Mendelssohn is on the Roof (15 page)

That’s some ‘nothing much’, thought Jan, such rare things as sardines, Dutch cheese and Hungarian salami, at a time like this.

‘I’d rather give you some lard or meat, but those are hard to find these days.’

They drank the coffee and smoked the cigarettes which Pokorny offered Krulis. They were American cigarettes, Chesterfields.

‘Thank you for everything,’ said Jan Krulis as he was leaving. ‘It will get to the right place.’

The story behind these delicacies was a strange, even unbelievable one. In a street that ran down a steep incline from the castle, the street named after a poet, there was a single modern house. It blended in somewhat with its surroundings; nevertheless, it contrasted sharply because of its new red paint and the doorbells without names at the
wooden entrance. People with secret telephone numbers lived there, members of one of the Reich intelligence services, but only part of the time. The rest of the time they travelled to other countries with false papers. They travelled under various disguises – even as Dominican monks or Orthodox priests.

One of them, who bore the noble prefix ‘von’, had already earned a bad reputation during the First Republic. While serving as a temporary attaché at the German embassy then, he had organised meetings with some dishonest Agrarian Party politicians. Forced to leave when his activities were discovered, he didn’t return until after March 15. He voluntarily chose Prague as his main base. Now, under the Protectorate, he worked in the Balkans. He could have settled in Vienna, but he chose the city he had been kicked out of – perhaps to even the score somehow. Or perhaps he had come to love the city; this sometimes happens to adventurers who have no home of their own.

He avoided all public places. He had a feeling that he was surrounded by spies, not only from other countries, but even from other Reich services, who worked for the Reich Ministry or favourites of the Leader. They all fought and set traps for one another.

He needed a housekeeper who would clean his house and cook for him, not full time, but at irregular intervals and odd hours, because he never knew when he’d return from his travels and how long he would be in town. The housekeeper should not be too clever, so that she wouldn’t understand anything and wouldn’t meddle in anything. She mustn’t be a German – a German might be a plant from one of the other Reich services. He searched for such a housekeeper for a long time, and finally found one quite by
chance. Back when he was still working as an attaché he had met a career diplomat, an Austrian baron who had enlisted as an officer of the Reich when Austria was occupied and had himself transferred to the German embassy. After March 15, the German embassy was abolished, but the baron stayed in town for several months longer. He had some business to complete. And also, one could eat and drink well in the Protectorate if one had enough money and the right connections.

The former attaché ran into the baron in front of the German House. The baron was just coming out from dinner and couldn’t pretend he didn’t know him. They talked about various unimportant things, not a word about the front – it paid to watch one’s tongue. Officials wearing dress uniforms and monocles were everywhere to be seen, and the baron gave a little sneer. He didn’t like Prussians and their uniforms. Nor did he like the former attaché, who he knew was an agent and involved in various dark affairs, including murder. But he acted perfectly politely. When you live with wolves you have to behave nicely towards them. He talked only about special rations and parties at the Press Club, as if those were matters of the utmost importance.

The baron remembered that he knew of a housekeeper. She had cooked for him back in the days he had worked for the Austrian embassy. He recommended her highly. She was old and ugly. She was unlikely to attract a lover. She didn’t know how to read or write and spoke Czech badly because she came from the easternmost part of Slovakia. Some Czech state trooper had brought her to Prague a long time ago and then abandoned her there. But she was a great cook.

And so the agent found a new housekeeper at last. She didn’t have much work to do, since her master was constantly on the road, but whenever he returned she created veritable feasts for him. And she kept the apartment meticulously clean. When she emptied the wastepaper basket she had instructions to throw the various torn-up scraps of paper directly into the furnace. But she only threw the newspapers there. She removed the scraps of paper and took them elsewhere. Where she took them was her affair. She couldn’t read them herself, but she took them to
someone
who was able to decipher them.

