by Jurek Becker
“Yes.”
“He should be here soon. Wouldn’t you rather wait inside?”
“Do you live here, then?” Rosa asks.
For an answer, Lina takes the key from behind the doorframe, unlocks the door, and gestures invitingly and a little proudly. Rosa enters with some hesitation, a chair is promptly pulled out for her, she has fallen into the hands of an attentive hostess. Lina sits down too, and they continue to look at each other, approvingly.
“You’re Lina, aren’t you?” says Rosa.
“How do you know my name?”
“From Mischa. You’re good friends, I hear.”
“Of course. And now I know who you are.”
“Do tell me!”
“You’re Rosa. Right?”
They exchange whatever information they have about each other. Lina, incidentally, is still cross with Mischa because the whole time she was ill in bed he didn’t come to see her once, just sent his love via Jacob. Rosa looks around surreptitiously — not that she expects the radio to be standing there in full view to regale every chance guest.
“What do you want to see Uncle Jacob about?” Lina asks, any other topic having soon been exhausted.
“Let’s wait till he’s here.”
“Have you brought a message from Mischa?”
“No.”
“It’s all right to tell me. He has no secrets from me.” But Rosa refuses to budge; she smiles and says nothing. Now Lina tries a roundabout approach.
“Have you ever been here before?” she asks.
“No, never.”
“I mean, lots of people have been coming here lately, and you know what they want?” Lina pauses, to give Rosa a chance to appreciate this special proof of trust, before divulging: “They want to hear the news. Is that why you’re here too?”
Rosa’s smile vanishes: she certainly hasn’t come for that reason; on the contrary, rather. She already regrets having come at all, has regretted it increasingly from the first moment. She feels she is in the wrong place with her despair; here everything is being done honestly and in good faith. She wonders what she would do if Jacob were to come in now and tell her that the transport with her parents on its way to such and such a place had met up with the liberators. And she dare not give an answer, nor to the second question either: whether she has been deceiving herself all along as to the real reason for her coming. She doesn’t exclude the possibility.
“Well?” says Lina. “Is that why you’re here too?”
“No,” says Rosa.
“But you’ve heard about it?”
“About what?”
“That everything’s going to change soon?”
“Yes.”
“So why aren’t you glad?”
Rosa sits up straight; the threshold has been reached where one either turns around or speaks the truth, but what is the truth, apart from her misgivings? “Because I don’t believe it,” she says.
“You don’t believe what Uncle Jacob has been saying?” Lina asks, in a tone implying that she must have misheard.
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think he’s fibbing?”
Rosa likes the word and wouldn’t have thought of it in this context. She would quite like to discuss nice things with this nice child. On no account continue in the direction already taken; how could she have done that, with a child? Without any conclusive reasons to offer, she is suddenly convinced that she has made a mistake that, she hopes, will have no bad effects. She can’t just calmly get up and leave. So she sits there forlornly, waiting — now no longer for Jacob — but for some convenient opportunity to bring to an end a visit that she now perceives to be wrong. But that opportunity is moving further and further away. After her first shock, Lina becomes almost alarmingly worked up, for her uncle is most certainly not a liar. But Rosa didn’t say that, Yes, that’s exactly what you said, how can anyone say such a thing? Since she heard for herself on his radio that the Russians will soon be here, with her own ears, what do you say to that? A man with a very deep voice told that to another man, she can’t remember his name but she remembers his voice exactly, word for word he said that the whole schlimazl would soon be over, in another few weeks at most. Does Rosa think that man has been fibbing too, what has got into Rosa anyway, to accuse her uncle of telling lies? Just wait till he comes home, he’d give her the right answer!
Before she has got it all off her chest in a torrent of verbal indignation, Lina suddenly breaks off and stares past Rosa, with a startled look. Rosa turns her head toward the door: Jacob is standing there, stony faced; no one has noticed the door opening.
