Jakob the Liar

by Jurek Becker

  Jacob locks the door from the inside; he says, “So nobody will disturb us.” Then he goes on: “And now sit down here,” pointing to the iron bedstead.

  Lina has already looked around a bit, so far without any result, yet she sits down without protest; under these circumstances he could demand a much greater display of obedience from her.

  “Where do you keep the radio?”

  “It won’t hurt you to wait.”

  He squats down in front of her, takes her chin in one hand, turns her face toward him, forcing her to look at him, and starts off with the necessary preparation: “Now listen carefully to what I have to say. First of all you must promise me you’ll be good and do everything that I’m now going to ask of you. Sacred word of honor?”

  The sacred word of honor, intended only for occasions of the utmost importance, is given impatiently; her eyes demand that he cut short the preliminaries.

  “You’ll sit here keeping perfectly still. The radio is behind that partition. I’ll go behind there now and turn it on, then we’ll both hear it play. But if I notice you getting up, I’ll shut it off again immediately.”

  “Can’t I see it?”

  “Absolutely not!” says Jacob firmly. “Actually little girls like you aren’t even allowed to hear it either, it’s strictly forbidden. But I’m making an exception with you. Agreed?”

  What can she do, she’s being blackmailed and must submit. Hearing is better than nothing, although she had been looking forward to actually seeing it. Besides, she still might, she might, you never know.

  “What is your radio going to play?”

  “I don’t know in advance, I have to switch it on first.”

  The preparations are completed, nothing more can be done to protect himself. Jacob stands up. He goes to the partition, pauses in the little passage, and looks once more at Lina, with an expression intended, if it were possible, to chain her to the bedstead; then he finally disappears. Jacob’s eyes must first get used to the unfamiliar light, which hardly reaches beyond the partition, and he knocks the bucket with his foot.

  “Was that the radio?”

  “No, not yet. It’ll be another moment or two.”

  Something is needed to sit on, for the stunt may take a while once it gets started. Jacob turns the bucket bottom side up and settles down on it. At this late stage he is faced with the question of what kind of program the radio has to offer, Lina having already touched briefly on this, and the time is ripe for an answer. He should have thought about this earlier, should have done all sorts of things, perhaps even practiced a bit, but as things are the radio will have to play whatever comes to mind, whether it be music or talk. Jacob remembers how, eons ago, his father could imitate an entire brass band, with tuba, trumpets, trombones, and a big drum, enough to send the family into fits of laughter. After supper, if the day had passed without any major annoyance, he could sometimes be persuaded. But Jacob wonders whether he can manage to produce an orchestra like that the very first time; his father spent hours polishing his act. Lina is waiting silently in her winter dress, and Jacob is already sweating, although the performance hasn’t even begun yet.

  “Here we go,” says Jacob, ready for whatever suggests itself.

  A fingernail flicks against the bucket, that’s how radios are switched on, then the air is filled with buzzing and whistling. He skips the warming-up period, a detail for connoisseurs, Jacob’s radio has the correct temperature right away, and the station is also quickly selected.

  An announcer with a high voice —- the first thing to suggest itself, as has been said —- comes on the air: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, far and near, you are about to hear an interview with the British prime minister Mr. Winston Churchill.”

  Then the announcer releases the microphone and a man with a midlevel voice is heard, the reporter: “Good evening, Mr. Churchill.”

  Then Churchill himself, in a very deep voice and with a noticeable foreign accent: “Good evening one and all!”

  REPORTER: “I am delighted to welcome you to our studio. And here is my first question: Would you please tell our listeners how from your vantage point you assess the present situation?”

  CHURCHILL: “That’s not too difficult. I am firmly convinced that the whole schlimazl will soon be over, in another few weeks at most.”

  REPORTER: “And may one ask the source of this reassuring conviction?”

  CHURCHILL (somewhat embarrassed): “Oh well, things are progressing nicely on all fronts. It is fairly obvious that the Germans won’t be able to hold out much longer.”

