The Inventory: A Novel

by Gila Lustiger

  She touched the long cartridge. From a thin slit edged with downy material the tongue of film poked out, one side inlaid with a regular grooved pattern. With great care she pressed the cartridge into the appropriate hollow inside the camera, and stopped when she noticed the upper part was not sliding into place. She felt the chamber again and discovered the obstacle: a tooth that snapped back when she touched it. She pushed it up with her forefinger, so she could insert the film cartridge with no resistance.

  She sat there motionless with the camera on her knee. The neighbor had turned off the tap. For a while all was still, then she heard him calling to his wife.

  “Maria, Maria,” echoed, distorted, up to her.

  She went into the kitchen and took the cherry liqueur out of the cupboard. She filled a glass and drank it down in small gulps.

  After the second glass, which she only half emptied, her gums had grown used to the sweetness. Slowly, she walked into her room, glass in hand, and sat down on the chair she had put next to the dresser. She put down her glass, taking care that the liqueur did not splash over onto the wood, picked up the camera, and looked at her room through the lens.

  Table, chair, window, dresser, bed, wardrobe, lamp. Her gaze wandered over the pieces of furniture. After she had also looked at the ceiling and the floor, she got up and returned to the bathroom.

  Her skirt slowly slid to the floor. She unbuttoned her blouse, removed her garters, undid the catch of her bra, and, after rolling off her stockings and slipping out of her panties, laid her clothes on the lid of the toilet. She turned on the light over the mirror. In the harsh lighting her skin looked gray. She turned the ridged ring enclosing the lens until focused and aimed it at her breast. The breast of an old girl, she thought, and imagining the tongue of the messenger, took her middle and forefinger and rubbed her hardening nipple.

  7.

  Tomorrow she would bring the report back. Why had she taken it in the first place? She put on her nightgown and went into the bedroom. It was only at the bus stop, as she had been feeling for her purse, lost in thought, and her fingers had touched the rolled-up sheets of paper that she comprehended what she had done, and was frightened. She sat down on the bed and took the sheets of paper out of her handbag. First thing tomorrow she would put the document back where it belonged. She would arrive earlier than normal and slip it into the folder while the others were quickly smoking a last cigarette by the open window. Then she would go to them, join the conversation, and forget all about it. She would also have to break off contact with the messenger.

  “Oswald, Oswald, Oswald.” She quietly whispered his name.

  It had to be. She knew only too well. It wasn’t worth it. Why, oh why, had she listened to him? Was he worth taking such a risk for? What had he given her, after all? She unfolded the report and gave it a cursory glance. It was the list of June 30 in which confiscated Jewish assets were reported. In spite of herself she started to read:

  39,917 kg Brooches

  7,495 kg Fountain Pens

  18,020 kg Silver Rings

  1 Case Watch Parts

  5 Baskets Loose Stamps

  44, 655 kg Pieces of Gold

  482,900 kg Silver Cutlery

  98 Telescopes

  20, 952 kg Golden Wedding Rings

  28,200 kg Powder Compacts — Silver or Metal

  11,730kg Dental Gold

  3 5 Wagons Furs

  2,892 kg Pocket Watches — Gold

  3,133 kg Pocket Watches — Silver

  1,256 kg Wristwatches — Gold

  3,425 kg Wristwatches — Silver

  1 Case Lighters

  97, 581 kg Gold Coins

  25,580 kg Copper Coins

  53,190 kg Nickel Coins

  167,740 kg Silver Coins

  20, 050 kg Brass Coins

  1 Case Penknives

  6, 640 kg Necklaces — Gold

  7 Complete Stamp Collections

  100,550 kg Costume Jewelry

  22,740 kg Pearls

  68 Cameras

  82,600 kg Necklaces — Silver

  20, 880 kg Rings — Gold with Stones

  4, 030 kg Coral

  343,100 kg Cigarette Cases — Silver and Metal

  She thought of the messenger, folded the sheets of paper, and slid under the covers. Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the very latest, she would bring the inventory back. Why, oh why, had she listened to him? She couldn’t risk everything. No one could ask that of her. She reached for the cigarettes, spilled the contents of the matchbox over her dressing table when she tried to take out one match, since her hands were shaking too much, and clumsily lit a cigarette. She inhaled the smoke quickly and coughed.

  Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the very latest, she would put the report back in the folder. She would not be led astray. No, she would not. And all because of a messenger. Why on earth had she allowed herself to be drawn in? Why? Why she of all people? She would have to forget him and all the rest of it.

  The holidays would be here soon. Only another three weeks. Only another twenty-one days. That was nice, wasn’t it? She clicked off the lamp.

  “Oswald. Oswald, Oswald.”

  She opened her nightgown, cradled her breast, and felt her heart beating. It hammered wildly against her hand.

  The Louse

  THE LOUSE IS A SMALL, WINGLESS INSECT that infests people and sucks blood. It is a parasite and for this reason must be wiped out.

  A parasite is someone who resides in, on, or next to another person and feeds off him. The other person is home and food to the parasite and therefore valuable to it.

