The Inventory: A Novel

by Gila Lustiger

  I do not want to hide my troubles anymore. My misfortune was not of my own making. I had conducted research. All to no avail. I was not to blame. I had no influence on my fate.

  To steel my resolve, I turned my attention to a concrete problem. I would just take a small suitcase with a few things to wear. One bag I could kick along in front of me. Or would I draw attention to myself with just one bag? It could be assumed that the border control knew all the inhabitants of the area, could it not? Would he not find it odd that a stranger from far afield was traveling so very lightly? You cannot win, I thought, opening the compartment door. Whatever you do, you will look suspicious.

  I looked at myself in the mirror and sat down at my place by the window, reserved by my open newspaper.

  My hair was thinning, and the skin under my chin hung loose. As for my teeth … I should have had them seen to a long time back. To turn my thoughts in another direction, for seeing myself had had a sobering effect, I got out the map again.

  Had I been traveling in the company of my brother and his wife, who still imagined themselves to be living in safety, I would not have hesitated in choosing the coastal route. Not everyone takes to the mountain air. People of a delicate constitution can suffer in the high mountains. Oxygen is thin, the paths are uneven, and the rain transforms it all to a muddy swamp. I lifted down my suitcase from the overhead net and got out the apple I had saved for dinner. Taking my penknife I made a long red spiral of the skin, then cut out the core. The apple was sweet and ripe. As usual, I would wait and see. Life had turned me into a fatalist. No, actually, not life but rather people had made me doubt my own will.

  The train drew slowly into the town. I looked out. The sky was growing darker. An ugly grayness hung over the houses. I leaned my stick against the compartment door, put my coat on, and my scarf, too. First of all, I would look for a porter, then for a cheap hotel room. I sat down again — why tire the leg unnecessarily — and waited until all the others had got off. There was rubbish lying under the seats.

  I gingerly stepped down onto the platform and nodded over to the porter. He had already been eyeing me expectantly, ever since seeing me limp on my cane to the door. As he was hoisting my suitcases onto his cart, I looked at the man who had been sitting next to me. He whirled his child around in the air, then put him down and kissed his wife. The child started to cry.

  I silently pointed to the exit and bravely strode ahead. My leg hurt, and I had to stop several times to catch my breath. The porter overtook me, irritated. I was sorry for him. My ailments were depriving him of his second customer. I decided I would give him a generous tip. It was not his fault that my leg had been riddled by enemy bullets. Tiredness engulfed me. I slowly limped past the traffic controller. He let his signaling disc hang limply and looked like a redundant magician. The disc had brought the train to a halt, but now pointed downward. I stopped again. In front of me people rushed through the dark shaft that led to the outside world. Their shadows trembled in the yellow lamplight. It must have been after eight.

  As I entered the tunnel, my eyes focused on the brightness at the other end. I saw that a crowd of people had bunched up near the exit. Perhaps a woman had fainted and her stretched-out body was blocking the way. Or the curious onlookers, the sort who garner pleasure from observing the misfortunes of others, were blocking the thoroughfare. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with me. I continued for a few steps. Then I saw them. Two officials in uniform. They were standing at the exit checking tickets. I touched at my chest. Yes, the ticket was still there. I took the ticket out, stretched out my arm, then pulled it down again. Did it look suspicious to approach the man in uniform with arm outstretched? Could it appear as though I wanted to have nothing to do with the ticket? But this way, I thought, he cannot see my ticket at all and he will believe that I have smuggled my way into the station. I was uncertain and faltered.

  Why were there two men at the exit? Was this not a perfectly ordinary station? Was one official not enough? I was pushed to the side. Why was my breathing getting quicker? Why were they looking at me? In a second I would hand over my ticket to the officials, cross the road, and go into the first hotel I came to. As every evening, I would try to fall asleep. I would press my head into the pillow and wait in vain for my fear to leave me.