  REPORTER: “Wonderful! And what is the situation in the area of Bezanika specifically?”

  There is a minor interruption. Either it’s the sweating and the cold air in the basement, or something has got into Jacob’s nose; whatever the cause, reporter, announcer, and Mr. Churchill all have to sneeze at the same time.

  REPORTER (the first to recover himself): “Gesundheit, Mr. Prime Minister!”

  CHURCHILL (after blowing his nose): “Thanks. But back to your question. In the Bezanika area, things are looking particularly bad for the Germans. The Russians are having it all their own way, and Bezanika has been in their hands for some time. Only yesterday they won an important battle on the River Rudna, if you know where that is.”

  REPORTER: “Yes, I’m familiar with that river.”

  CHURCHILL: “Then you also know where the front is now. I’m certain it can’t last much longer.”

  REPORTER (delighted): “That will please our listeners very much, if they don’t happen to be Germans. Thank you very much, Mr. Churchill, for this enlightening conversation.”

  CHURCHILL: “Don’t mention it.”

  ANNOUNCER (after a brief pause): “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the promised interview with the British prime minister Mr. Winston Churchill. Good night.”

  A fingernail flicks against the bucket, that’s how radios are switched off, and Jacob wipes the sweat from his forehead. A bit thin, that interview, he thinks, and also a bit above Lina’s head, but unfortunately this will never change. He hasn’t the inventive gifts of a Sholem Aleichem, don’t ask too much of a harassed man, that should be enough for today.

  Jacob reappears; the situation proves highly satisfactory not only in the area of Bezanika but no less so here in the basement. At last Lina’s own ears have heard a radio, strictly forbidden for children, and she is thrilled. It might have turned out differently, disguising his voice had been a step onto virgin soil, and in three variations too; Lina might have icily demanded that he stop this nonsense and turn on the radio. Jacob would have died of heart failure, the mere thought of it, but Lina wouldn’t dream of saying anything of the kind. The situation couldn’t be better, he sees that at once.

  “Did you like that?”

  “Oh yes!”

  Satisfaction on both sides. Jacob stands in front of her and is about to suggest they leave — We’ve had our fun; bed is waiting — but Lina says, “You don’t mean it’s all over.”

  “What else?”

  “I’d like to hear some more.”

  “No, no, that’s enough,” he says, but without much conviction. A brief verbal skirmish, it’s already too late, she would like to hear more, some other time perhaps, anything, can’t get enough, all he has to do is turn the radio on again, she’ll be happy with anything. Jacob sneezes again, this evening the whole world has to sneeze. As he blows his nose he studies her expression and finds no suspicion reflected in it. That settles it.

  “What do you want to hear?”

  So Jacob is again sitting on the bucket, in complete silence, now seized by ambition. Ambition in terms of the brass band: he can’t get it out of his head, although it has been silent for a good forty years, covered with dust, the instruments all rusty. Jacob is ready to take a chance, so determined is he today.

  First there is the flicking, then the buzzing and whistling; the second time it already sounds more convincing, and then the music
starts in a rush, with drum and cymbals taking the first bar. Drum and cymbals are followed by a solitary trombone, which needs a few notes to get onto the right track. The tune is uncertain, Jacob tells me, an improvised series of notes, interspersed with a variety of familiar themes but with no particular pattern; the only certainty is that it is a march. Tentatively the feet take over the percussion, supported by the fingers using the bucket, thus leaving the mouth free for the remaining instruments. For one trombone does not a brass band make; it must be relieved by the trumpet, and that in turn by the falsetto of the clarinet, and from time to time a tuba note from the back of the throat. Jacob loses, as one says, all inhibition. The only constraint he submits to — despite his haste his ear has not forgotten a certain rule, strictly observed by his father — is that vowels be used sparingly, if possible avoided altogether, since instruments give voice only in consonants or, to be more precise, only in sounds that can be approximated by consonants and are remotely similar but not identical to them. So his lips don’t produce a simple ta-ta-ra-ta or la-li-la; he has to shape sounds not found in any alphabet. The basement reverberates with sounds never yet heard. Maybe too much effort for the sake of a child like Lina, who would be satisfied with less polish, but let us remember that ambition is involved, a self-imposed test, and virtuosity thrives best without compulsion. Soon the key is maintained without difficulty, trumpets and trombones toss phrases back and forth, experiment with antiphony, and almost always bring things to a happy conclusion. The clarinet, too uncomfortably high in pitch, is forced to retreat farther and farther into the background: instead the tuba makes itself heard more often, now and then even venturing a little extra flourish, a run in the lower regions, to escape, when breath runs short, into two or three bars of bucket thumping.

