The Lazarus Project

by Aleksandar Hemon

  Lazarus speedily wrote down notes, as though the speech were a dictation, while Isador daydreamed, hardly listening, ogling the bespectacled stenographer. “But what about the lives that we could live, the lives that cease to be an endless, mad drudgery, repugnant struggles?” the speaker went on. “What about the lives worth living? We need new stories, friends, we need better storytellers. We are tired of the preponderance of lies.” Afterward, Lazarus remained in his seat, as the hall was emptying, still struck by the intensity of the speech, by the thoughts that raced through his head as he took notes. I want to write a book, he said to Isador. Don’t we all, Isador said. But I am going to write it, Lazarus said. Just watch me. I am going to write it.

  Rora finally saw me; he shook all of the hands and bid good-bye to the actors; he walked toward me, across the grass, tinkering with his camera so as not to look at me. He sat down next to me without a word. The men were now dancing with the women, the third woman watching with her arms crossed on her chest. The couples mirthfully waltzed, occasionally stumbling on the cracks, but kept circling around the court.

  Rora reloaded the film in the camera and said, I have no idea what they were just saying to me.

  I kept quiet. The men bowed to the ladies and walked to their imaginary seats.

  Rambo killed Miller, Rora said.

  Fuck you, I said.

  Miller got a bullet in the back of his head. He was an idiot, he thought he could get out of his debt to Rambo by allying with Beno. And New York wanted the story about the power struggle between Rambo and the Government Guy.

  I really don’t care, I said, though I was lying.

  So Miller had been asking questions, and, worse, he had placed the wrong bet that Beno could be the new boss. He had been seen following and sucking up to Beno, had been reported to have interviewed the Government Guy more than once. Rambo saw through it all, he was not stupid. He ran into Miller looking for Beno at Duran Duran. He pistol-whipped him, kicked him unconscious. He wanted Miller to talk, yet he was out of his mind, blind with fury, so he shot Miller in the head. Pop! In the back of the head. When I arrived, Rambo was gone, Miller was dead, leaking brain onto the floor. Duran told me what had happened. He, too, was crazy with fear. Duran had spent decades in prison, but he was shaking. Later on, he forgot what had happened; later on, he remembered that a sniper shot Miller.

  I find that hard to believe, I said.

  Rambo could take on the Government Guy, Rora went on, let alone Beno. But he knew that the Government Guy was going to use his killing an American reporter against him. He knew that he was going to whip up the fear among the government people, try to convince them that it was time to take Rambo out. He was racing all over the city, looking for the Government Guy to kill him. And that’s when he took a bullet near the heart, a sniper working, without a doubt, for the government.

  What happened to the Government Guy?

  He would eventually disappear; they would find his head in a ditch, but never his body. People thought that was Rambo’s signature, for he had promised he would rip his head off. The Americans asked a lot of questions about Miller’s death, but then let it all go. I think they were led to believe that the Government Guy had put a contract out on Miller because he had sniffed something out. Rambo returned to Sarajevo after the war. Rambo’s friends in the government protected him. He owed them now; it was a way to control him. He still has a bullet an inch away from his heart, so he avoids excitement. He discovered Islam and now has prayer beads in his hand all the time. He runs the racketeering business all over the city, drugs as well for his friends in the government. Duran was killed, too.

  Did you take a picture of Miller at Duran’s? I asked.

  Yes.

  Aren’t you afraid to go back to Sarajevo?

  Rambo won. He cannot be touched these days, so he does not care. And I don’t care. Nobody cares. Rambo is pretty much part of the government now; the business is running smoothly: he gets them the money, does not misbehave, they treat him as a war hero. It doesn’t matter what I could say. That still doesn’t mean I should be talking about him.

  Who else knows about this?

  Nobody. You, now.

  The actors stood in a circle and smoked. The men took off their tall hats and wiped their foreheads with their sleeves, perfectly simultaneously, as though they had rehearsed that, too.

  Fuck me, I said.

  See what happens, Brik? See where we are now? Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?

