Flaschenknopf, it seems, wants to enjoy this sandwich to the fullest, because he gets up from his chair and—treading heavily in his jackboots, though not without a spring in his step and glancing in all directions—goes over to the musicians.
“Horst Wessel Song,” he orders in a raspy voice.
“Come again?” the first violinist asks.
“Horst Wessel Song,” squeals Flaschenknopf.
“I’m afraid it’s not in our repertoire.”
“What?!?” hollers Flaschenknopf, foaming at the mouth. He wrenches the fiddle from the violinist’s hand and smashes it over his skull so hard that the wood cracks into pieces, and all that’s left in his clenched fist is the neck of the violin, its splintered belly dangling from it on catgut strings. Jiminy crickets, I think, this is going to get ugly. And it did, indeed. Because it’s Joška who gets up this time. She drops her fork and knife on the remainder of her open-faced sandwich, goes up to Flaschenknopf and nails him right in the kisser, so hard that he reels backward, and I can tell by the quality of her punch that she must have worked like a horse these years. Plucky girl, I think to myself. Someone in a corner applauds.
But Flaschenknopf’s out of his mind now, and he jumps at Joška with his fists cocked. But Gerstengranne comes between them with a chair, shouting: “That’s no way to treat a young lady.” Flaschenknopf: “Lady? You mean whore!” whereupon Gerstengranne lets the chair fly, the seat of it whizzing right down on his head, while Joška lands a well-placed kick right between his legs; he hisses like a rattlesnake and falls back on the bandstand, hitting the nape of his neck on the edge, enough to finish him off, so thoroughly that no one knows if he’s still alive or, hopefully, has croaked on the spot. Huber gets involved at this point, but not to assist his pal Flaschenknopf. He snarls at Gerstengranne: “You’re fraternizing with enemies of the Reich.” And at that moment two cops with pistols and armbands enter from the adjoining room, yell at everyone, and arrest whatever they can get their hands on. Gerstengranne, Joška and the violinist are rounded up, along with me, of course, and Huber who’s the key witness, as well as four others who foolishly answered “yes” when asked, “Did you see it happen?” while a dozen people who’d been right in the middle of the action claimed they hadn’t seen a thing, that everything was fine and dandy. Flaschenknopf, who was out cold, was carted away in an ambulance, while the rest of us had to wait for the “Green Anton,” which is what they call police cars.
Suffice it to say, the outing was a memorable one. The first violinist, white as a sheet, keeps repeating, “Já nic, já muzikant”—I didn’t do a thing, I’m just a musician. Joška bit her lip. “I really gave it him,” she says, “right where it counts. He won’t be forgetting that for a while.” Joška’s half-eaten sandwich is still lying on her plate, and the head waiter asks: “Who’s going to pay for all this?” Gerstengranne is eager to pick up the tab for his and our part, but the police make a fuss ’cause they’ve already got him in handcuffs. Gerstengranne is a decent guy. So I pull out my wallet and cough up his share too, and he says, “I’ll settle that later,” to which Huber jeers: “If we let you, you traitor.” Dear God in Heaven! These Germans. My Mister and Missus were also Germans. The only Germans worth putting up with are the ones who run from the Germans.
III
They’ve put away Joška. Me they let go, because top-boots Huber attested that I’d sat at the table motionless, eating my Napfkuchen. “Doughnuts,” I say, ’cause I don’t want to owe him anything. Still, they let me go. The violinist has to do three months in Pankrác prison, so he can learn the “Horst Wessel Song” there, they say. Gerstengranne, I was told, had to report to his commander, and no one knows what happened to him then. It’s also unclear if his wife will ever get the pink underwear. I was lucky those cretins didn’t question me about my present circumstances. When they asked about my profession, all I told them was “woman of private means.” That made them more polite. If I’d told them “former maidservant” they probably would have caused me problems. The truth is exhausting. Anyway, I really am “private” now, ’cause I live off my own money. Not just any money, but cash, since I’m not about to put it in a savings account. That would look too suspicious. I’ll stay in the apartment as long as it’s paid for. And after that? Heaven only knows. If I try to sell off some of the stuff, they’ll probably accuse me of stealing. But if I hold on to it, I don’t know what to do with it. Once again, problems with the truth! Maybe the best thing would be to just leave it all behind, grab a suitcase and vanish one evening. But that would mean losing at least ten grand. I can’t afford a loss like that, couldn’t allow myself. The things they demand from people like me, it’s really too much these days.