  In a word, a piece of musical history is being written, Jacob has brought off a triumph, and Lina can’t bear to stay where she is any longer. Without a sound she gets up, all sacred words of honor forgotten, and her legs move irresistibly toward the partition. She must see this thing that sounds so much like Jacob and yet so different, that can speak with various voices, sneeze like he does, and make such strange noises. Just one look, even at the cost of the discovery of a breach of confidence; there’s no resisting her legs, which have a will of their own. Actually such great caution isn’t necessary; the racket made by that thing drowns out all else. Nevertheless she moves stealthily, as far as the narrow passage, just as the trombone is finishing a masterly solo and making way for the trumpet. Lina cautiously pokes her head around the corner, invisible to Jacob. He is not only sitting sideways, he is also keeping his eyes firmly closed, a sign of extreme physical and mental concentration, the world forgotten as he rends the air according to rules known only to himself. No, Jacob isn’t aware that for a few seconds he is sitting there totally exposed. Later, Lina’s cryptic allusions will rouse his suspicions, and only much later will she tell him to his face what actually happened down there in that basement. For the time being, a brief glance and a few seconds’ surprise are enough for her; she set out for India and has discovered America. The purpose of this expedition was to find out what the thing looked like, and now she knows: it looks exactly like Jacob. There remains only one question: one day she will ask him whether he has another radio besides this one. Presumably not; where could he keep it hidden if not here? Lina knows something that no one else knows. Quietly she returns to her place; her pleasure in listening has not been diminished, only mixed with a few thoughts that are of no concern to anyone but her.

  Then the march comes to an end, but not the performance. When Jacob emerges, exhausted and relieved and with a parched mouth, Lina clamors for an encore: all good things come in threes, now especially. This proves to him that she had not become suspicious, and such was her intention. If this march went well, he thinks, nothing can go wrong now.

  “But this will be the very last,” says Jacob.

  He goes back to his post, the next broadcast already in mind, and flicks. Lina is in luck, Jacob soon finds the station where fairy tales are being told by a kindly uncle who says: “For all the children listening to us, your fairy-tale uncle will tell you the story of the sick princess.”

  He has a voice similar to Winston Churchill’s, just as deep, only a little softer and, of course, without a foreign accent.

  “Do you know that one?” Jacob asks as Jacob.

  “No. But how can there be a fairy-tale uncle on the radio?”

  “What do you mean, how? There is, that’s all.”

  “But you said radio was forbidden for children. And fairy tales are only for children, aren’t they?”

  “True. But what I meant was that it’s forbidden here in the ghetto. Where there’s no ghetto, children are allowed to listen. And there are radios everywhere. Right?”

  “Right.”