The housekeeper lived well – there were plenty of
provisions
in the pantry. The agent with the prefix ‘von’ received special ration cards. But that wasn’t his main source. He brought salamis from Hungary, canned
vegetables
from Bulgaria, coffee from Turkey. The sardines were Portuguese. His servant stole them from Red Cross parcels for English prisoners of war, as she did cigarettes and chocolate. Because he was on the road all the time, the easily transportable small delicacies went on the road in other directions. That’s how it happened that Jan got two cans of sardines, a Dutch cheese in a tin and a piece of Hungarian salami for the Javureks, Adela and Greta.

W
HEN RICHARD REISINGER left the
warehouse
in the centre of town to go home in the evening, he had to ride the tram a long way through the darkened streets. The faces of people coming home after a long and exhausting day’s work seemed green and corpselike. He had a haunted feeling as the tram crawled slowly ahead, clacking along and stopping at the stations.

The star sewn on his left breast, just above the heart, should have forced him to follow the regulations and stand on the outside platform, but he usually covered it with his briefcase, sat in the corner and dozed off. Indeed, half the car was sleeping. It was as if they were all riding through a lifeless city, disintegrating and silenced, where the only sound to be heard was the screeching and rattling of a tram going off to an unknown destination.

Still, he was glad he could sit in the corner and doze until the tram-car clambered up the hill to the stop near his house.

He had grown up in this neighbourhood. He owned a little house with a little hardware store, now closed and cleared out. The house was so small that it didn’t even have a yard. The wooden steps creaked as he went up to his apartment – a single room with a kitchen. He turned on the light – a bare light bulb – and then turned it off again immediately in order to open the window and air the room out. Then he drew the blackout shades again, put a pot on a small electric hotplate and waited for the
water to boil. In the winter he had to use a small heating stove, but sometimes he was too tired even to make a fire. Then he’d eat a little, get in bed and read. He read a lot lately. Before the war he had hardly touched a book, buying only an occasional sports magazine and listening to the radio.

Books helped him slough off the ugliness and horror of his work. In the old days he used to like going to dances, hanging about with his friends and boxing. There was never much business in his shop. Customers went there mainly to pass the time of day; at the most they’d buy a few nails or a hook. Generally the neighbourhood was
concerned
with local problems: someone was born, someone died, someone else was taken to the hospital, a girl took poison because of an unhappy love affair. When one is young everything seems simpler. No need for soul-searching about what to do, no need to make plans, so long as a living could be eked out from the shop. Some day he might get married, but God knew when that might be. The store would hardly support two people. If they had children he’d take a job as a shop assistant in a larger store. But if his future wife had money, they could open a shop in another neighbourhood. Of course, he’d never marry a girl just for money. Then the Depression came, and the new chain stores took away a lot of customers. But if a person has only himself to support, if he lives modestly, if his only amusements are boxing, hanging round with his friends, playing soccer and going dancing occasionally at Deutsch’s, he can always scrape by.

The mobilisation came, in 1938, and like everyone else he was happy to go. Then came Munich. The Vlajka Fascists cropped up everywhere and wrote all sorts of abusive signs
on his shopfront. The writing could be washed off, and the neighbours didn’t pay much attention to such foolishness, but in the end he lost his shop anyhow in accordance with the law regarding the confiscation of Jewish property. At first he wasn’t too upset by this either. He was strong and healthy. He’d always find work of some sort.

But after the occupation on March 15 the merry-
go-round
began. As it turned faster and faster, he found himself alone on it. No more friends, no more dances; the Boxing Club had been dissolved even earlier. And the rest of it was like a terrible dream, except that he was forced to live it. All that remained was the apartment he came home to every evening. But that wasn’t enough. The old way didn’t work any more – to take life as it comes and not worry too much about anything.

His group of friends broke up. Some of them were
conscripted
to the Reich, some of them were arrested, new friends were hard to come by. Things were better when he was working on the highways and in the quarries – there was a spirit of camaraderie among the labourers. Even at the Collection Agency everybody stuck together – there was no other way, though people with different occupations were thrown together there, each with problems of his own. The main problem was to avoid being called for the transports as long as possible.

He’d talk with the neighbours about the war and they’d tell anecdotes about the Führer, his marshals, ministers and Czech collaborators, about news from the General Headquarters claiming that the Reich armed forces in the East had succeeded in breaking away from the enemy and reducing the front. These conversations about good and bad news had two beliefs in common: that justice would
prevail in the end and that the Fascist murderers would eventually be destroyed.