  I was now in the line that had formed in front of the exit. All around me legs crept forward imperceptibly. The beast is predatory, I thought, and even eats its own kind. The door swung open. I stretched my head up high and saw the porter waving over impatiently. A cold breeze caressed my exhausted body. It already carried the scent of coming spring with its linden blossom and anemones. Outside it was still. The official reached out his hand to me. All right, I thought, all right, and I looked at his hand. He had long, bony fingers.

  Yes, there was a time when I could fall asleep whenever I so desired. How pleasant those restful hours were. The limbs grew heavy, the mouth opened, and you were carried into sleep as though in an unmanned boat. I leaned on my stick, which had left a dark trail on the stone tiles, and dug around in my pocket. I was not embarrassed by the dark trail. I had been on the run too long for there to be much left of me. Should they seize me now, at least I would leave behind a dark trail as a memorial.

  My friends were right. All effort was vain. Despair had sunk roots deep in my heart. I had become a heretic because I did not believe in progress, because I did not want to bow down, and now I trembled in every gust of wind and found nothing to hold on to. What else is there to write, how should my story end? Are the last pages of my biography to be dictated to me? Do I not have any right to decide myself? Is such a rich, such an exemplary, life to end this way? And all that I had achieved, at the cost of great effort, all this was to be simply labeled absurd? Was my downfall to be a source of laughter, had I become amusing for the enemy?

  The official tapped me on the shoulder impatiently and pointed to the line that had formed behind me. Caught, I thought, and handed my ticket to the official with a flourish.

  Caught like a stag in the rutting season that raises its antlers up high and emits a powerful cry to entice its mate, but instead draws the hunter. Stretched out on the ground, the animal looks into the blue eye of the gun and hopes. Yet, even as the animal trembles, the hunter is pressing the trigger for the last time.

  “Would you not agree,” I asked, “that it is a crying shame to have to end in such a manner?”

  The official took the ticket. He did not answer. But why should he. I knew the answer only too well.

  The Leather Briefcase

  KARL KOWALSKY WAS ARRESTED ON A THURSDAY. He was sitting in a restaurant, bent over a bowl of pasta, when four SA men rushed at him. The attack caught him unawares, and he did not have time to reach for the pistol he had for a year kept next to him. After a brief struggle he was led away. Kowalsky, living in exile in Berlin since 1929, was betrayed by his girlfriend. She was up in the restroom on the second floor when the deed was being done, and on returning to the table she seemed composed. She was the one who had suggested this restaurant, a perfect venue for such an affair, peaceful and no escape routes. She was bumped off, by the way, a few months after Kowalsky’s arrest by someone hired by the Komintern.

  The first time I saw Kowalsky was on a Sunday. Ella Feigenbaum had invited me to tea. That was shortly before her brutal murder. I came somewhat later than planned and was led straight through to the kitchen. Kowalsky was leaning against a chair, speaking with a man whom I knew by sight. He was a translator with the Hungarian section of the Komintern. A small circle had formed around the two men. Although Kowalsky was debating heatedly with the man, he turned to Ella after every sentence and smiled at her. He was evidently beguiled by her, and she in turn hung on his every word.

  Naturally, I was shocked. How could a man such as Kowalsky — I’d read all his writings, devoured every word — how could he act so silly because of a woman?

  When Ella, knowing my admiration for Kowalsky, wanted to
introduce me later on, I claimed a headache and left. I remember wandering aimlessly through the streets afterward. It was as though that small innocent display of mutual affection had cast me headlong into a chasm. Back then I did not understand my inner turmoil; today I realize that I was attracted to Ella and jealous of Kowalsky.

  After that I heard nothing about him for a long time. He was said to have undertaken many journeys during those years, my student years, primarily to Moscow where he led an exciting life codenamed Cyrill. Several years later — I had become engaged in the meantime — I met him again in Café Comet. He had aged tremendously. His eyes alone still had that familiar youthful glow. Although not even half as prominent as Kowalsky — I was a modest union leader — I had the honor of being on one of the black lists, too.