Rosa gets up. Regardless of how much or how little he may have heard, she feels he has seen through her, such is the dismay in his eyes. With lowered head she goes to the door, no chance now for a breezy departure; she has put her foot in it. Jacob takes half a step aside for her, but back she must go to the chair for the briefcase lying forgotten on the floor. The whole length of the corridor Rosa doesn’t dare look back. But on reaching the stairs she does: Jacob is still standing there motionless, watching her go. Soon the little girl will tell him what he no doubt already knows.
Let us stay with Rosa. She comes out into the street, in the early dusk, where the next unpleasantness is waiting. What meets her eyes is wild excitement, Jews fleeing into hallways, yet again. At first Rosa can’t make out why. Then she sees a car approaching, a small, dark green van with a man in uniform standing on the running board. Without thinking, Rosa dashes the few yards back into Jacob’s building, caught up in the panic. She leans against the wall and keeps her eyes closed, then opens them when she hears hurrying footsteps. An old man, gasping for breath, stops beside her, also coming in from the street.
“What do they want?” he asks.
Rosa shrugs her shoulders. The van will drive on and soon be forgotten; the scene with Mischa awaits her. The man assumes that it is a matter for the highest authorities, otherwise they would come on foot, as apparently happens every few days. To their horror there is a screeching of brakes; the frightened old man clutches Rosa’s arm so tight that it hurts.
Two men in uniform come into the very hallway they are standing in, leather straps under their chins. The old man clings desperately to Rosa’s arm. Outside, the engine has been left running. At first the Germans think they are alone in the semidarkness, but when they have almost reached the stairs one of them says, “Look!”
They turn toward the two figures against the wall. Rosa seems to interest them more than the man does, but maybe she is just imagining it. They come a few steps closer, then one of them shakes his head and says: “No, no.”
The other one tells them, “Get out of here!”
Then the Germans walk up the stairs, the clatter of their boots alarming the whole building. A door is slammed. Agitated voices sound confusedly from everywhere, though it would have been better to stay calm. A child is crying.
“Come on!” whispers the old man.
Rosa follows him. In the doorway he hesitates, afraid of the van, but they must pass it if they are to obey the German’s order. “Go on, get going!” says Rosa.
They hurry straight across the road, toward the building opposite where the door is already being opened for them from the inside. The old man sits down exhausted on the bottom stair, groaning as if he had run around the entire block and massaging his chest over his heart. Rosa sees three other men and a woman in the hallway, which is even darker than the first one; she doesn’t know any of them. She looks toward the door, which is of metal; a fourth man, fairly young, is peering out through the keyhole and reports for the benefit of all.
“Nothing yet,” he says.
“Who are they looking for over there?” the woman asks the old man.
“How would I know?” he says, continuing to massage his left chest.
“Does someone special live there?” asks a bald-headed man.
At first he receives no reply; they are all on their way home from
work and strangers in this street, until Rosa says softly, “They’ve come for Jacob Heym.”
Who is Jacob Heym, which Jacob Heym? The scout at the keyhole straightens up and asks, “Jacob Heym? Is he the one with the radio?”
“Yes.”
“Nice mess,” he says, without much sympathy, it seems to Rosa. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.”
At that the old man on the stairs flies into a rage, much to Rosa’s surprise; he had appeared to be fully occupied with his fear and his heart. Now his veins are swelling. “Why did he have to be found out, you young pip-squeak? Eh? Why? I can tell you why he was found out. Because somebody ratted on him! That’s why! Or do you imagine it happened all by itself?”
The embarrassed pip-squeak submits to this dressing-down without protest. He bends over again to the keyhole and says after a short pause, “Still nothing.”
The old man summons Rosa to him with a movement of his head and, when she is standing in front of him, moves slightly to one side, so she sits down beside him.
“Do you know him?” he asks.
“Who?”
“That Jacob Heym?” “No.”
“Then how do you know he lives there?”
“From friends.”