  Assistant Chief Schuettler flings the door of his office open and the Fitzes carry Olga in, holding her biceps. William P. Miller follows behind them, his suit begrimed by his night adventures. The Fitzes sit Olga down in a corner chair and when she tries to stand up, they push her back into it.

  “If you would be so kind as to be quiet, Miss Averbuch, perhaps we can have a civilized conversation,” Assistant Chief says.

  “Damn you.”

  “Now, now. Those are not the words that should come out of a lady’s mouth.”

  Olga is hissing with fury. Fitzgerald puts his hand on top of her head. Fitzpatrick’s hand is on her shoulder, his hairy fingers digging into her flesh.

  “That is much better,” Schuettler says.

  “Damn you,” Olga mumbles, but Schuettler ignores her.

  “Mr. Miller, would you kindly step out with me? You, too, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  Assistant Chief holds the door open for Miller and Fitzgerald. Before he follows them out, he says: “Things are not what they seem to be, Miss Averbuch. They are never what they seem to be.”

  As the door closes, Fitzpatrick takes his hand off of her, but somehow that just increases the weight on her shoulders. She is coated in sweat and filth, the thick film of anger and humiliation, of Lazarus’s absence. The nightmare has assumed its own random direction, like a frightened horse. She cannot remember her life before Lazarus’s death; that life took place in a different world.

  “Things are a wee bit crazy today, don’t you think?” Fitzpatrick says. He lights a cigar and sits in a chair next to her, putting his hand on her knee. “Now is the time for all to stick together.”

  Olga pushes his hand away and stands up.

  “Do sit down, lassie. Don’t make me get up.”

  She walks to the door and before she can grab the handle, Fitzpatrick is twisting her arm, bending her over. He leads her back toward the chair; she produces no sound.

  “Sit down now,” he says, turns her around, and shoves her into the chair. “Sit still. We don’t want no pain here, no pain.”

  Her pain has solidified in her head, where her living love for her living brother—her soul—used to reside; tears are running down her cheeks. The door abruptly opens, and, walking in with Taube, Schuettler says:

  “Perhaps you will be able to break through her anger and defiance and calm her down, Herr Taube,” Schuettler says. “Perhaps you can make clear to her the seriousness of the situation at hand.”

  “Natürlich,” Taube says and clicks his heels. “Do give me a few moments with Fräulein Averbuch.”

  Assistant Chief nods sternly and leaves. Before he closes the door, he yells into the hallway: “Fitzgerald, get me Stadlwelser! And I want to see him get up and walk.”

  Hat in hand, Taube pulls a chair to face Olga; she refuses to look at him. He says nothing for a while, waiting for her to raise her eyes. When she does not, he says, speaking German:

  “I thought you might want to know that the apparent reason for your brother’s visit to Chief Shippy was to deliver a message. According to the assistant chief, Mr. Eichgreen was letting Chief Shippy know that Emma Goldman was coming to town, planning to stay in the ghetto with her anarchist friends.”

  Olga looks up at Taube. For a moment, she considers the possibility that what he’s saying is true. Lazarus was a good boy, he wanted to get ahead in life. Mr. Eichgreen liked him.

  “Mr. Eichgreen is a loyal American,” Taube goes on, his face tubercula
rly calm, “as unlikely to condone anarchism as anyone. I am convinced he was trying to help your brother.”

  There is an excess of sincerity in his words and grimaces, Olga thinks. He is working too hard to tell the truth.

  “I don’t know you well, Herr Taube,” she says, “but you are getting worse at lying, you and your politsey friends. How can you lie so? And maybe Lazarus shot himself seven times after he delivered the message? What else you want me to believe?”

  “Allow me to advise you that you ought to recognize we have a bit of advantage in this situation. They owe us.”

  “We have advantage? They owe us? Us? Since when are we the same people? I don’t know who you are. You are mocking me and my pain. Damn you.”

  “You might also already know,” he continues, unperturbed by her hostility, playing with his bowler hat, “that your brother’s body disappeared. We have reason to believe that it was stolen by enthusiastic medical students interested in the particularities of his anatomy. There are young men—alas, our future surgeons—who believe they serve science by violating the sanctity of death.”

