Mendelssohn is on the Roof (19 page)

The commander barked out: ‘Call together all the butchers in the Sudeten barracks.’

The manager asked: ‘Where am I to call them together? They won’t all fit in my room. The news would spread through the barracks and cause trouble.’ Now that the manager had been given a direct order, he was capable of independent thought once again.

The commander answered, ‘Isn’t the guardhouse of the troopers and ghetto guards right behind this entrance here, just in front of the prison? The troopers know what’s going on, we don’t have to worry about them. We’ll clear out the guardhouse and we can call together the butchers there.’

The commander went to the guardhouse and sent the
manager to summon the butchers. Everything went like clockwork. In a while eight butchers appeared. They didn’t know what was going on and stood there in confusion. They knew something was afoot. It was an ordinary working day, yet nobody had been allowed to leave the building, even though it was long past the time work usually began. The troopers were patrolling the streets. That, too, was unusual, because they usually guarded the gates, while the ghetto duty was done by the ghetto guards. Nevertheless, the butchers didn’t and couldn’t have the smallest suspicion of what the manager and the commander of the guards wanted from them.

The commander looked them over very carefully. He gestured to one of them and asked, ‘How old are you?’

The butcher answered, ‘Sixteen.’

He picked another: ‘And you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And what about that one in the corner?’

‘Sixty.’

The commander dismissed them: ‘You three can go.’

Five people were left waiting impatiently and anxiously, wondering what was going to happen. The commander drew himself up, struck a military attitude and addressed the butchers.

‘Friends and kinsmen, I must tell you some sad news and at the same time turn to you with an urgent request. Several of our fellow residents have been sentenced to death by hanging. The judgement will be carried out at ten o’clock and two of you must do it. I am asking two of you to volunteer for the job and thus ease the distress of the others. According to the Untersturmführer’s order, I was to find two criminal types, but where am I to find
them? You butchers are the only ones who are suitable for this job.’

At first the butchers grew pale, and then they grew angry.

Kraus, a butcher from Horelic, yelled: ‘Not on your life. Get some of your own rats to do it!’

And they all started in:

‘I have two children.’

‘I have children, too.’

Then, in the midst of all the noise, a man as big as a mountain out-shouted all of them: ‘I’m a former trooper sergeant, but I wouldn’t stoop as low as that.’

The butchers began to heap abuse on the commander: ‘Get lost, you dirty spy. Find one of your friends to be a hangman!’

They turned and wanted to leave the guardhouse.

‘If you don’t do it, the whole Council of Elders will be shot, and I as well.’

One of the butchers began to chuckle. ‘Dear, dear. But we wouldn’t really mind.’

The commander roared at them: ‘But you’ll be shot, too!’

The butchers stood stock-still, as if struck by lightning. ‘How come? It’s not our business!’

The commander said quite calmly now, ‘I’ll denounce you.’

Trapped. They didn’t doubt for a moment that the
commander
would denounce them. He’d want to pass the blame to someone else, even though it might not help him. They stood there in a state of shock, even the one who had shouted that he was a former trooper sergeant but wouldn’t stoop so low.

‘How should we do it?’ asked one of the butchers. It was clear that nobody was going to volunteer.

‘We’ll draw lots,’ the former sergeant suggested.

They wrote their names on pieces of paper and threw them into a hat belonging to one of them. The commander held the hat. The first butcher came up slowly to draw his lot. He hesitated a long time before he stretched out his hand.

Just then the door opened suddenly and a small,
hunchbacked
fellow with a wrinkled face and mean, malicious little eyes stepped into the room.

The commander did not manage to maintain his military attitude, because he was holding the hat. He could only scream: ‘What are you doing here? Nobody’s allowed in here! Didn’t a trooper stop you?’

The hunchback smiled. He said in a soft, strangely refined voice: ‘Pardon me, but I heard that you’re looking for a hangman.’

He was silent for another minute.

‘I am your hangman.’

W
HEN THE CALL CAME for Richard Reisinger and the other nine, it was to go directly to the Sudeten rather than the Ustecky barracks. The fortress town seemed to be sleeping. There wasn’t a soul on the streets, just mist and frost and the occasional patrol who stopped them but as soon as they saw their uniforms asked no further questions. The ten members of the ghetto guard walked slowly, perhaps because the fog and snow kept them from a faster pace, but perhaps because they were afraid to arrive too early. They were supposed to arrive at nine-thirty exactly.

The commander was waiting for them together with a queer little hunchbacked person with long arms like a monkey’s. Nearby stood a strong, muscular young man. It was one of the butchers chosen by the hangman as a helper. He stood aside from the two as if he didn’t belong with them. The ten members of the ghetto guard joined the commander and the two unknown people.

They left the Sudeten barracks, led by the hunchback. A patrol stopped them on the street. They weren’t interested in the guards or their commander, whom they knew, but in the two civilians.