Maybe I could ask the friends of my Mister and Missus for advice. But first of all, most of them are Jewish and have got enough on their minds as it is, or, second, they’ve up and left already; and if they’re Christian I have to be careful they don’t end up turning me in. They say it’s mostly the Jews they’re after, and plenty of my Czech friends are perfectly fine with that. As far as they’re concerned, all the Germans living here are Jews, even the ones who are Christians ten times over. They don’t discriminate. And what about the invaders? Who really knows? My friend Ella from Chlum Svaté Maří was about to marry a real Jew. He’s pious, she said, and pious is good whether you’re Jewish or not. She was even willing to do the Jewish thing herself. The Missus shook her head when Ella told her about it, but when she saw how persistent my friend was she eventually recommended a Jewish clergyman who might give her lessons. I said to her: “Ella, why are you doing this? What’s gonna happen when you want to celebrate Christmas with a Christmas tree and all that jazz? The town you come from is a pilgrimage site.”—“Makes no difference,” she says, “I’ll celebrate my Christmas and he’ll celebrate his.” She went to the Jewish temple every Friday, already in the afternoon. “Mass starts at five,” she said, and the marriage was all set. Then all the trouble with the invaders starts and the husband-to-be says to Ella: “Listen, I’ve gotta get out of here. My boss is well-informed and advised me to clear out as fast as I can. He’s leaving next week. He gave me money. Why don’t you come with me.”—“But where to?” asks Ella. “To America, of course. We can still make it.”—“What?” cries Ella, “To America? Me? You want me to live with savages? A woman like me from Chlum Svaté Maří?” And so she let him go. But a few weeks later she came to me: “Hey, I feel something inside me and I don’t know what to do.” So I sent her to Paní Bulinová, who’s experienced in those things. At first she said, “I’m retired, and I feel like puking when I see a woman’s belly,” but she took on Ella after all, and everything turned out fine. At first Ella said, “It’s because I prayed to the Holy Mother of God of Chlum Svaté Maří when I wanted to turn Jewish.” But she still hasn’t gotten over the loss of her fiancé, just like my mother hasn’t gotten over hers, the one she had before my father, the guy I got slapped in the face for mentioning. But Ella, she says: “The Jews are no different from other people, I know that well enough.” Of course she should know it. That Nazi floozy from the fourth floor, on the other hand, the one with the awful subhuman child, she told me not long ago in the hallway: “The most important thing is to get rid of all the Jews.” So I asked her, “Did one of them ever do anything to you?”—“God forbid, I’ve never even talked to one. But everyone knows how awful they are.” I said no more.
Our Missus was a Jewess. But she was a much better person than Director Proschetitzky, who might have gone to church every Sunday but locked up the sugar and the butter and the flour and the eggs and the coffee and even the paper napkins before she left, ’cause she took me and everyone else for thieves. She lugged around a big key chain on her belt, with at least twenty different keys, and all day long you heard nothing but the constant unlocking and locking of cabinets and drawers, until her husband finally poisoned himself with cyanide. I went to the Lichtenbergs’ when it happened. That Pro
schetitzky woman wouldn’t believe it at first that her husband would kill himself. And when they proved it to her through the autopsy, she told me afterwards: “He was always somewhat mentally disturbed.” I became furious and screamed at her: “Anyone living with you, Frau Proschetitzky, would have to be crazy not to kill himself.” And then I left for good.