Reisinger had hardly any time for himself on weekdays. But Sunday belonged entirely to him. He had a day off on Sunday – the warehouse was closed.

When the weather was nice he’d stretch out on a hillside overlooking the city. He could see only factories and tall chimneys. Smoke poured out of them even on Sundays.

He knew that the transport lay ahead for him. He did not comfort himself, as many others did, with thoughts that the war would end in two months, that freedom would come, and that there was plenty of time for the people in the Central Bureau to accomplish their task. He did believe, however, as most people did, that the war would end, that the Russians would win and bring justice and peace. Sometimes he felt a wave of anger, and he had to control himself to keep from smashing Erich or Karel when they boasted about their devilish work. The trouble was that he’d enjoy only one satisfying moment. Then they would kill him.

One afternoon he decided to go for a walk. He was tired of the bare rubbish-strewn hillside, scorched by the sun and over-grazed by goats. He walked down the road that followed the river. Above it the hill was blooming with acacias. He felt as if he were out in the country, because there were trees here and the river was quiet on this Sunday afternoon. He didn’t feel like thinking about anything. He just wanted to look at the river, at the trees, at the garden of an isolated little house. He felt as if he were saying goodbye to something he might never see again.

His head was full of confused thoughts that kept cropping up as he kept trying to push them away.

Suddenly he bumped into someone. That could have meant real trouble if it was one of them. But they never came this way. He mumbled a few words of apology. Then the person caught him by the sleeve.

‘Are you so blinded by that sheriff’s star of yours that you don’t even recognise me?’

It was Franta, his friend from the Boxing Club. He used to work in the Rustonec factory.

‘So what are you doing now?’

‘I’m with the Gestapo.’

‘Come on, Richard, stop pulling my leg.’

Reisinger told him about his adventures. He was glad to have someone to confide in.

They talked for a few more minutes. Franta looked around.

‘There’s nobody here, but still, it’s better not to have long chats out in the open. I’ll tell you what. Next Sunday take off that star and come to the Sestak pub. We could go a few rounds. Everything’s the same as it used to be there.’

They went off in opposite directions.

The next Sunday Reisinger went to Sestak’s. It was an ordinary corner pub with a bar and a small side room. Before the war the owner used to lend the room to the Boxing Club at no charge. It brought in hardly any business, because the boxers drank very little or nothing at all. But the owner was a boxing fan. He even turned on the heat for them in the winter.

The pub was unchanged. People were sitting around the bar, playing cards. The owner stood behind the counter, pouring beer. He recognised Reisinger, but he gave no sign of it. He just muttered a greeting and indicated the door of the side room with his eyes. There were sounds coming
from that room, dull thuds. When he entered, Reisinger saw Franta and two young men he didn’t know. They were hitting a punchbag – those were the dull, inexpert thuds he had heard in the bar-room. Franta was apparently giving them lessons.

The little room looked the same as in the old days. Pictures of famous boxers hung on the walls. In a glass case were polished trophies won at various matches; the boxing gloves must have been in the cupboard. Either the owner had declared the things in the room as his own private property when the inventories of the various workers’ sporting clubs were confiscated or perhaps the officials didn’t want to bother carting away that small amount of junk.

‘This is Louis and this is Tonda,’ said Franta, introducing the two young men. They shook Reisinger’s hand. Their hands were strong, work-hardened.

‘Not to keep you in suspense too long,’ continued Franta calmly, ‘I didn’t really invite you here for boxing. We have to keep punching this bag so that people in the bar-room think we’re practising. One has to be careful. But first tell me, do you still live in that little house up on the hill? I haven’t been in that part of town for a long time.’

Reisinger answered that he still lived there. They’d probably let him keep his apartment until he was called for the transport, because nobody really wanted it.

Then Franta continued to ask a lot of questions. What time did he come home? Did anybody come for visits? What were the neighbours like?

Reisinger found the interrogation strange, and finally he asked, ‘Why do you want to know all this?’