  I was captured in front of my home. I had just opened the door when a man asked me the time or something similar, and with a perfectly aimed punch to the stomach put me out of action.

  As Kowalsky was led in I was standing next to three other comrades against the wall, legs spread, hands above the head. The Comet was one of many restaurants whose back rooms served as collecting stations for the SA. A polka was playing in the restaurant, I remember.

  They took Kowalsky up front first of all. He was beaten and kicked consecutively. After roughly quarter of an hour they let him be. Strangely, they had not asked him a single question. I concluded from this that we were warmed up, that the real interrogation would take place later on.

  Groaning, Kowalsky staggered over to us. We lay him down on the ground, his knees raised upward. They let us do this. I took off my jacket and made a pillow of it under his head. Kowalsky reached for my arm and pulled me down to him. His mouth looked like an open wound, and I could not make out what he wanted to say to me. Laughter floated through from the restaurant. Then I heard my name called. I loosened his grip and stood up. My heart was hammering wildly. They came to get me.

  The second time I met Kowalsky was in the basement of the Gestapo headquarters. The Celebrity Jailhouse, as we inmates ironically called it, hoping, perhaps, to boost our spirits through this seemingly casual turn of phrase. I also saw Ernst Thälmann there, although I did not recognize him to begin with, as he had lost at least ten kilos. His face looked different, too.

  Kowalsky was sitting on a bench outside the interrogation room, and nodded at me almost imperceptibly. It was indicated I should sit next to him. We had been expressly forbidden to talk to one another, so I couldn’t ask him all that had happened to him since our last meeting. I knew that unlike myself — I had been taken to a precinct prison — he had been taken here that same night, and I could only imagine what effect those two days must have had on him both physically and mentally. Willi Gleit, a friend of mine who had already had the honor of being interrogated in the Prinz A. for having attempted to continue the activities of the SPD underground, had told me that the torture methods in the Gestapo prison far outdid those of the Columbia House.

  We waited and waited. At some point it started getting dark outside. I wanted to smoke, to move, and above all else, to speak, but I stayed there motionless. I knew how you were rewarded for disobeying a rule. I had experienced that right at the beginning of my stay.

  A man came up the stairs breathing heavily and there was a whispered exchange with the guard. Kowalsky and I looked at each other. A piece of paper was handed over, then Kowalsky was led away. Another two hours must have trickled by before the door opened and I was called in.

  The first thing that struck me upon entering the interrogation room was the secretary. I had expected to be greeted behind the hateful door by uniformed Gestapo men, and instead saw a woman of my age, looking at me in a bored fashion over the top of her typewriter. I sat down on the chair and waited. The secretary inserted a sheet of paper and looked out the window. I was surprised how at ease she seemed with her job.

  After a while the interrogator entered the room. He was accompanied by three other men, who had been in the political police force in Severing. I had already made their acquaintance. As they had been informed about my heart problem, the interrogation began with a good dose of coaxing. Then the questions rained down on me. Sometimes I was hit, not hard, only as a warning. The interrogator asked me to show some sense. He said that he only ate up communists, not social democrats. His exact words were: “You are neither fish nor meat: I do not go near such things.”

  When I was led back to the cell in the evening, I heard that Kowalsky had suffered a concussion. A fellow inmate, whose name escapes me, also told me that countless members of Neumann’s resistance group had been arrested. He offered me a plate of cold soup that he had saved for me. I sat down on the wooden bed and began to eat.

  Toward midnight I heard a rattling in the lock. I jumped up immediately. When the SS guard stepped in, I stared at him mutely. I was summoned again. With a pounding heart I followed him. Once upstairs I had to stand stock-still for almost two hours in front of the door. I tried to concentrate. I wanted to be ready for all their questions, but my thoughts kept drifting. I could not understand why everyone apart from Neumann had been transferred. Was he an informer or had he been done in? The door opened. I felt dirty and weak.

