Jakob the Liar (15 page)

“Was there any news last night?” asks Kowalski.

“Nothing.”

A few men they know say good morning as they pass, the street is the only one leading to the freight yard, and it gradually becomes crowded. Jacob notices people looking at him narrowly, at Kowalski too apparently. Kowalski is basking in Jacob’s glory and whispers to someone: “The radio is working again!” As if he had been instrumental, and the other fellow quickens his step and whispers it to others. Soon many are turning to look at Jacob and seem to perk up. Jacob nods imperceptibly — that’s right; you heard correctly — and the repaired radio will probably arrive at the freight yard before its owner.

“I meant to ask you,” Kowalski says, “I’ve been wondering whether the time hasn’t come to think of some other things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as business.”

“Business? What kind of business?”

“I’m a businessman,” Kowalski says. “Isn’t this the best time to prepare at least mentally for the future?”

“What do you mean, business? And what do you want to prepare? Isn’t your barbershop standing there waiting for you?”

“That’s what I’m wondering about. I’ve been thinking for a long time that maybe I should try something different in the future.”

“Something different, at your age?”

“Why not? Just between ourselves, I’ve got some money tucked away. Not exactly a fortune, mind you, but maybe there’s some better way to invest it than in my old shop, which I never really liked, anyway. Any more than you did, if you’re honest. And if I go ahead with something like that, I want to be sure I’m not throwing my money away.”

“And where do I come in?”

“From time to time there must surely be some business news on the radio.”

“There is.”

“Hasn’t there been anything that could be taken as a guideline? Some hint or other?”

“I’m not interested in such things.”

“Not interested in such things — look who’s talking!” says Kowalski. “I’m sure you must have heard something!”

“What is it you want to know, then? So far I haven’t understood a single word.”

“I simply want to know which line of business has the best prospects.”

“Sometimes you’re positively childish, Kowalski. Do you seriously think that they announce over the radio: ‘We advise you to invest your money after the war in such and such businesses’?”

This makes sense to Kowalski, and he says: “Well, all right, then I’ll simply ask you as a friend. If you had some money, where would you be most likely to invest it?”

So Jacob considers it too; an investment like that deserves a lot of consideration: where would he be most likely to invest it? “Alcohol, or tobacco, perhaps? If you remember, after the last war no one could get enough of them. And David Gedalye, you must have known him too, built himself a magnificent house in those days from schnapps.”

“He did, he did,” says Kowalski, “but where to find the raw materials? Do you really think that, right after the war, there’ll be enough potatoes to make schnapps?”

“That’s not the way to look at it. There’ll be no raw materials for anything. What you need for postwar commerce is not logic but a good nose for business.”

Kowalski is still doubtful, his nose doesn’t favor schnapps, his money’s too good for that.

“Actually, textiles shouldn’t do too badly. There’s always a need for clothing,” he says.

“You may be right. For years they only made clothing for soldiers: soldiers’ trousers, soldiers’ socks, soldiers’ tunics, soldiers’ overcoats. Ordinary people went on wearing their old clothes. And what does that mean?”

“Well?”

“There’ll be a demand.”

“That’s only half the truth, Jacob. Don’t forget that during the same period a lot of clothing has been lying unused in cupboards — I mean, all the soldiers’ civilian clothes. And today they’re as good as new.”

“Hm,” Jacob says pensively.

And so on, while they consider two or three other possibilities, and Kowalski even toys with the idea of joining forces with Jacob and establishing a large restaurant with all the frills. But Jacob thinks this is too big a risk; besides, he is sure Kowalski isn’t really serious. Jacob reverts to his first suggestion, which is that Kowalski is to remain in his old shop, and if he doesn’t know what else to do with that bit of money tucked away, he can have the place modernized, and for heaven’s sake get some new chairs — demand or no demand, hair and beards will go on growing. By the time they reach the freight yard, Kowalski is almost back to being a barber again.

L
ina wins her bet, for in the long run Jacob is no match in the unequal battle: he shows her the radio.

