Mendelssohn is on the Roof (11 page)

He said, ‘I want to inform you about one more thing, Dr Buch. It’s that workman, Becvar; you know, the one I took with me to tear down the statue. He’s a dangerous person, a secret enemy of the Reich. I saw his true nature at once when I was teaching the course.’

‘So. Becvar,’ mused Dr Buch with a smile. ‘I know
something
about him.’ Dr Buch was a confidant of the Gestapo and knew quite a lot about everybody. ‘I’ve had my eye on him for a long time. So he showed his true colours after all. Don’t you think this might be a case for the Gestapo?’

‘No, he’s too sly. He puts on a good act. They’d never pin any treasonous act on him.’

‘That’s not a problem. The Gestapo would beat the slyness out of him. They have their methods over there.’

Schlesinger resisted. He didn’t want to go that far in his revenge. ‘No. It will be enough if you kick him out and send him to the Employment Bureau with a bad
recommendation
.’

‘Of course. Whatever you say. I’m delighted to be able to help you out in this little thing, especially’ – he grinned – ‘especially since you’re going off to fight against the savage barbarians.’

Then he bade him farewell with great sincerity and wished him a lot of luck, and may he achieve heroic acts on the field of honour and glory.

Out in the hall Schlesinger exploded: ‘That little rat, that cockroach. How it pleased him to talk about those heroic acts at the front. I’m surprised he didn’t wish me a heroic death.’

Maybe he shouldn’t have denounced Becvar to that little rat. But why shouldn’t Becvar get it, too? Why should he be the only one to suffer?

Richard Reisinger returned to the guardhouse. He was still bleeding at the mouth, and asked the person who had stood in for him to stay a little longer while he went to wash and stop the bleeding. When he returned, his temporary
replacement told him not to resume his watch, that they had just called to say that Reisinger was fired and that he was to go to ask for a new job at the Work Force Division.

‘So it goes,’ sighed Reisinger.

He hadn’t liked being a guard anyhow. Sitting closed up in an airless little room behind a little window all day long – that was no work for him. He was used to working in the quarry and doing heavy hauling with a cart out in the fresh air. And then that constant weeping and moaning and complaining, and also the physical abuse.

At the Work Force Division of the Jewish Community an official pulled out his card: ‘You’re in category A, Roman numeral I. That means perfectly healthy, capable of the hardest physical labour. So office work is out.’

‘Sure, I’m not afraid of hard work – the harder the better. I’d be happy to go back to the quarry or to do heavy moving.’ He preferred not to mention digging trenches. The SS were overseers on those jobs and they were merciless.

‘The quarry is out of the question,’ announced the
Community
official, formerly a travelling dry-goods salesman. ‘Ever since the transports began they’ve stopped all
outdoor
work. Moving and hauling is all booked up. We can’t send a single person there. The only thing left is trench digging, but I really wouldn’t recommend that – you should see them carting off seriously injured people from there all the time. How they got injured and by whom I hardly have to tell you. But I do have some work for you. Actually, it’s a position I have to fill at any cost. And here you are at just the right moment. Forgive me, but I can’t send you
anywhere
else. It won’t be so bad, I assure you.’

Reisinger was alarmed. What sort of job was it that made
the official talk about it so vaguely, so cautiously? If it turned out to be carrying dead bodies to the morgue, that wouldn’t be so bad.

‘You know’ – the official seemed to be weighing his words – ‘it’s a warehouse job, moving and the like.’

‘But not at the Collection Agency?’ Reisinger spoke a little impatiently. ‘Why, you just said a few minutes ago that all the jobs there are taken.’

‘No, it’s not at the Collection Agency,’ the official continued quietly. ‘It’s not an office connected with us at all. We received this order from higher up. You know, we have to accommodate them at any cost.’

‘So tell me, for goodness’ sake, what kind of job is it?’

‘Well, since you’re so eager to know’ – the official shrugged his shoulders – ‘it’s the Gestapo warehouse. They’ve got a lot of work there now because they’re confiscating the property of executed people and they need a moving man, one who wouldn’t breathe a word. A Jew is suitable for that sort of thing. So. Now you know what kind of job it is.’