“They’re still inside,” the pip-squeak reports. The old man ponders for a few moments in silence, then says in the direction of the door, “When they bring him out, let me know. I’d like to see what he looks like,” a remark that, right at this moment, Rosa finds in poor taste; then she doesn’t.
“He has taken a great risk,” says the old man admiringly, now back again to Rosa, who nods. And wonders what she will tell Mischa now. Let him scold her all he likes about her visit to her old home, she couldn’t keep that a secret even if she wanted to; the telltale briefcase and ration card would be enough without any confession on her part. But she would rather not mention Jacob; she doesn’t dare face Mischa with that, especially after what’s happening now. And, bitter as it is, she runs no risk if she doesn’t mention her encounter with Jacob: Jacob will be in no position to tell Mischa she’s lying.
“Perhaps he isn’t even at home,” says the old man.
“He is at home,” Rosa says without thinking.
The old man looks at her in surprise, a question already in his eyes, but before he can voice it the pip-squeak calls from the door, “You were wrong — they’re bringing out a woman!”
Let us permit ourselves a closer look and go out into the street. The woman being led away is Elisa Kirschbaum. She is being made to pay for her brother’s incompetence, for the fact that, contrary to expectations, he was unable to cure the Sturmbannführer: it has taken them long enough to think of that.
For some time now, people living in the building have been afraid that events might take such a turn; anyone can put two and two together. Someone had mentioned the hitherto unknown expression “clan liability” in conversation. The very evening of the day the flag at the freight yard was flying at half-mast, Jacob had gone to see Elisa Kirschbaum. He had put it to her that it might be better for her to go into hiding with friends she undoubtedly had, at least for the time being, until it became clear whether the threatened reprisals would actually be carried out. For, however painful it might be, they had to assume the worst for her brother, and if by some miracle he should, in spite of everything, return unharmed, Jacob promised to let her know at once. But she wanted none of all that and told Jacob, “It’s very kind of you, my dear Mr. Heym. But let that be my worry.” As if she still held a trump card that nobody suspected.
Now she is walking ahead of the two Germans, briskly so there can be no excuse for pushing or touching her. And briskly also, as Jacob behind the window suspects, so as not to offer any spectacle to the street, which, although apparently deserted, is full of hidden eyes. The display of concentrated power being exuded by the two men behind her appears excessive for so frail a prisoner. Elisa Kirschbaum stops behind the van without looking around at her escorts. One of them lets down the tailgate, on the inside of which is a narrow step. Just as she is about to put her foot on it the van moves forward, and Elisa Kirschbaum steps into a void and falls onto the street. The van is merely making a U-turn so it can wait on the other side of the street; the driver has already stuck his head out of the window in preparation.
Jacob’s vantage point is not near enough for him to make out the expressions of the participants. People living closer by report later that the Germans had grinned as if at an oft-repeated practical joke. Elisa Kirschbaum gets up immediately, with surprising agility; she is on her feet again, waiting, before the van has completed its turn, for which it has to stop and back up twice. Then she climbs in; it is rather high for her, and in spite of all her efforts she is given a shove. The two Germans also climb into the back, the tailgate is pulled up, Elisa Kirschbaum has finally disappeared behind the dark green tarpaulin. The van drives off, and after a safe interval many of the front doors open. The narrow sidewalks gradually fill up again with people, some silent, some debating, most of them on their way home from work, as we already know, and strangers to this street.
Meanwhile, according to the radio the Red Army has advanced to the outskirts of the district town of Pry. Pry is not to be compared with Bezanika; anyone can visualize Pry, no one has to ask where in the world Pry is. Pry is exactly eighty-seven miles away from us; most of the local inhabitants know the little town from occasional visits. A few have even lived there and were moved here after the outbreak of the war, for due to its fortunate population structure Pry has no ghetto of its own.