  The fairy-tale uncle, a bit put out by the interruption but fair enough to look for the reasons in himself, takes off his jacket and puts it under him, since the bucket is hard and sharp edged and the fairy tale one of the longer ones — provided, that is, he can remember how it all goes. My God, how long ago that was, he has to think, now of all times. Fairy tales were not his father’s responsibility but his mother’s. You used to lie in bed and wait and wait for her to be finished with her housework and come to you, and you almost always fell asleep while you were waiting. But sometimes she did sit down beside you, slip her warm hand under the cover onto your chest, and tell you stories. About Jaromir the robber with the three eyes, who always had to sleep on the cold ground because there was no bed long enough for him; about Raschka the cat that wouldn’t catch mice but only birds until one day it saw a bat; about Lake Schapun into which Dvoyre the witch made all the children cry so many tears that it rose and rose and overflowed its banks and Dvoyre drowned miserably in it; and sometimes about the sick princess.

  “When’s it going to start?” Lina asks.

  “The tale of the sick princess,” the fairy-tale uncle begins.

  About the good old king who had a vast country and a gloriously beautiful palace and a daughter as well, the old story, and how he got a terrible scare. Because, you see, he loved her more than anything in the world, his princess. He loved her so much that, whenever she fell and tears came into her eyes, he had to cry himself. And the scare came when one morning she didn’t want to get out of bed and looked really sick. Then the most expensive doctor in all the land was summoned to make her well quickly and happy again. But the doctor tapped and listened to her from head to toe and then said in great perplexity: “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. King, I can’t find anything. Your daughter must be suffering from a disease I have never come across during my entire lifetime.”

  Now the good old king was even more scared, so he went to see the princess himself and asked her what on earth was the matter. And she told him she wanted a cloud: once she had that, she would be well again immediately. “But a real one!” she said. What a shock that was, for, as anyone can imagine, it is far from easy to get hold of a real cloud, even for a king. All day long he was so worried that he couldn’t rule, and that evening he had letters sent out to all the clever men in his kingdom ordering them to drop everything and come forthwith to the royal palace.

  Next morning they were all assembled, the doctors and the ministers, the stargazers and the weathermen, and the king stood up on his throne so that everyone in the hall could hear him properly and shouted: “Si—lence!” Instantly you could have heard a pin drop, and the king announced: “To the one among you wise men who brings my daughter a cloud from the sky I will give as much gold and silver as can be heaped onto the biggest wagon in all the land!” When the clever men heard that, they started then and there to study, to ponder, to scheme and to calculate. For they all wanted that heap of gold and silver, who wouldn’t? One especially smart fellow even began building a tower that was to reach up to the clouds, the idea being that, when the tower was finished, he would climb up, grab a cloud, and then ca
sh in the reward. But before the tower was even halfway up, it fell down. And none of the others had any luck either; not one of the wise men could get the princess the cloud she so badly wanted. She grew thinner and sicker, thinner and thinner, since from sheer misery she never touched a morsel, not even matzo with butter.

  One fine day the garden boy, who the princess sometimes used to play with outdoors before she got sick, looked into the palace to see whether any of the vases needed flowers. So it came about that he saw her lying in her bed, under a silken coverlet, pale as snow. All through the last few days he had been puzzling over why she never came out into the garden anymore. And that is why he asked her, “What is the matter, little princess? Why don’t you come out into the sunshine anymore?” And so she told him, too, that she was sick and wouldn’t get well again until someone brought her a cloud. The garden boy thought for a bit, then exclaimed, “But that’s quite easy, little princess!” “Is it?” the princess asked in surprise. “Is it quite easy? All the wise men in the land have been racking their brains in vain, and you claim that it’s quite easy?” “Yes,” the garden boy said, “you just have to tell me what a cloud is made of.” That would have almost made the princess laugh if she hadn’t been so weak. She replied, “What silly questions you ask! Everybody knows that clouds are made of cotton!” “I see, and will you also tell me how big a cloud is?” “You don’t even know that?” she said in surprise. “A cloud is as big as my pillow. You can see that for yourself if you’ll just pull the curtain aside and look up at the sky.” Whereupon the garden boy went to the window, looked up at the sky, and exclaimed, “You’re right! Just as big as your pillow!” Then he went off and soon returned, bringing the princess a piece of cotton as big as her pillow.