They let out Joška, just three weeks later, which really surprised me. But I nearly had a stroke when she brought the guy in the black uniform and jackboots with her, that Flaschenknopf fellow, the one she kicked in the groin at the “Quelle.” I wasn’t going to let them in at first, but then she said, “Marška, don’t be silly. If it wasn’t for him I’d still be in there. They would have sent me to a camp or something. He’s not as bad as he looks.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, resuming the rigmarole where Joška left off, “it’s true what she says. Had too much alcohol beforehand, which is why I’ve revised my original statements. Was all just a clumsy mishap. Humbly ask your forgiveness.” And then he adds: “Fräulein Joška’s energetic behavior very much impressed me and filled me with admiration.”
So basically a kick in the groin is how a woman makes a good impression on these people. But that can’t be everything. He must have made a strong impression on Joška too. She wouldn’t have thrashed him like that otherwise. It seems to me now that the brawl was nothing but a declaration of love. She put such a spoke in his wheel that he couldn’t shake the feeling and the smell of her, and told himself while convalescing: I’ve got to have her! then scouted her out with every trick in the book. And now she’s grateful to him, of course, and thinks the world of him. I don’t know what I should do or say. The bastard comes almost every day or evening. I hear the two of them going at it at night and feel all queasy in the loneliness of my bed. The worst thing, though, is the uncertainty. Because secrets are revealed in bed. Not long ago I told her: “Joška, don’t you have any sense of honor?” And she came right back at me: “What do you want me to do? If I don’t go with him, he’ll get us into trouble. He knows who your mister and missus were, and where you’ve got your money from.”—“What?” I scream, “You told him that too?”—“He had me over a barrel, and tormented me to the point that I felt like nothing mattered anymore.”—“Did you tell him how much?”—“How much? You haven’t even told me. But he’s really nice, and always brings little presents for me.”—“I’d rather you had a Czech sewer cleaner. I wish the earth would swallow me every time that creature on the fourth floor winks at me. I could murder her. And it’s all because of you.”—“You can’t have everything the way you want. People get used to anything. Once learnt, never forgotten.”—“Cut the goddamn proverbs. You can use them to justify murder. How do you know how many people this Flaschenknopf hasn’t knocked off already.”—“Oh, come on! He’s the son of a teacher and his uncle’s a pastor.”—“Good God, a Protestant too. Those are the worst. If he were Jewish at least.”—“Jewish? Were you dropped on your head as a baby, or what? It’s his job to kill them. He always sings that song to me: When Jewish blood spurts from the knife, then all is twice as nice.”
I gave her such a smack in the face it was all she could do to keep from falling. And she hissed at me: “Watch out you don’t wind up in the clink yourself. It wouldn’t be hard for me to arrange.” At which point I became truly scared, and saw that our sisterly coexistence was over, that I had to fear her now like an enemy, that there’d be no taking it easy anymore, that she can crush me like a cockroach if she wants to. And I stammered: “I didn’t mean it that way. What’s the harm in smacking your little sister now and then.” And I was happy all she said was: “Well then. You know where I stand. Just don’t cause any problems.”
I won’t cause problems anymore, big or small. I don’t say a thing to her, and just let it slide. I used to think that people should be like interlocking gears, where the one always keeps the other in check a little bit so you don’t go rolling downhill out of control. Now I think: Let it roll. I’m just wondering how it’s come to this. First the Mister and Missus went away and left me all their money and belongings. I’m not sure anymore if that was such a good thing. Then I found some more money. That probably wasn’t a good thing either. Then I met Gerstengranne. That was the biggest misfortune of all. Why did all of this happen to me? Did he have to buy her the pink underwear and those things, in Prague of all places? And couldn’t he have found someone else besides me? It would have all been fine if it weren’t for Joška. But no, I had to have Joška here so I could flaunt it in front of her and boss her around. And now she’s giving me orders. That’s the fate of people who want to lord it over others. There wouldn’t have been a brawl at the “Quelle,” and that scoundrel in top boots wouldn’t be lounging around here either. Joška doesn’t lift a finger, and always runs around all gussied up. I have to cook and clean, and am now my sister’s servant on top of it. And whenever I protest she looks at me and I know exactly what she’s thinking: “Shut up and be happy they don’t come haul you away for questioning. You can thank me for that.” The people in the building look away when I pass them, ’cause of course they see that guy coming and going. Only the lady on the fourth floor acts friendly, which makes me want to scream.