The position of the Russians becomes the subject of an argument. Kowalski has a quarrel with his three roommates, whose names I don’t know. Now, as both the easygoing Jacob and I have good reason to know, it is the simplest thing in the world to disagree with Kowalski, but in this particular case one is inclined to agree with him. The issue is no trivial one: what is involved is that this one man, for simplicity’s sake let us call him Abraham, this Abraham claims that the Russians have already passed through Pry on their way to Mie-loworno. Someone at his factory, let us assume the brickyard, has said so. Kowalski, on the other hand, swears up and down that they haven’t even reached Pry. But Abraham sees no reason whatever to believe Kowalski more than his fellow worker.
“Who’s working at the freight yard?” Kowalski asks angrily. “You or me? Who hears everything firsthand? You or me?”
For Abraham this is no valid proof, presumably because his version sounds so much better than Kowalski’s. Anyone can make a mistake, he says. Nor will he accept the logical objection that whatever this mysterious fellow worker at the brickyard claims to know must, in some way or other, originate with Jacob.
“Or are you suggesting there is another radio?”
“How should I know?” says Abraham.
It might not matter to Kowalski — let Abraham think what he likes, let him be taken in like a naive child by crude rumors — except that somehow he feels partially responsible for the truth. For the radio is, in a way, also his radio, given his long-standing friendship with Jacob, as strong today as it ever was; during the power failure the radio had actually come within an ace of landing in his room. So he patiently explains the long route that Qvery news item has to take from Jacob’s mouth to the factory, via so many people, the dangers it is exposed to along the way, dangers of mutilation and enhancement. How everyone adds something to it, turns something good into something better, which means the news finally arrives, as it turns out, in such shape that even its own creator doesn’t recognize it.
“Anyway, the Russians are on their way to Mieloworno,” Abraham says stubbornly. “Maybe you got it wrong, or he got it wrong. You’d better ask him again tomorrow.”
Kowalski doesn’t ask Jacob tomorrow; excuses for a leisurely chat with Jacob are scarce enough, so Kowalski goes to Jacob then and there.
He finds him in the worst possible shape: weary, apathetic, taciturn. Half an hour ago they took El
isa Kirschbaum away.
“Am I intruding?” Kowalski asks, conjuring a smile that, as soon as he has peered into Jacob’s face, he feels is all wrong.
“It’s you,” says Jacob. After closing the door behind Kowalski, he lies down fully dressed on the bed, where he obviously was already lying before the knock at the door. He clasps his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling. Kowalski wonders what has suddenly got into him. Only a little while ago, on their way back from the freight yard, he seemed quite cheerful, if the word cheerful may be used in these times at all.
“Has something happened?” asks Kowalski.
Happened or not happened: Jacob feels a strange new weakness, alarmingly sudden. Before, on his way down from the attic, where he had gone with Lina, he had had to hold on to the banister. He has tried to account for this new condition with that perpetual hunger, but that could explain only the trembling of his knees, scarcely the origin of that other weakness, equally tormenting, his sense of discouragement. This is what he is now attempting to analyze while staring at the ceiling, trying to dissuade himself from minimizing it; it is too massive and weighty for that. The incident with Elisa Kirschbaum was probably only a small component; it had unquestionably shaken Jacob, but it would be too much to describe it as the experience that robbed Jacob of his courage from one minute to the next. Certainly of greater impact was Rosa’s visit, having to hear Lina defending him with lies, with his own weapons, although even that visit should not be held wholly responsible, for Jacob’s dwindling powers either. It is a number of things coming together from all sides — mainly, perhaps, just contemplating the situation all around. More and more often someone takes you aside and says, Jacob, Jacob, I can no longer believe this will end well, and by the time you have offered one person some modest consolation by way of the very latest news, there are already six other people waiting to tell you the same thing. According to the radio, the Russians are exerting pressure on Pry; God alone knows who they are really exerting pressure on, or who is exerting pressure on them. According to the radio, one should soon be able to see the first artillery flashes in the distance, but day after day all you ever see is the same scene, that repulsive desolation. You will gradually have to consider some withdrawal tactics, for in your enthusiasm you have allowed the advance to proceed at a speed that unfortunately won’t stand up to grim reality.