Jakob the Liar

by Jurek Becker

  The greedily inhaled smoke not only creates a sense of well-being, it also tends to make a person more amenable. Let me tell you: as he smokes Jacob undergoes a change of mood, or something of the kind. Because a noble donor is sitting, intimidated, opposite him. Kirschbaum is helplessly twisting the cigarette between his thin fingers, scarcely daring to glance up, let alone open his mouth for anything but the next pull. Because uncontrolled outbursts are bound to follow: You make me sick with your “nevertheless.” Or: Isn’t that enough for you? And he had only come to have a talk with his neighbor: after all, a radio like that isn’t private property in this town, like a chair or a shirt. He has come not to accuse but to discuss an important matter in quiet debate, and now this. Then you come and tell me it’s prohibited. Kirschbaum did not leave, an indication of goodwill or excessive fear. He stayed, put his hand in his pocket like a magician, and fulfilled secret wishes, so surely he is entitled to a few neighborly words.

  “Of course I’m aware that the Russians won’t arrive any more quickly,” Jacob says halfway through his cigarette. “And even if I tell people a thousand times, the Russians won’t alter their route. But I would like to draw your attention to one further detail. Since the news has been passed around in the ghetto, I haven’t heard of a single suicide. Have you?”

  At that Kirschbaum looks astonished and says: “You’re right!”

  “And before that there were many, nobody knows that better than you. I can remember your being called on many occasions, and usually it was too late.”

  “Why didn’t I notice that?” Kirschbaum asks.

  On one of the following days there is a sensation: a car drives through our little town, the only passenger car in our long story. A sensation, yes, but nothing to rouse hopes, not even in the most imaginative among those bold theorists: one is inclined to say, quite the contrary. It drives purposefully, unerringly; the exact route must have been studied in advance on a map of the town. The car is black; the streets empty as it proceeds. In the back sit two men in civilian clothes; behind the steering wheel, a well-pressed uniform. The only ones who are of any importance are the two in the back. That is to say, they’re not all that important either; in fact, the whole car isn’t important, in spite of its SS pennant, neither does it matter where it comes from or where it’s going or whom it is conveying. Or just a little important, shall we say, or not entirely unimportant in terms of the consequences.

  The names of the two men are Preuss and Meyer. I know what they are talking about; I don’t know what they are thinking about, although that is no insoluble riddle. I can tell you their ranks, if pressed, even a rough outline of their careers, hence also their names. Later, when it comes to explaining, I shall unfortunately have to intervene clumsily and directly in the action to make sure no gap remains. The explanation will provide a stopgap, but that will come later; first the gap must be visible in its entirety.

  The car stops beside Siegfried and Rafael, who, as usual, are hanging around in the street, at the curb, the only heroes far and wide who are not hiding. All the other Jews, neither blind nor crippled, are standing behind their windows or in sheltering corridors, trembling for two crazy children and for the as-yet-uncertain harm the German car can be expected to cause here. But many of those in the know will be thinking that the harm is not all that uncertain, since after all the car is not stopping at random: it is stopping outside Jacob Heym’s building.

  Preuss and Meyer get out of the car, on a special mission. Preuss is rather tall, with brown hair, slim, good-looking, maybe a bit on the soft side; Meyer, as described to me, a head shorter, beefy, at first sight fiercely determined. Presumably a carefully chosen combination: what one man lacks, the other has, and vice versa, thus complementing each other nicely. They enter the building.

  “Do you know which apartment?” Preuss asks.

  “One floor up,” says Meyer. “The names are probably on the doors.”

  One floor up, Jacob lives two floors up, yet they walk up only one floor, as far as Kirschbaum's door. After knocking politely they wait patiently outside the door, until a woman’s voice, whose tone betrays that visitors are highly unwelcome, asks, “Who is it?”

  “Open up, please.”