  Killing the animal or person on which the louse has comfortably settled does not by a long shot mean the death of the louse. Instead it preys on another host with the speed for which it is renowned, and sets up a new home. The louse knows nothing of loyalty: it only knows the hard rules of survival.

  To liquidate a louse, one first has to catch it and, because it is small and knows how to conceal itself, thoroughly comb through one’s head from west to east, not forgetting the white parting. Once caught, it can either be squeezed between the nails, emitting a cracking noise as its last lament. Or it can be set on fire. This requires certain skill, but is rewarded by the sight of a burning, dancing louse.

  The louse does not walk, it crawls. Like all pests, it multiplies quickly and has lots of children. The children like the warmth, and nestle into creases and dark places: they are called nits and are small potential lice, which should never be forgotten about. Therefore, after destroying a louse, one must deal with the children in the same careful manner, before they can become lice.

  The louse never rests. It is cunning and adopts a friendly demeanor. It keeps its proboscis, located on the underside of its head, hidden away in a sheath, only taking it out when it knows no one is looking, to suck up its host’s blood.

  That is the louse: you do not see it, you do not hear it, and, while it is up to no good with its proboscis, you do not even feel it. It is only afterward that the unpleasant itching and scratching begin that can be traced back to the louse. It will not be around to get up to mischief for long.

  Sometimes the louse fancies itself as a lobster or a crab because of its pincers. But it never ends up on a plate, and its legs are never sucked at with a touch of mayonnaise at ceremonious occasions.

  The louse is denied such a pleasant end. It is too small and not nice to look at. It is simply a louse and is therefore polished off quietly and not spoken of afterward.

  Yet, just because it is not a lobster does not mean a louse is always a louse. One has to differentiate between the different sorts that have come into being, as the louse knows how to adapt to its home.

  If it lives in clothes, it is called a clothes louse. This louse eats its way into the material. Above all else it loves the rough cloth of men’s trousers, and sweaters of fleecy wool.

  If it takes up residency in pubic hair and in underarm hair, it is dark in color and called a c
rab louse.

  If it builds its nest in head hair, it is called a head louse or Pediculus capitis. A head louse is gray, which is particularly helpful with old, weak, and gray-haired people. Ah yes, the louse is always adaptable and ready to assimilate.

  The human louse has no proboscis. Instead, however, it has a triangle in various colors sewn on to the left side of the jacket and the right trouser leg and — in the case of the female human louse — on to the skirt.

  The triangle is a piece of fabric with three sides of equal length. It is cut out of curtains, tablecloths, shirts, or whatever else. The color shows everyone — the guard, the commanding officer, and the other male and female human lice — why the human louse has been committed. This is known as the “reason for detention.” It is more practical than lengthy explanations, and makes lying impossible for the lice.

  If the human louse sports a blue triangle, it is an emigrant. An emigrant is an enemy who tried to escape and was caught in the act. When he is brought back accompanied by two or more policemen, he is taken to a place made for blue and other colored human lice.

  The place is called KZ, or preventative detention camp, because there the human lice are protected from themselves, not that they appreciate it as they should.

  If the human louse has a red triangle, it is a political detainee.

  If the human louse has a pink triangle, one is dealing with a homosexual. A homosexual is a human louse who loves another human louse of its own sex.

  If it has a black triangle, the human louse cowering behind it, as well as being a human louse, is also asocial; that is to say, lazy; that is to say, tramp; that is to say, Gypsy.

  If the human louse is wearing two yellow triangles, one over the other, then it is a Jew. The question of who is Jewish is decided by the Law for the Protection of German Blood.

  If the triangle is purple, then one is looking at a Bible-thumping human louse.

  If it is sporting a green triangle, it is a criminal. That sort of louse is the subject of what is to follow.

  Brief Sociology of Crime

  (The Silver Amulet)

  1.

  Karl Streng entered the world of crime like a garishly made-up Lucifer in a low-budget theater production. Standing on a retractable platform, he was cranked up, to the accompaniment of some stage smoke and a bang or two, which did not however cover the asthmatic wheezing of the frail hydraulics, into the middle of the scene of the crime, to carry out the part — not the lead, but more than just an extra — that fate and his familial circumstances had allotted him. He was eighteen then and was two weeks out of the institution whose buildings had been bequeathed at the end of the century by a rich and benevolent family.

  Streng had spent three years in the Sonnenfeld Institution. Arrested for pickpocketing, he was nonetheless judged “redeemable.” His clumsiness — in the space of two months, to be viewed as his apprenticeship period, he was caught in the act ten times — had proven he was an inexperienced petty criminal.

  And thus Streng’s career as a pickpocket ended before he could take the final examinations.

  So he had come to be at the Sonnenfeld Institution and after serving his sentence was delivered to freedom again with a few friendly words and his clothes, which he had outgrown in the meantime.

  He did not have any illusions. Although he had quickly become Sonnenfeld’s most skillful basket weaver and, besides the normal baskets that decorated the youth’s cells along with wood carvings and clay pots, had made a wicker chair — painstakingly finicky work — for the director of the institution, he knew that this was no way to earn a living, of course. And even the dexterity gained through the weaving work that he tried to employ for illegal endeavors did not help him fill his growling stomach. Due to the present economic crisis, the pockets of his fellow civilians were as empty as his own. Something else would have to be thought up. Streng gave it some consideration.