After some days of fruitless searching — there was nothing left she didn’t already know — she resorts to pleading. No one can plead like Lina, and she particularly knows how to plead with Jacob, with flattery, tears, hurt looks of a special kind, more tears, and all this with incredible perseverance. Jacob has held out for a few days, then his strength is exhausted: one predictable evening Lina wins her bet. For me, probably the only one who is still alive and able to reflect on the matter, that evening is the most incomprehensible of the whole story. Even when Jacob explained it to me, as best he could, I didn’t fully understand it; I asked him: “Didn’t you go a bit too far? Couldn’t she have betrayed you and everything would have been over?” “Of course not,” Jacob replied with a smile, “Lina would never betray me.” I said, “I mean without the slightest intention. Children so easily let fall a thoughtless remark, and someone or other picks it up and builds a whole house out of it.” “Lina is always very careful about what she says,” Jacob replied, and I had to believe him.

But there was also something else that I found almost impossible to understand. “There’s something else, Jacob. How could you be sure that she didn’t see through the whole thing? She could so easily have noticed what was actually going on — she’s a clever girl, you’ve said so yourself. Wasn’t it an outrageous stroke of luck that she didn’t see through it?” “She did see through it,” Jacob said, his eyes lighting up with pride. “You know, I really didn’t care whether she noticed or not. I simply wanted to give her pleasure, regardless of the consequences: that’s why I went down into the basement with her.” And after a pause, which was much too short to allow me to understand that evening, he added, “Or rather, I did care. I believe that at the time I wanted her to know about everything. I had reached a point where I simply had to show my radio to someone, and I would rather it was Lina than anyone else: with her it was like a game. Anyone else would have been horrified by the truth, but she was happy afterward. So that evening I said to her, ‘Come down now into the basement; we’ll listen to the radio together.’ “

And at this point I suddenly smiled and said: “If I’d known at the time all the things you’re capable of, I would have come to you and asked you to show me a tree.” Which in turn Jacob couldn’t understand. Let’s listen to that evening.

Considerable suspense, Lina hangs on to Jacob’s jacket, the basement corridor is long and dim. The metal doors that are passed on tiptoe are all locked, as if to hide riches of incalculable worth. The air is damp and cold, although it’s August outside. With anxious foresight, Jacob has insisted on a winter dress, stockings, and a scarf for Lina; from ceiling and walls hang droplets that glisten like tiny, feeble lamps.

“Are you scared?”

“No,” she whispers firmly, and it’s not that much of a lie; her curiosity will make her forget everything else. After all, at the end of the passage waits the thing she has been searching for in vain for days and that she has almost given up as a lost cause, and who is she to say now, I’m scared, let’s go back?

At last Jacob stops, at almost the last locker in the long row. Taking the key from his pocket, he unlocks the door and turns on the light, which is only slightly brighter than no light at all.

The locker has to be described: twelve feet square with no window. Its most noticeable feature is a partition built right across it, making almost two out of it and leaving only a narrow passage: the builders must have had a coal bin in mind. The inventory is quickly listed: an iron bedstead with rusty springs, the remains of an old stove with some leftover tiles, green and brown, and a few stovepipes, including an elbow. And in the corner by the door, the only treasure worth locking up: a small, carefully stacked pile of firewood in which Piwowa, the demanding poacher, had been sleeping some months ago while it still represented a piece of furniture. Then a glance behind the partition: more stove debris, bricks, a spade, a bucket with holes in it, and an ax. That’s all: I’m being so accurate not because these items are of any significance but because later I was there, during my search for witnesses and traces and nonexistent trees. Just as I have measured the distance between the military office and the next corner with my tape measure, just as I went into Jacob’s room where by that time an old woman was living by herself who knew nothing about the fate of any former tenants — the housing authorities had allocated the room to her on a temporary basis — I have also been in this locker; it still belongs to that room. Mrs. Domnik handed me the key without question, saying merely that she had never been down there, she didn’t own anything that needed to be kept in the basement, so I mustn’t be surprised at the dust or at any mess I might find there, she wasn’t responsible for that. And indeed it was dusty, with cobwebs everywhere, that is the truth, but I didn’t notice any mess, I found everything just as Jacob had described it to me. The bedstead, stove debris, ax and bucket; even the chopped-up wood was still by the door.

Jacob locks the door from the inside; he says, “So nobody will disturb us.” Then he goes on: “And now sit down here,” pointing to the iron bedstead.