  Although this is not a very plausible reason for opening, a key is fumblingly inserted in the lock, then turned, and the door opens, first just a crack, then with no further hesitation. Quite unnecessarily, Meyer places his foot on the threshold. Facing them is Elisa

  Kirschbaum, old and severe, with well-concealed fear. Her much-mended apron does not deceive: Preuss and Meyer are not being scrutinized by some nonentity; the way she holds her head is enough to tell them that they are being scrutinized by a masterful woman. The fear is well concealed, the contempt not; a cool look into the faces of two tiresome visitors, then a glance at Meyer’s foot making its crudely superfluous statement on the threshold. Meyer is doing his best to control himself.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning,” says Preuss politely; perhaps he has no choice under such scrutiny. “We wish to speak to Professor Kirschbaum.”

  “He is not in.”

  “Then we’ll wait,” says Preuss firmly. He walks past her through the door, and at last Meyer can detach his unyielding foot from its position. He follows Preuss. They look around the room: What’s all this talk, they don’t seem so badly off here, sideboard with knick-knacks, sofa and two armchairs, a bit shabby, true, but still, bookcase crammed with books, like in the movies, a fancy ceiling light, almost a chandelier, these people are living in the lap of luxury here. Maybe only this fellow Kirschbaum, supposed to have been some kind of an authority, special rations and all that. They’re certainly smart, these kikes, always managing to wriggle through and making themselves at home everywhere.

  Meyer flops onto the sofa, but not Preuss, because Elisa Kirschbaum is still standing by the door with the air of a person awaiting an explanation.

  “Are you Professor Kirschbaum's wife?” asks Preuss.

  “I am his sister.”

  “You won’t mind if I have a seat.” Preuss also sits down, in an armchair, crosses his legs, plenty of time, Elisa Kirschbaum remains standing. But eventually she has to ask, “Kindly tell me what this is about.”

  “None of your bloody business,” says Meyer. He can’t remain silent any longer; what’s going on here already seems weird enough to him, farce, pure farce, but he wants no part of it. In response to an insolent question he means to give more than an answer, he needs to straighten out the world a bit, or else where will it all end.

  Well, Elisa Kirschbaum is hardly in a position to call the maid and tell her to show this boor the way out; her arsenal is as empty as can be. But at least she can punish Meyer by ignoring him, turning to Preuss and demanding frostily, “Would you please tell this gentleman that he is not in his own home and that I am not accustomed to such behavior?”

  Meyer is ready to explode, is about to jump up, burst forth, cry out, but Preuss gives him an official look, special mission, then says, “You are absolutely right. Please accept our apologies.”

  “You were going to tell me why you are here.”

  “I think I would prefer to tell that to Professor Kirschbaum personally. Do you know when he will be back?”

  “No. Not later than eight o’clock.”

  She sits down in the vacant armchair, very upright, and places her hands in her lap. They wait. I feel safe in saying that Kirschbaum arrives after about half an hour; the time is passed with trivialities. For example, Meyer lights a cigar and throws the match on the floor; Elisa Kirschbaum picks it up, brings him an ashtray, and opens the window. Meyer is a shade disconcerted.

  Or: Preuss gets up after drumming a minute or two on the table; he is interested in the bookcase. Sliding open the glass panel, he tilts his head to one side, reads the titles on the spines, then picks out a book, leafs through it, then another, leafs through that one, all this for several minutes, then puts them back in thei
r proper places.

  “They are all medical books, every one of them,” says Elisa Kirschbaum.

  “So I see.”

  “We have a permit for them,” she says. And, since Preuss continues to study more titles: “Perhaps you wish to see it?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He finds one that appeals to him especially, sits down, and has found something to occupy him. Forensic Medicine.

  Or: suddenly Meyer jumps up, dashes to a door, flings it open, looks into an empty kitchen, is reassured, sits down.

  “You never know,” he explains to Preuss, who goes on reading.

  Or: again Meyer gets up, this time without haste, goes to the window, looks down. He sees two women dragging two children away from the car into the building opposite, sees in that building a face behind almost every windowpane; the uniform is standing beside the car, bored.

  “May be a while yet,” Meyer calls, then sits down again. As I said, half an hour.