  With a friend he was staying with, later to disappear out of sight, he weighed several possibilities.

  He was despairing, when the name of a certain type of weaving gave him a brilliant idea. It was a kind of weaving that Streng had shown a particular aptitude for at Sonnenfeld, because he was very good at drawing the weft round the stake. Because of this tight weaving of the switches of willow, one on top of the other, it was called body wickerwork.

  Streng decided to start his own business and to try his luck with commercial prostitution.

  That same month he signed on two girls he picked up at the railway station, who went with him for the price of a cup of coffee and an asymmetrical smile — he had lost a canine tooth in a fight.

  To reduce expenses, unnecessarily high from the renting of hotel rooms by the hour, the little threesome moved into a rented apartment. Streng possessed all the qualities of a good manager. He treated the girls considerately, never forced them to do overtime, and gave them almost anything they wanted.

  He was altogether satisfied with his modest life in the three rooms, which one of the girls had managed to make quite homey, and with the simple country cooking that gave him that satisfied feeling he had bitterly missed in his youth. And he said to himself — not through any lack of ambition, but because all in all he had a clear, circumspect mind, and knew how to value what he had — that if it were up to him, things could happily continue thus forever.

  Things turned out differently, however. One of the neighbors, unsettled by the relatively high number of men who had been coming and going by way of her staircase since the new tenants had moved in, alerted the vice squad. They set a trap for the threesome that very week.

  Streng and the two young ladies, who through the policemen’s rough handling suddenly realized with frightening clarity what they had become in the course of just a few months, were taken to the police station. Since no charges could be brought against the women, what with the repeal of the regulations, and they would have to walk free, to make up for it Streng was arrested for the exploitation of two whores.

  In light of another offence again so soon, in spite of his youth — he was not yet twenty — he was sentenced to two years’ unconditional imprisonment, which he started to serve the same month. The prison was located in a small suburb, dominated entirely by the imposing prison building that was visible from every corner of the place and by the stories that made the rounds about the individual prisoners, above all about the murderers.

  The correctional institution might have seemed hard and cruel to him just a few months ago, but now he saw it through different eyes, from the perspective of his current abode — a five-square-meter cell with a steel bed, table, and a barred window, through which if he stood on his bed he could see the red bricks of the wall and the top of a tree.

  How he longed, in the silence of the second portion of porridge slopped into his tin bowl at Sonnenfeld in exchange for a woven basket, how he longed for a friendly word. Streng stared at the square tiles of the floor and grew melancholic. There was no hope of things getting better.

  In his fifth month, one winter morning, Streng was ordered to get his blanket, clothes, and tin bowl together. Then he was led to a shared cell.

  Grown shy through the loneliness that had been drawn like a gray veil over his existence, the young man, not particularly sociable at the best of times, could not look his fellow inmates in the eye when they asked his name and why he had been arrested. Even when he had grown used to the other men and to the sound of his own voice, he remained taciturn and reserved. He got the reputation of being a weirdo, which was a help over the next four months — he was spared the beatings the other inmates dealt out from boredom and living too closely together.

  Streng’s life changed in the first week of his tenth month in jail, when two older prisoners pinned him down in the showers and, in the presence of a group of onlookers, a third man raped him.

  He tried to take his own life afterward by slitting his wrists with his tin bowl broken in two, but the guard discovered him lying in his own
blood and saved him.

  He was taken to the hospital building and, after two weeks, back to the shared cell. There an inmate ten years his senior, serving his third prison sentence and so respected, bluntly explained to him the general customs of prison life and, when he was convinced that Streng had understood it all, took him into his protection on account of Streng’s youth and soft skin.

  From now on Streng was no longer molested, and even when his friend had been released — his sentence was completed six months before his own — he was treated with respect. The reason for that was the holy Mother Mary, a silver amulet, a present from the older man to the younger one on the day of his release that hung on Streng’s sparsely haired chest as a physical sign of their association.

  Shortly after his twenty-second birthday, Streng stepped out onto the soil of freedom, a day covered with a clear layer of shimmering frost. After drinking a beer in a bar and smoking a cigarette lit with respect for him by one of the routine drinkers around at that time of the day — who recognized the former prisoner through his gestures, his way of drinking, and his bent posture, ready to jump up — Streng disappeared.

  No one saw him for a long time, and he was only heard of four years later when the criminal investigation department laid an album of criminals in front of a witness who picked out Streng as the man he thought he had seen in the backyard of a restaurant. Streng was suspected of having murdered a prostitute. After a brief uncomplicated search — he was arrested in the bed of a hotel in male company — he was back in jail.

  The weight of evidence being crushing, Streng, who now called himself Tony for professional reasons, was sentenced to ten years for murder. Three weeks later he came to a camp, also for professional criminals. Ironically, it was next to the town in which his father had been born and had left to seek his fortune.