Lina has already looked around a bit, so far without any result, yet she sits down without protest; under these circumstances he could demand a much greater display of obedience from her.

“Where do you keep the radio?”

“It won’t hurt you to wait.”

He squats down in front of her, takes her chin in one hand, turns her face toward him, forcing her to look at him, and starts off with the necessary preparation: “Now listen carefully to what I have to say. First of all you must promise me you’ll be good and do everything that I’m now going to ask of you. Sacred word of honor?”

The sacred word of honor, intended only for occasions of the utmost importance, is given impatiently; her eyes demand that he cut short the preliminaries.

“You’ll sit here keeping perfectly still. The radio is behind that partition. I’ll go behind there now and turn it on, then we’ll both hear it play. But if I notice you getting up, I’ll shut it off again immediately.”

“Can’t I see it?”

“Absolutely not!” says Jacob firmly. “Actually little girls like you aren’t even allowed to hear it either, it’s strictly forbidden. But I’m making an exception with you. Agreed?”

What can she do, she’s being blackmailed and must submit. Hearing is better than nothing, although she had been looking forward to actually seeing it. Besides, she still might, she might, you never know.

“What is your radio going to play?”

“I don’t know in advance, I have to switch it on first.”

The preparations are completed, nothing more can be done to protect himself. Jacob stands up. He goes to the partition, pauses in the little passage, and looks once more at Lina, with an expression intended, if it were possible, to chain her to the bedstead; then he finally disappears. Jacob’s eyes must first get used to the unfamiliar light, which hardly reaches beyond the partition, and he knocks the bucket with his foot.

“Was that the radio?”

“No, not yet. It’ll be another moment or two.”

Something is needed to sit on, for the stunt may take a while once it gets started. Jacob turns the bucket bottom side up and settles down on it. At this late stage he is faced with the question of what kind of program the radio has to offer, Lina having already touched briefly on this, and the time is ripe for an answer. He should have thought about this earlier, should have done all sorts of things, perhaps even practiced a bit, but as things are the radio will have to play whatever comes to mind, whether it be music or talk. Jacob remembers how, eons ago, his father could imitate an entire brass band, with tuba, trumpets, trombones, and a big drum, enough to send the family into fits of laughter. After supper, if the day had passed without any major annoyance, he could sometimes be persuaded. But Jacob wonders whether he can manage to produce an orchestra like that the very first time; his father spent hours polishing his act. Lina is waiting silently in her winter dress, and Jacob is already sweating, although the performance hasn’t even begun yet.

“Here we go,” says Jacob, ready for whatever suggests itself.

A fingernail flicks against the bucket, that’s how radios are switched on, then the air is filled with buzzing and whistling. He skips the warming-up period, a detail for connoisseurs, Jacob’s radio has the correct temperature right away, and the station is also quickly selected.

An announcer with a high voice —- the first thing to suggest itself, as has been said —- comes on the air: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, far and near, you are about to hear an interview with the British prime minister Mr. Winston Churchill.”

Then the announcer releases the microphone and a man with a midlevel voice is heard, the reporter: “Good evening, Mr. Churchill.”

Then Churchill himself, in a very deep voice and with a noticeable foreign accent: “Good evening one and all!”

REPORTER
: “I am delighted to welcome you to our studio. And here is my first question: Would you please tell our listeners how from your vantage point you assess the present situation?”

CHURCHILL
: “That’s not too difficult. I am firmly convinced that the whole schlimazl will soon be over, in another few weeks at most.”

REPORTER
: “And may one ask the source of this reassuring conviction?”

CHURCHILL
(somewhat embarrassed): “Oh well, things are progressing nicely on all fronts. It is fairly obvious that the Germans won’t be able to hold out much longer.”

REPORTER:
“Wonderful! And what is the situation in the area of Bezanika specifically?”

There is a minor interruption. Either it’s the sweating and the cold air in the basement, or something has got into Jacob’s nose; whatever the cause, reporter, announcer, and Mr. Churchill all have to sneeze at the same time.

REPORTER
(the first to recover himself): “Gesundheit, Mr. Prime Minister!”