  She presses her hands against her face and wails into her palms.

  “Fortunately, Assistant Chief Schuettler deployed his best men to seek young Lazarus’s body,” he goes on. “Finding it was a matter of utmost urgency for them, and there was little doubt that his men would succeed. And indeed they did. They found Lazarus’s body.”

  Olga has reached a point beyond disbelief—she suppresses a giggle. He is torturing her at Schuettler’s behest. Taube leans over and touches her arm.

  “Unfortunately, it is not complete.”

  “Not complete? What do you mean it is not complete?”

  “Some organs are missing, I am afraid. I regret I have to be the one to tell you this.”

  “What organs? Are you mad?”

  “The spleen. The kidneys. The heart. And it appears they could not be retrieved.”

  Olga swallows her breath and faints, sliding off the chair. Taube kneels over her, touches her cheek, as though to see if she is still alive. Waggling his hat in front of her face, he calls for help. Fitzgerald peeks inside: “Yes?”

  “Could you fetch some water and sugar for Miss Averbuch, please?”

  “What is she, fainted?” Fitzgerald says, amused.

  “Could you hurry, please?” Taube says with testy urgency. He goes on flapping his hat before her face until Olga comes to. She opens her eyes and looks at him with such intense hatred that he retreats back into his chair.

  “You are a monster, Herr Taube. You are just like them,” Olga growls, sitting up. “What do you want from me?”

  Taube caresses the brim of his hat, as though the answer is inside it. She sits back into the chair, brushing off the hems of her dress. Biting his lip, he goes on:

  “Your brother’s body was missing for almost two days. It seems he was disinterred shortly after the burial. Perhaps they should have told you sooner, but the assistant chief did not wish to add to your agony. The word was out quickly that they could not find the corpse. The anarchists and other fanatics were conducting special meetings, waving their black flags. Emma Goldman has now arrived, but she was pulling her maleficent strings even before. They are preparing something big, and the ghetto is angry. The reds are claiming that Chief Shippy killed Averbuch just because he was an immigrant and a Jew. They think your brother has the makings of a martyr tormented as much in death as he was in life. Revolution is a religion, and like any religion it fabricates saints and martyrs. And martyrdom is contagious. At any moment some hotheaded, half-literate anarchist might spring upon a policeman with a knife, or hurl a bomb into a crowd of innocent, law-abiding citizens. If something like that happens, we have a choice between revolution and riots.”

  “Would you please stop talking, Herr Taube? How can you lie so much so early in the morning?”

  Fitzgerald comes in carrying a glass of water and a couple of sugar cubes on a saucer. He offers them to Olga, who pays no attention to him.

  “Leave it on the desk, Mr. Fitzgerald, please,” Taube says.

  Fitzgerald puts the glass and the saucer on the desk, but one of the sugar cubes slips off the saucer and falls to the floor. He picks it up, drops it in the water, and leaves without a word. Taube drops the hat on the desk, then lifts it immediately as though to see if there was something under it. Nothing is there. Nothing is everywhere.

  “Moreover, Fräulein Averbuch,” Taube continues, “there are some among the Christian population who give exaggerated significance to the coincidence of your brother’s undue absence from his grave and his name being Lazarus, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do not know what you mean. What do you mean? What are you talking about? My brother was stolen from his grave and cut up. Stop talking, I beg you.”

  “There are Christians who would believe that their Bible story is about to be repeated; some of them are ready for the arrival of their Messiah in the shape of Mr. Christ. Such people look forward to the Apocalypse. And I do not need to tell you what a crowd of excited Christians is capable of doing. You lived through that. Everything is ready to burn, all that’s needed is a spark. And when the fire starts, we will be the first ones to turn to ashes. Even Mr. Miller is willing to help us.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “This might be very hard for you to hear. Very hard.” He retrieves the glass from the desk and shoves it under Olga’s face. Bubbles are streaming upward from the sugar cube. She turns her face away from the glass. Taube sighs. “Please listen. We must quell the rumors that your brother’s body is missing as quickly as possible.”