The hunchback said sharply and loudly: ‘Executioners.’

The troopers said not another word and quickly signalled to the patrol up ahead to ask no questions and let them pass. The shouts of the patrols from one to another resounded in the dead ghetto like a festive accompaniment.

One of the guards leaned over to Reisinger and whispered,
‘I know that hunchback fellow. He’s a hangman. I don’t know where he lives, but he often comes to the ghetto. When he arrives he always gives out sweets to the children. The children are afraid of him and won’t let him touch them, but they take his sweets. How can they resist when they haven’t seen sweets for ages? The fellow used to be a morgue attendant and earned extra money by being the Prague hangman’s helper.’

The commander of the ghetto guards found it unpleasant to have the hangman marching at the head of the
procession
. But he couldn’t do anything about it, since the hunchback had appropriated the right for himself. The hunchback was in a talkative mood. He boasted that he was the permanent hangman at the Small Fortress, that at the completion of each execution he always got a bottle of rum, a salami and chewing tobacco. The commander was embarrassed by the hangman’s boasting. How was it that he, a former officer in the German Army, had to listen to the babbling of a drunken hairy monkey like this? But he didn’t dare shut him up.

They walked in this fashion all the way to the gallows, where the commander announced: ‘Herr
Untersturmführer
, here are the volunteers!’

The SS man cried out loudly, ‘Bravo!’

The group of ghetto guards, with the commander, the hangman and his helper, positioned themselves next to the gallows. The condemned men were not there yet.

As the members of the ghetto guard were arriving at the Sudeten barracks, fifteen troopers entered the very
guardhouse
where the butchers had drawn lots. Their job was to bring the nine condemned men out of the nearby prison and lead them to the gallows.

The prisoners had been sentenced for minor offences. Just about anyone in the ghetto might have been there in their place, with the exception of the officials at the
Magdeburg
barracks, who didn’t need to break any of the countless rules. Any one of the ghetto residents would have taken a piece of wood from the timberyard for firewood if he had a chance.

Nobody considered stealing a few potatoes from the basement a real theft. Because people were hungry and cold, practically everyone was guilty of these infractions. One of the prisoners was guilty of not giving the required salute to an SS man. But if a hungry and exhausted person is heading home after a day of endless labour, he drags through the streets looking down at the ground to avoid stumbling. The punishment was mild: a week or fourteen days in prison. The ghetto court didn’t even have the right to give longer sentences.

Some of the prisoners had just about completed their terms and were looking forward to being released soon. Some of them had only recently been sent there. They were helping to pass the time by exchanging stories of small everyday events in their lives. They were mostly young people who had had no great experiences yet, who were just beginning life’s journey when the Nazis took over.

They were surprised when fifteen troopers burst into their cell and rushed at them as if they were criminals at large. They dragged them out in front of the guardhouse, pushed them together and marched them off somewhere at bayonet point. The nine former prisoners looked about in the fog, wondering where they were being taken. It hadn’t been particularly warm in the prison, but the cold
hadn’t bothered them too much since the heat was always on in the guardhouse next door and some of it reached their cells. Now they were cold and they shivered. They couldn’t imagine what the troopers wanted with them. If they were being taken to the transport, then the ghetto guards should have escorted them. Troopers? That could only mean that they were being taken to the Small Fortress. But why? They had been properly sentenced for small offences. What would the neighbouring Gestapo want with them?

The nine prisoners stumbled in the snow. In prison they had got out of the habit of walking. The troopers hurried them along. The execution must begin exactly on time because dignitaries were coming to see it and they liked promptness. If the troopers didn’t get there on time, they would be punished. It was impossible to run in the snow – even the troopers were having trouble because their guns were in their way. Still, they got to the Ustecky barracks before the SS dignitaries appeared. The Jewish Council of Elders and the building managers were clustered together near the gallows, where they were supervised by the
Untersturmführer
, who had no particular authority to speak of. The commander of the ghetto guards stood next to them with his men. And directly beneath the gallows stood the hangman with long arms, testing the rope. His helper was looking down at the ground. The dignitaries had not arrived yet.

The nine prisoners attended by the fifteen troopers were herded into the moat. They saw the gallows, but they didn’t understand what was happening. They couldn’t be hanging them in broad daylight for offences that were completely insignificant! This was probably only a joke to
scare them. Still, they were shivering; still, their hearts contracted with fear, because the gallows reached to the skies, a double monster in the shape of a T. They huddled together, for they were lost in the moat; they were alone among strangers who were looking at them with sympathy and horror as if they were already dead.