CHURCHILL
(after blowing his nose): “Thanks. But back to your question. In the Bezanika area, things are looking particularly bad for the Germans. The Russians are having it all their own way, and Bezanika has been in their hands for some time. Only yesterday they won an important battle on the River Rudna, if you know where that is.”

REPORTER
: “Yes, I’m familiar with that river.”

CHURCHILL
: “Then you also know where the front is now. I’m certain it can’t last much longer.”

REPORTER
(delighted): “That will please our listeners very much, if they don’t happen to be Germans. Thank you very much, Mr. Churchill, for this enlightening conversation.”

CHURCHILL
: “Don’t mention it.”

ANNOUNCER
(after a brief pause): “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the promised interview with the British prime minister Mr. Winston Churchill. Good night.”

A fingernail flicks against the bucket, that’s how radios are switched off, and Jacob wipes the sweat from his forehead. A bit thin, that interview, he thinks, and also a bit above Lina’s head, but unfortunately this will never change. He hasn’t the inventive gifts of a Sholem Aleichem, don’t ask too much of a harassed man, that should be enough for today.

Jacob reappears; the situation proves highly satisfactory not only in the area of Bezanika but no less so here in the basement. At last Lina’s own ears have heard a radio, strictly forbidden for children, and she is thrilled. It might have turned out differently, disguising his voice had been a step onto virgin soil, and in three variations too; Lina might have icily demanded that he stop this nonsense and turn on the radio. Jacob would have died of heart failure, the mere thought of it, but Lina wouldn’t dream of saying anything of the kind. The situation couldn’t be better, he sees that at once.

“Did you like that?”

“Oh yes!”

Satisfaction on both sides. Jacob stands in front of her and is about to suggest they leave — We’ve had our fun; bed is waiting — but Lina says, “You don’t mean it’s all over.”

“What else?”

“I’d like to hear some more.”

“No, no, that’s enough,” he says, but without much conviction. A brief verbal skirmish, it’s already too late, she would like to hear more, some other time perhaps, anything, can’t get enough, all he has to do is turn the radio on again, she’ll be happy with anything. Jacob sneezes again, this evening the whole world has to sneeze. As he blows his nose he studies her expression and finds no suspicion reflected in it. That settles it.

“What do you want to hear?”

So Jacob is again sitting on the bucket, in complete silence, now seized by ambition. Ambition in terms of the brass band: he can’t get it out of his head, although it has been silent for a good forty years, covered with dust, the instruments all rusty. Jacob is ready to take a chance, so determined is he today.

First there is the flicking, then the buzzing and whistling; the second time it already sounds more convincing, and then the music starts in a rush, with drum and cymbals taking the first bar. Drum and cymbals are followed by a solitary trombone, which needs a few notes to get onto the right track. The tune is uncertain, Jacob tells me, an improvised series of notes, interspersed with a variety of familiar themes but with no particular pattern; the only certainty is that it is a march. Tentatively the feet take over the percussion, supported by the fingers using the bucket, thus leaving the mouth free for the remaining instruments. For one trombone does not a brass band make; it must be relieved by the trumpet, and that in turn by the falsetto of the clarinet, and from time to time a tuba note from the back of the throat. Jacob loses, as one says, all inhibition. The only constraint he submits to — despite his haste his ear has not forgotten a certain rule, strictly observed by his father — is that vowels be used sparingly, if possible avoided altogether, since instruments give voice only in consonants or, to be more precise, only in sounds that can be approximated by consonants and are remotely similar but not identical to them. So his lips don’t produce a simple ta-ta-ra-ta or la-li-la; he has to shape sounds not found in any alphabet. The basement reverberates with sounds never yet heard. Maybe too much effort for the sake of a child like Lina, who would be satisfied with less polish, but let us remember that ambition is involved, a self-imposed test, and virtuosity thrives best without compulsion. Soon the key is maintained without difficulty, trumpets and trombones toss phrases back and forth, experiment with antiphony, and almost always bring things to a happy conclusion. The clarinet, too uncomfortably high in pitch, is forced to retreat farther and farther into the background: instead the tuba makes itself heard more often, now and then even venturing a little extra flourish, a run in the lower regions, to escape, when breath runs short, into two or three bars of bucket thumping.