Reisinger’s knees began to shake. He had got used to all sorts of things, and he had lived through all sorts of things. But this? They were handing him over directly to the worst beasts of prey. What might they do to him there? As soon as they stopped needing his services, they’d find a way to make sure he’d never tell, the only way they knew how.

‘No, not that … not the Gestapo …’

‘I can’t help you,’ said the official. ‘I don’t know any other job for you. And it won’t be so bad. Fischman was there just before you. He left on his own because he got a hernia. And he said that the Gestapo were fairly decent to him; that is, as decent as they are capable of being. They
certainly didn’t beat him, and they didn’t scream at him either. They’re mainly interested in making off with as much as possible there, so they don’t have time for
anything
else. The manager there is a woman. Of course, she’s one of their women. You’d be worse off digging trenches.’

He gave Reisinger a paper with an address and told him to show up the next day.

A
DELA AND GRETA sat in Mrs Javurek’s little
cubbyhole
. The house was old; many people lived there. From morning to night feet trudged up the steps – there was no lift. An overcrowded apartment house where things are in an uproar from morning to night and nobody pays attention to a stranger is the safest hiding place. Adela and Greta had to sit quietly. If anyone rang the doorbell they knew they mustn’t open the door, for nobody should find out there were strangers in the house. Mrs Javurek spent almost the entire day tracking down food and standing in queues. Mr Javurek was a tram driver and came home at different times, depending on his shift.

The day dragged along slowly. The children looked at books their Uncle Jan had brought them. But it’s not possible to read books all day long. They drew pictures with coloured pencils and paints, and they played the sort of games that don’t require much noise. They also cleaned the apartment and carefully washed the dishes. When the neighbours were home they would have noticed any unusual sound coming from the apartment, because they knew that Mrs Javurek had gone shopping.

Now they’d never get outside! Maybe when the war ended, but nobody knew when that would be. Their names were already on a list of the disappeared. All policemen had these lists and it would be very dangerous to go out on the street, since nobody in the building knew they were there. There was not much air in their little cubbyhole. They weren’t allowed to go into the living room or kitchen
when they were home alone, nor were they allowed to go near the windows. The best idea would have been to board up the wall. But in a house like this, where the arrival of a bricklayer or a roofer is a big event, boarding up was impossible. When word got around that they were doing spot inspections, the Javureks hid the door of the
cubbyhole
by putting a large wardrobe in front of it. Nobody unfamiliar with the apartment would ever dream that there was a little room behind the big piece of furniture.

But sometimes Adela and Greta simply couldn’t
overcome
their curiosity and they peeked out from behind the curtains into the street. It was a suburban street, not at all a lively one, only paving stones, apartment houses with cracked paint, and a few little houses without gardens dating back to the days before the village had turned into a suburb. There were many children who played on the street when school was out; they jumped and ran around everywhere, because no trams ran on the street and cars rarely drove by that way – only the dustbin men and an occasional coal delivery. Adela and Greta liked to watch the dustbin men. And-a-one, and-a-two, up and over, and the dustbin was empty – they wished they could learn to do it, too. The coal wagons were pulled by horses, gigantic animals, but the children preferred a little horse who delivered packages. He’d show up on the street on occasion and paw at the ground with his right foot as if he were begging for
something
, maybe sugar. But nobody gave him sugar these days. Sugar was rare. Sometimes he’d get a crust of bread. He said thank you for everything, even if it wasn’t sugar, by nodding his head up and down. As soon as the weather grew warmer and the sun came out, the children were happier; they heard voices because the windows were open.

There was a tomcat who used to show up regularly on the street. They even knew his name – a funny one – Bretislav. They had learned about a historical Bretislav when they were still going to school and they remembered something about him – that he had abducted somebody called Jitka from Germany. The tomcat didn’t look like the abducting type. He sauntered along in a dignified way, a nice fat cat, which made him stand out somewhat in wartime, when people and animals were all losing weight. He must have been catching lots of mice – they weren’t rationed. The whole street hated this cat. He belonged to the janitor of the house across the street, who watched over him carefully and obviously cared about him a lot. Such a fat cat was a highly unusual sight nowadays. The janitor was a
card-carrying
Fascist; he was always threatening people in the neighbourhood and he had already denounced quite a few. That’s why many people disliked the cat and would have preferred to see him in their frying pans.