  Or: Elisa Kirschbaum goes into the kitchen, where she is heard moving about, and returns with a tray. Two supper plates, two cups, knives, forks, teaspoons, two linen napkins. She sets the table. Preuss hardly looks up from his book, whereas Meyer feels things are getting out of hand. Preuss hardly looks up from his book and says: “Let her be.”

  After about half an hour the professor arrives. He can be heard trying to insert his key in the lock, but there is another key in it, on the inside. Meyer stubs out his cigar, in the ashtray. Preuss puts the book down on the table, between the plates. Elisa Kirschbaum opens the door.

  Alarmed, the professor pauses in the doorway, no use pretending, though he is not totally unprepared: the car down there outside the building. He would have hoped, of course, that it had something to do with Heym — that is to say, not hoped but assumed; he had merely hoped that it had nothing to do with himself. In vain. Preuss stands up.

  “We have visitors,” says Elisa Kirschbaum. She picks up Forensic Medicine from the table, puts it back in the bookcase, slides the panel shut. With a cloth taken from her apron pocket she wipes away any possible finger marks.

  “Professor Kirschbaum?” Preuss asks at last.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Preuss.” Then a look toward Meyer.

  “I’m Meyer,” growls Meyer.

  They abstain from shaking hands. Preuss asks, “Do you know Hardtloff?”

  “You mean the head of the gestapo?”

  “I mean Sturmbannführer Hardtloff. He requests your presence.”

  “He requests my presence?”

  Now Elisa Kirschbaum has to struggle to remain calm, as, incidentally, Meyer does too: requests his presence, the whole tone here, what a farce. Preuss says: “Yes. He had a heart attack this morning.”

  The professor sits down, looks helplessly at his sister, who is now standing as stiffly as if turned to stone: Hardtloff had a heart attack this morning.

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “He wishes you to examine him,” said Preuss. “Although I can imagine that you feel no particular grief at the sufferings of the Sturmbannführer. You have no cause for alarm.”

  “But…”

  “What do you mean, but?” Meyer asks.

  More glances toward the sister: his entire life she has removed all unpleasant situations from his path; with her cool head, her clear vision, her keen mind, she has kept every annoyance from him, hence one last look in her direction.

  “Dis-leur que tu n’en as plus l’habitude,” she says.

  “What’s she saying?” Meyer asks Preuss and also stands up to his full height.

  “Please, you must realize,” says the professor. “What you are asking of me is out of the question. Under no circumstances could I as a doctor take the responsibility, after so many years, my … After all, it’s four years since I treated a patient.”

  Preuss remains admirably calm and places a soothing hand on the shoulder of the belligerent Meyer: special mission. Then he steps up to the professor, too close for comfort. His eyes express reproach, but not coldly, let alone angrily — compassionately rather, as if wishing to recall an impetuous person to his senses before it is too late. “I am almost afraid, Professor, that you have misunderstood me,” he says. “We are not here to plead with you. Please don’t make things difficult for us.”

  “But I just told you…”

  “Do you need to take anything with you?” Preuss asks firmly.

  With that the professor finally grasps that he need not look for further excuses; these two are not motivated by any desire to test their powers of persuasion. The relative courtesy of this man Preuss is his personal mark and does not entitle one to anything. So the professor must forget all the ifs and buts and strive to emulate his sister, to be as aloof and dignified as she. At least this much, at least now, all his life he has admired her for this, admired more than feared; some people say she is rather odd. He is not going to offer two German creatures the spectacle of collapse, did he need to take anything with him was the question, he is not going to fall on his knees before them — look at the way Elisa stands there! That cannot be imitated at first shot, but normal, everyday gestures can be found, an impassive expression as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred: a dignitary has been taken ill, he has been asked to have a look at him, run-of-the-mill stuff.

  “Do we understand each other correctly?” Preuss asks.

  The professor gets up. Below the bookcase are doors; he opens one and looks for his brown leather doctor’s bag.

  “It’s in the cupboard,” says Elisa Kirschbaum.

  He takes the bag out of the cupboard, opens it, checks the contents, then holds it out to Preuss, who doesn’t bother to look inside.

