visitor’s book.
—Yes. In the spring.
Micha doesn’t go to the uniforms or the killings this time. He stays on the other side of the room. Spends the morning with the photos of families, their houses, objects from their homes. A pair of gloves, a bolt of cloth, a small silver cup. Handwriting in a ledger, pencil-scribbled lists, personal notes in the margins of a book.
A man’s leather shoe, good and heavy. Heel worn down on the outside, molded by the wearer’s step. As he walked around the village, from town to town. And then later only around his home or perhaps just as far as his neighbor’s house; pacing out the narrow limits of the ghetto.
The Dark Room Page 23