As soon as they could, Adela and Greta got into position to peek out of the window. The cat took a long time to show up. Not until the sun was broiling did he deign to stroll out of his house and on to the street. By then it was almost noon. The girls ran the danger of being caught by Mrs Javurek when she came home to make lunch. They’d really get it if she caught them, and they didn’t want to make Mrs Javurek angry. They loved her. They knew she was risking her life for them, that the Germans would kill Mr and Mrs Javurek both if they found out they were hiding someone. The punishment for that was death. The children knew something about death – they were with their mother as she was dying. Their father had disappeared even before that. The Germans had probably killed him.

The cat was a great temptation, and especially a famous cat about whom they had heard so much. No, they couldn’t resist watching him. Why did he jump out of his window only at noon? Someone should persuade him to come out at other times.

Adela spotted him first. Quietly she let Greta know. ‘Look. Here comes Bretislav.’

The cat walked along slowly, not at all furtively. He walked along self-confidently. He probably knew that his master was watching him out of his window. He paid no attention to the people around; he had a definite destination. The street ended in a small square, with a little prayer stool in front of a statue of the Crucifixion. Women coming home from shopping often stopped at the statue, put down their bags, knelt and prayed. That was the cat’s place in the noonday sun. Right on the prayer stool. The clasped hands of the woman praying there on the bench didn’t bother him at all. But who wants to pray with a cat? The woman always got up and left indignantly. But nobody dared kick the cat or chase him away with the janitor keeping a close eye on him.

One evening the Javureks had a talk about the cat.

Mrs Javurek said, ‘Somebody ought to put a stop to this. You know I’m not a religious type and I don’t go to church. But when that cat is sprawled out there and women want to pray, it seems like a sort of desecration. Besides which, the cat belongs to that Fascist who’s always looking to catch somebody and get them sent to prison.’

Mr Javurek argued with her: ‘It’s not the cat’s fault that his master works for the Germans. And if a person is religious and wants to pray, then they don’t have to pay any attention to their surroundings.’

Adela and Greta observed Bretislav. He was lying all stretched out and he didn’t seem to mind that the prayer stool was on a slant.

Greta whispered: ‘Cats are really clever, aren’t they? I’m sure I’d fall off if it were me.’

‘You ninny,’ her older sister, Adela, answered
condescendingly
, ‘you’re bigger than that cat.’

‘I don’t care,’ Greta insisted. ‘If we were cats we’d have a better time. We’d walk around the rooftops and places like that. We wouldn’t get caught by the Germans. We wouldn’t have to sit here in this hole.’

‘You ninny, you’d be so small that anybody could do whatever they wanted with you, like pull your tail. And all you’d be able to do is meow.’

‘Oh no,’ argued Greta, ‘I’d hiss and scratch and bite. Cats are brave.’

Suddenly the doorbell rang. They jumped away from the window and quietly crept towards their cubbyhole.

The doorbell gave a second ring and then a third. It was the prearranged signal.

‘We must open the door,’ said Adela. ‘It’s Uncle Jan.’

‘I’m scared,’ Greta said, trembling. ‘He never comes at this time. Maybe it’s you-know-who behind the door, and they’ve got guns.’

‘Don’t be scared,’ Adela reassured her. ‘If it was
you-know
-who they’d be stamping and screaming.’

It was quiet outside.

They tiptoed up to the door. Adela looked through the peephole.

‘It’s Uncle Jan,’ she said, and opened the door.

Jan Krulis closed the door behind him carefully. Adela and Greta clung to him, one on each side. They loved
him, and besides, he always brought them something. He also told them about what was happening in the world. His visit always meant a few happy days for them. But Jan didn’t joke around with them today; he didn’t seem at all jolly.

‘What happened, Uncle?’ asked Adela. ‘Do we have to move again?’ They had moved three times already and it took them a long time to get used to strange people. They liked it at the Javureks’. The Javureks were kind to them.

‘No, it’s not that,’ said Jan. ‘It’s your Uncle Rudolf … you know …’

Yes, they knew, they were able to figure it out. When they visited him once, long ago, Uncle Rudolf’s face was different from other people’s, so thin, as if the skin just covered the bones. It was waxy pale, a face full of pain. He looked like that statue that stood behind the prayer stool.