And I have to fork over cash too. He doesn’t even take her out. She takes him out. I’ve already shelled out a big part of the money. I have to hide what’s still left of it. Every night I ponder for hours where the safest place would be. Not long ago I came up with the idea of burying it in some grave at the cemetery. I even went there, and bought a bouquet of red gladiolas so I wouldn’t attract too much attention, and walked around for ages till I found a really old, untended grave that no one was ever likely to visit. Cemetery VIII, Section 6, Number 176. One of the arms of the wooden cross was broken off. I laid down the gladiolas there. The grave was really secluded, tucked away behind lilac bushes. I knelt down and was about to start digging with a cake server when, sure enough, a caretaker comes and says, “I’m really glad you want to plant something and that someone is taking care of these abandoned graves. I assume it’s a relative of yours? Can I help you?”—“No,” I say, “thank you. I just came to check on things and wanted to pray a little.” And I really did pray for this unknown dead person, underground and long forgotten. Then I packed up my boodle and went back home. Maybe, when all is said and done, the only reason I had the money and all the anxiety that went along with it was just so that some unknown dead person with a broken cross would get prayed for. What a life!
How can it be that something completely sickens you and still you guard it like a treasure? My wages never sickened me. The thing is, I used to work for them. But the money that fell in my lap has something alien about it. Yet still I protect it and coddle it, always wrapping it up like a baby in swaddling clothes. Why did I ever have Joška come? I’m much too kind. She’s young and pretty and dissolute. She carries around her capital with her. She can always pick up someone. What she doesn’t know is that her black-clad Flaschenknopf is chasing after me too. Not long ago, when I was hanging the freshly laundered curtains, he came up from behind and shook the ladder until I came tumbling down into his arms. It was awful, but not unpleasant. Ever since then, it’s been something different each day. And it always ends up with me being alone with him. It was never like that before. Then, when Joška comes, they go at it like always, they hole themselves up, and I think she squeals extra loud just to get on my nerves.
Today at lunchtime I got back from shopping and noticed that something wasn’t right. I always put the folded laundry in the dresser in a very precise and specific manner, a way that only I know, because I thought of it myself. The pressed handkerchiefs, for example, are always staggered, their corners just touching the hem of the underskirts. It’s not about order, it’s so I can find out right away if someone’s been messing with my things. Everything was well-ordered today, but now the corners aren’t right. Something was wrong with the other drawers too. I always put a little po
wder on the brass knobs, but today it was like they were polished. Obviously it was Joška, she was after my money. She was in my wardrobe too. I measured the rod with a tape measure and marked it off with a pencil, and I always put the hangers at an equal distance from each other. No trace of that now. Same with the couch cushions. The mattresses weren’t perfectly aligned, the cushions were not in a row, and in the middle, where I always punch it with my fist to make it look a little fluffier, it was flat.
Of course she didn’t find a thing. ’Cause I always carry the remaining bills in two pouches on my thighs, left and right, underneath my skirt. My rear end is wide enough, and this way no one will notice. Whenever I have to get undressed, I do it in such a way that I always keep an eye on the two money pouches. Administering an estate is a real pain. With a magpie like Joška, there’s no safe hiding place in any apartment. Anyway, they don’t build apartments for people who’ve always got something to hide from each other, even though most people probably do.
The rent is due again soon. Joška, of course, says, “Don’t worry about it. Flash—that’s what she calls Flaschenknopf—can straighten out that kind of thing, no problem. With him around, there’s no need to pay rent. And Herzig, the building owner, is a Yid anyway; they’re coming for him tonight.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ha-ha, I know more than you think, ’cause what I know doesn’t come from using my head. I learn things my own way. I know, for example, that the rent is due, and I told Flash I want to stay here. You don’t plan on leaving, do you?”
“But I could have paid the rent! And Herzig might not have even asked.”
The Last Bell Page 4