  “Medical equipment.”

  “Good enough.”

  Elisa Kirschbaum opens the cupboard again: a scarf, she holds it out to her brother.

  “I won’t need it. It’s warm outside,” he says.

  “You will need it,” says Elisa Kirschbaum. “You don’t know how chilly it gets after eight.”

  He stuffs the scarf in his pocket, Meyer opens the door, the parting is at hand.

  “Good-bye, Elisa.”

  “Good-bye.”

  That’s what a parting looks like.

  Then, outside the building, they get into the car, no doubt according to a preplanned seating arrangement: Preuss and the professor in the back, Meyer in front beside the uniform. Elisa is standing at the window, the whole street is standing at windows, but only the one is open. The car makes a U-turn, driving over the low curb; a pale blue cloud hangs in the air for a few seconds. At the end of the street the car turns left, heading for Hardtloff.

  Preuss snaps open a silver cigarette case and asks, “Care for one?”

  “No, thanks,” says Kirschbaum.

  Meyer shakes his head without turning around and casts a sidelong glance at the uniform to see what it thinks of this farce; the uniform merely grins while looking straight ahead. Preuss observes the two in the rearview mirror, but Kirschbaum doesn’t; he sits there as if reluctant to waste a single movement.

  “Why don’t you put your bag on the floor?” Preuss asks. “We’ve still got quite a long way to go.”

  “About how long?”

  “Oh, about half an hour.”

  Kirschbaum keeps his bag on his knees.

  They reach the ghetto gate, they stop. Meyer winds down the window. A sentry sticks his helmet in and asks, “Who’s that old codger you’ve got in there?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know him!” cries Meyer. “Why, that’s the famous professor Kirschbaum!”

  Preuss shows the sentry a permit and says, very formally, “Open the gate. We’re in a hurry.”

  “Right away — no harm meant,” says the sentry, giving a hand signal to another sentry, who releases the barrier and pushes open the gate.

  They drive on, now in the free part of town; the street scene changes. Pedestrians not wearing yellow stars w
ill catch Kirschbaum's eye, shops displaying goods, not exactly overcrowded but with customers going in and out, and, above all, trees lining the streets, I imagine. The Imperial in the market square is showing a German film. From time to time a car in the opposite direction, a streetcar, soldiers in dress uniform with a girl on each arm. Kirschbaum looks on with moderate interest; the sights cannot tell him much, cannot evoke memories, as they would with Jacob, for instance, for this is not his town.

  “Come to think of it, you must actually be quite glad to get your hands on a new patient again, at long last,” says Preuss.

  “May I know how you came to choose me?”

  “That wasn’t difficult. Hardtloff’s personal physician had done all he could and asked for a specialist to be brought in. But try and find a specialist these days! We looked through the lists of inhabitants and came across your name. Hardtloff’s doctor knows you.”

  “He knows me?”

  “Not personally, of course. Only by name.”

  They reach the better-class residential areas; the buildings are lower, stand apart with more green and more trees. Kirschbaum opens his leather bag, takes out a little glass tube, unscrews the cap, and shakes two tablets into his palm. A questioning look from Preuss.

  “For heartburn,” Kirschbaum explains. “Care for some too?”

  “No.”

  Kirschbaum swallows the tablets, screws the cap back on, into the bag again, resumes his former posture.

  “Feeling better now?” asks Preuss after a short interval.

  “The tablets don’t work that fast.” They drive out of town, another barrier, and continue more or less through open country: Hardtloff has picked himself a secluded spot. Birch woods on either side. “Naturally you will be driven back again, after everything has been taken care of,” Preuss says.

  Now Kirschbaum does put the bag down on the floor. All through the drive it has been on his knees; but so close to their destination, down on the floor. With a deep breath he leans back.

  “If you would let me have a cigarette now?”

  Preuss gives him one, and lights it. We might point again to Meyer’s exaggerated display of bafflement. Kirschbaum suffers a mild coughing fit, soon recovers, and throws a half-smoked cigarette out of the window.