They wept. Uncle Rudolf was the last remaining member of their family. Now they had nobody. Death had come for everyone, for their mama and for their papa. Now it was their uncle’s turn.

Jan Krulis was silent. He waited for them to cry their fill. They would forget. Life would bring them many other things to worry about. Yet what sort of life was it to sit all day in a little hole, to be afraid every time the doorbell rang, never to go out into the fresh air, to the river, to the park. People used to say that the sun and the air were free. But they weren’t free. These children might pay a heavy price for them: their lives. Life had become the common price for everything. And keeping them in hiding was very difficult. They mustn’t stay anywhere too long, that was the most important rule. Even when everyone was very careful, disaster might strike. The neighbours might notice
a tiny movement of a curtain in the apartment at a time when they knew nobody was at home. On streets like this, women look out of their windows for hours at a time – that’s their major entertainment, even though nothing ever happens outside. They notice every little thing and then people begin to talk, to speculate. One fine day you-
know-who
might break into the house – they have their spies. Hiding too long in one apartment was dangerous.

But it was difficult to find new hiding places. People were afraid, and it was hard to blame them. The penalty for hiding someone was death. It didn’t matter whether you hid children or adults. Some people did it for the money, but you couldn’t trust people like that. They were capable of betraying for money, too. The only people you could depend on for such a task were high-minded, honourable, good people. There had to be plenty of them, but try to find them in a big city.

Also, people were used to living according to certain rules. They had their favourite chairs, places at the table, stools by the kitchen stove. They held their knives and forks in their own way, they drank their water or their beer either during the meal or after. Everything strange, everything unusual bothered them, prevented them from enjoying their normal lives. And if you added fear to that, fear of death, fear residing somewhere deep inside, then that fear could explode at any time in the form of a sharp word, a reproach or an insult – people couldn’t always control themselves. Adela and Greta were familiar with this. They realised that they were always at people’s mercies, that they were the cause of fear and sorrow and despair. They felt they were in disgrace here. They were afraid of making the tiniest move. They were afraid of uttering the
slightest sound. Anything they did might make someone angry or irritated. It was a bad situation for everyone.

He was taking care of Greta and Adela as he had promised, though actually, as a member of an illegal organisation, he wasn’t supposed to do that sort of thing. He sought out hiding places for them among acquaintances or at addresses he received with the help of his organisation. He had to find food for them because they didn’t receive any food rations and they couldn’t deprive their hosts of food. That meant having enough money to buy provisions and rations on the black market. Still, money could always be found. There were always people who would give money without asking what it was for. And food could always be bought on the black market. The hardest thing was to ask people to place their own lives in danger. Drummers and pipers walked up and down the streets, waving horsetails; red decrees with long lists of names hung on every street corner: Condemned and executed for unfriendly acts towards the Reich.
Everybody
could read the red decrees. They never said what it was that people had done, nor was it necessary, for the punishment for everything was death. But the signature was there: Reinhard Heydrich.

Adela and Greta stopped crying.

‘Look what I’ve brought you,’ he said. He unwrapped a little package. There on top lay a bar of real, true, pre-war chocolate. Chocolate was an absolute miracle that year.

Greta reached out for it and wanted to take a bite.

‘No, no.’ Adela stopped her. ‘Here’s how we’ll do it. Mrs Javurek will get a half, because she is so nice. We’ll divide the other half into four pieces. Each of us will get one piece now. That way it will last us a long time. You can’t wolf down the whole thing all at once like that.’

Greta was regretful, but she agreed to the plan.

Only then did they look at the other things in the package. They weren’t so interested in them: soap, margarine, two cans of something or other, sugar, pasta.

They would forget, of course. They had practically
forgotten
their parents. That was good, that’s the way it should be. They’d forget their uncle Rudolf Vorlitzer, too.

Death is all around. It is waiting for him, it is waiting for the two little girls. Death is always lurking. It is motionless, petrified. But there’s no point in thinking about it. The point is to take care of ordinary things – where to place Adela and Greta at the end of the three months, how to get money and food.

‘Uncle Jan’ – Greta pulled him by the sleeve after she had eaten the chocolate – ‘would you like to see Bretislav? There he is. Look behind the curtain. He’s the cat sunning himself in front of the statue.’