‘I’ll tell you. These two young fellows are from Suchdol. Do you know it?’

Reisinger was familiar with Suchdol. When he was still working for the Collection Agency they used to pick up furniture there. A former village located just outside Prague in the woods above the river, Suchdol was a neat and clean suburb with little gardens and odd street names. No factories or industry, only market gardening. Once when he was moving furniture out of a Suchdol villa and the sun was shining and the sky was clear and blue, he felt as if he were on an outing to the country. They took it easy that day, smoking a pack of cigarettes the former owner had left in a drawer. They felt as if there were peace, as if this neighbourhood were in a world of its own because
everything
was so calm there. They ate sandwiches and drank water from their thermoses and watched the river flow away from the city.

‘I know it a little. What about Suchdol?’

‘The town was always left-wing and always somewhat red before the war. The authorities were after a doctor from Suchdol for unfair competition, because he took patients who were unemployed during the Depression without charge. The mayor of the town was a Communist and so were the majority of people there. Something was always going on in Suchdol. Then, after March 15, the Gestapo began to kick up hell. They wanted to arrest the mayor and the local authorities. Except they didn’t pull it off and they haven’t caught them to this very day. They tried to find out where they were hiding from their wives, so they arrested them, but they never got anything out of them – good women in Suchdol. Then nothing happened for a long time. But now they’re having trouble again. These fellows come from there and they need to disappear. As soon as they get new papers they’ll go somewhere else.
So they need to hide out somewhere for a week or two. I thought maybe the way things look today the safest place might be at your house. They’d never search for them there.’

At first Reisinger was a little surprised. But he made a quick decision. Those fellows were obviously not hiding out for no good reason. He was glad to help them. At least he’d be a bit useful.

He told Franta that he didn’t mind at all if they stayed with him, but there was a problem about getting enough food.

‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll take care of it.’

The young men didn’t take part in these arrangements. They kept punching the bag.

‘Well, what do you think? How about going a few rounds, since we’re here. Are you still a welterweight?’

Richard and Franta stripped to their undershirts and put on boxing gloves. Louis and Tonda were referees, except it was obvious they didn’t know anything about boxing.

‘Let’s call it a day,’ said Franta. ‘There’s not much time. You go home now, Richard. I’ll bring them to your house in the evening, after dark. I won’t ring the doorbell and I won’t knock. I’ll just whistle that signal of ours we used to use when we went to steal pears in the Grabas’s garden.’

Later that evening Franta whistled and Reisinger opened the door immediately. It was raining outside and nobody was hanging about on the street. They didn’t turn on the lights in the hallway but followed Reisinger, groping in the dark.

‘We didn’t manage to find any food,’ Franta apologised. ‘But I’ll send something tomorrow. Until then they’ll simply have to go hungry. They’ve been through many
worse things. Once, during the rampage after the Heydrich assassination, they had to stand all night in a pond without moving.’

‘What about sleeping arrangements?’ asked Reisinger. ‘There’s an old couch in the kitchen and a bed in the living room, but two won’t fit on it, so somebody will have to sleep on the floor. How about let’s toss a coin.’

But Franta wouldn’t hear of it. The guests would sleep in the kitchen and take turns on the couch.

And so Reisinger became one of a threesome. In the evening the young men wanted to talk a lot, mainly about soccer, since they didn’t talk during the day. That was partly because they had to be quiet and partly because they had exhausted all subjects of conversation between them. Franta sent food through various contacts.

It was a new world for Reisinger. Until then he had come to believe that one has to give up fighting when the opponent is stronger. It sometimes seemed to him that he had been written off already.

Louis and Tonda persuaded him that it was possible to fight, that it was only necessary to know what one is fighting for. This small country had been sold down the river, then it had been overrun by bandits and murderers; they chained it and beat it down, but they couldn’t break it, not as long as there were people to defend it. The people he had been meeting until now didn’t know how to defend themselves. Living life just to survive – that would never end well. One had to make up one’s mind firmly and resolutely, to be willing to give up comfort, submission and fear; one had to be willing to sacrifice one’s own life, if need be, for a cause that would ultimately prevail and bring peace and freedom to other people.