  “It is missing. My brother’s body is missing.”

  “Please listen. We need to rebury him according to our customs, in the full view of the public, before it is too late. We have to put it all away and go on with our lives.”

  “You want to bury him without his heart? How could you even begin to say something like that?”

  “There are Hebrew religious leaders who will be glad to approve of the funeral; indeed, even to be present at it. And the assistant chief will now be glad to allow your brother’s proper burial. He is basically a decent man, if too beholden to power. He has realized that disorder and mayhem will not help him in his further pursuits.”

  He leans back in his chair, looks to the left and to the right, nodding. She shakes her head, first slowly, then fast, until the pins loosen and her hair unfurls and now it just whips around. The glass escapes Taube’s grip and rolls under the chair, but he pays no heed to it.

  “We have no choice, Fräulein Averbuch. It is a question of life and death.”

  “What makes you think I want to live? You killed my brother. You have been lying to me. You put him away without a shivah, without Kaddish. None of you brought me a meal. And now you want me to bury parts of my brother as my brother? Have you no shame, Herr Taube? Have you no soul?”

  “I can understand your pain, I truly can. I have recently lost a close relative myself. I know as well as anybody how hard it is to live after a grave loss. But life needs to go on, it must never stop. It is our duty to keep life going.”

  “You are mad. What do you want me to do? He will never have peace. His soul will wander for eternity. My God!”

  She places her face on her palms and sobs into her hands. Taube can see teardrops squeezing between her fingers.

  “Please bear with me, we have no choice.” He inhales deeply and closes his eyes as though about to sink in deep water. His cheeks are flaming, ruddy. Exhaling, he says:

  “The Messiah would know what we have to do. We will afford all the necessary respect, all according to our ancient customs. We will bury both the anarchist hatred and the Christian superstitions. We will have all the proper rituals performed, the Kaddish recited, death will be tamed. We will sit shivah together, in peace, finally.”

  “You are a monster, Herr Taube. Do you think I would be able to live with myself if I did
that?”

  “I spoke to Rabbi Klopstock,” Taube says. “He says that Lazarus’s spiritual body will be fully present. Our love in God will complete him. Rabbi Klopstock is willing to give you a special dispensation and to stand by your side, to offer solace.”

  “You are a monkalb, and so is your good rabbi. This goes against everything we ought to believe in. I don’t want a dispensation. It was bad enough that I could not bury him after he was killed. Now you want me to do it with chunks of his flesh, cut up by insane surgeons? And you are a fool if you think that the anarchists and the Christians and the assistant chief will return to their wives and eat their dinner in peace because I lied to myself and to God.”

  “God knows our despair. God wants His chosen people to live in peace. God loves life, cares less about death. We need to live. I want to live, I want my children to live. Everyone I know wants to live. You have to ask yourself what is more important to you, life or death. What is this world about—life or death?”

  Olga stares at him as he peers down at the glass under the chair, then back up at her. She lowers her voice and speaks slowly, to ensure he will understand every word:

  “May your dismembered body rot in a ditch, Herr Taube. May worms nest in your eye sockets. May you never have peace, not in life, not in death. May your ashes be scattered in fallow fields.”

  She wants to get up and leave, but her legs are dead, the weight on her shoulders is immense, her head is pure solid pain. I am nothing, she thinks. I am gone.

  “Why don’t you and your rich friends stand up to Schuettler and the anarchists and the Christians and whoever wants to take your gilden life away from you? Why do I have to spit on my brother’s grave because you and your negidim friends are scared of death? Tell me, Herr Taube.”

  “I understand your dismay, Fräulein Averbuch. I truly do. I am not certain I would be able to make the decision I am asking you to make. I would be just as tormented, just as anguished. I would be angry at those who asked me to decide. But I cannot be you; we cannot be someone else. We are within our life and we stay there for as long as possible, that’s our home. We need life. There is too much death already, and there is probably more coming our way.”