  My interrogator offered me a cigarette. I declined and sat down. He came straight to the point and told me Kowalsky had committed suicide. This had the desired effect. I slumped down and shook my head, disbelievingly. It was only later that I learned it was all a well-thought-out lie.

  Kowalsky is said to have been set free three months later thanks to international pressure. With the help of some friends, he made it over to France, then to Spain from where he fled when the fascists conquered Barcelona, and on to Moscow. He died of heart failure there, fallen from grace suddenly, shortly before he was supposed to be deported to one of Stalin’s camps.

  Before I could regain my composure, I was pushed down on the table by an SS man.

  “Do you recognize this?” asked my interrogator.

  I looked at him, confused. What did a briefcase have to do with Kowalsky’s suicide?

  I did not recognize the briefcase right away. I was too worn out, and could not see properly. It was only when the SS man opened the briefcase and pointed out the initials that I knew how they intended to break my will. I cursed softly. I was asked again if I recognized the briefcase. I was not capable of speaking and only nodded. The interrogator shook his head sympathetically. He was sorry for my mother, he said.

  “Now both of her boys are in jail.”

  I asked him what he wanted to know. He promised to let my brother go immediately.

  I stayed there for about two hours. Then I was given beer and sandwiches. I ate apathetically, as they patted me cheerfully on the shoulder. After a cigarette break, I told them more.

  Yes, you’ve got to give it to them, it was a truly perfect method. First they destroyed what lent my life meaning, then my self-respect, and soon, I thought, looking at the man who had replaced the secretary, they would also destroy my body in the cheapest way possible.

  Toward morning I was given coffee. Then I was taken to a cell, which had been emptied of my companions. A week later I was transferred to KZ Esterwegen. Although my trial was scheduled for the beginning of June, I stayed there for another two years.

  I would like to mention another salient little fact: my brother had been set free the day I was taken there. He was, therefore, in no direct danger when I gave up the names they wanted. I discovered this truth several months later, but it did not play any role for me anymore.

  Sacrificing Pieces

  IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO LIST ALL THE DIFFERENT FORMS mistakes may take. There are too many. According to probability theory, errors most often occur in unfavorable situations, when, for example, one believes that all is lost anyway. The following scenario illustrates the point:

  A mouse sees a black shadow in the distance, and believes it is the cat lying in wait for it. Losing its head, it runs in the opposite direction, wh
ere the steel fangs of the trap are open wide in anticipation. Had the mouse, rather than scurrying away, reflected, it would have said to itself: “The shadow that I see could also be that of a fence or of a hedge. I will creep up to it softly, for I can’t stay here motionless awaiting my fate. I will find out the origin of the shadow.”

  The mouse, however, lets its fear dictate its movements because from the very outset it is handicapped. It is a mouse and not a cat. It is the one that gets eaten and not the one that eats.

  Often mistakes originate from a lack of thinking, which occurs when one uproots the subject from its familiar surroundings. If an opponent is not already weakened by its disadvantageous position, one should lure it into unfamiliar territory so that, with every step that it takes, it is faced with new decisions to make on its own.

  1.

  The first time that Harald Hartmund — a circumspect man who had started at the bank when he had just turned twenty and had recently been made head cashier of his branch — set eyes on Gerta Berg was a Wednesday. The meeting was not pleasant for either party.

  Berg came as a customer to the bank. Hartmund was about to water his potted plant, a begonia, a superfluous and decorative thing on the birchwood table next to the cash register and several stamps. It had been a gift from his colleagues upon his promotion. Due to the economical lighting, it was dying. Hartmund was sadly contemplating the withering leaves, when Gerta Berg emptied a little bag of coins on the revolving disc, and asked him, in a penetrating voice, to change the pile into several notes.