Now the SS dignitaries approached the gallows. First came the head of the Central Bureau, after him the magistrate from Kladno, though the Kladno district had no connections whatsoever with the fortress town. But it was known that the magistrate liked excitement. Behind the magistrate, strutting along in uniform with decorations, came the
commandant
of the ghetto, a disbarred lawyer and one of the faithful from Vienna. His career had begun with the Anschluss, and his present position was his reward for various services. At a respectful distance stood the last observer, the SS chauffeur. The dignitaries were animated, in a good mood. They had obviously just enjoyed a good breakfast with liqueurs at Command Headquarters. The commandant gestured to the Jewish Council of Elders to follow his group. And so the SS dignitaries and the Jewish Council of Elders, together with the building managers, stood at the edge of the moat. The nine victims waited below.

Richard Reisinger stood a little behind them with the commander and the other members of the ghetto guard. He was glad that they hadn’t been ordered to look directly at the condemned men as the Council of Elders had been. The troopers departed; they weren’t required to take part in the execution. And so the members of the Council of Elders, the building managers, ten of the ghetto guards with their commander and the SS dignitaries remained at
the execution grounds. The hangman stood at the gallows and his assistant stood next to him. The nine prisoners huddled together in the moat. Only now did they notice that a common grave had been dug beside the gallows. Perhaps it was only there to scare them. Such things were known to have happened.

All at once the commandant of the ghetto stepped forward and read the verdict in a hard and incisive voice, looking at the prisoners as if they were loathsome insects: ‘For defamation of the German Reich, by order of the Commander of the Security Police of Bohemia and Moravia, these Jews have been condemned to death by hanging.’

While murdering and pillaging throughout Europe, the Reich had lost tens of thousands. Now the Reich was dying of cold on the eastern front. And yet that Reich was still powerful, still convinced that it would conquer the world. It accused these unimportant, ordinary people of resisting or defaming it. It didn’t say how – accusing them was enough. The theft of a half-rotten potato or a small piece of wood was called defamation of the Reich. Not saluting an SS officer or smuggling a letter out of the ghetto meant death.

The prisoners heard the verdict. They couldn’t take in the idea that the crimes they had committed were so terrible that they would have to pay for them with their lives. They hadn’t had a trial, they hadn’t been sentenced by any court. The verdict was final, there was no appeal. Even if they had cried out their innocence there in the cold before the spectators and the SS dignitaries, it wouldn’t have done them any good. Still, they kept hoping; still, they did not believe it. Only after the hangman came up to
them and ordered them to strip to their shirts and underwear did they realise that it was true, that death was awaiting them, that this gallows was meant for them, and that their bodies would be buried in the prepared grave.

They looked around them, so that at least they could say farewell to the world in their last moments, but the fortress town was lifeless, covered with fog. They could see only the pale, sunken faces of the Elders, the building managers, the ghetto guards, and the aroused, grimacing faces of the SS men. One group looked at them with pain and horror, the other with excitement, in expectation of an interesting show to come. The hangman’s face was expressionless. For him this was a job, difficult and tiring.

They wanted a last look at the sun and the blue sky, but the sky was enveloped in fog. They wanted at least to touch their native soil with their bound hands, but the ground was hard and frozen. They wanted to hear the sound of a human voice once again, but all around was silence. Not the smallest sound was to be heard from the fortress town. The world they were leaving was dead, insensible. And then the crows came flying. Never before had they been seen in the fortress town, for not a single animal or bird was to be found there. The crows lived in the high trees that formed an alley leading to the town gates. They accompanied the transports and prisoners’ processions with their cries. The SS men shot at them and ordered their nests destroyed, but the crows lived on. Their number even seemed to be increasing. Now they appeared above the gallows and no one could chase them away. The SS men had only their revolvers, which were good for killing people but useless for killing crows. The crows flew above the execution grounds as if they, too, had come to be witnesses.

Perhaps it was the cry of the crows that awakened the prisoners’ spirit. They were moved to courage. In the face of the murderers and in the face of the witnesses they must stand on the execution ground like warriors.

Only one of them cried out: ‘I wasn’t defaming the Reich. I was writing to my grandmother!’

He was eighteen years old and he wanted to live. The others quickly made him stop. They didn’t want anyone to plead with murderers who knew no mercy and for whom every plea was merely a source of amusement.

‘Be strong,’ said the oldest. ‘We must die with honour.’

They held themselves bravely, though the cold forced them to shiver. They tried to control their muscles, to keep the SS men from thinking they were shivering with fear and cowardice. And then a song came to their aid. One of the prisoners began it. It was a song from a famous play, a song that had become a consolation during the years of defeat, a song about the millions who would go against the wind.

They were only nine and they sang about millions. The SS men didn’t know the song, and even if they had known it they wouldn’t have minded their singing of it. They had power over life and death. They had determined that these people would die and it didn’t matter to them if the
condemned
wished to go with a song. But the members of the Council of Elders knew it, the building managers and the ghetto guards knew it. Who could not know it, a song that had once been sung so often on the streets of Prague? The patrolling troopers on the streets of the fortress town heard it. The song penetrated chinks and crannies, and even the thickness of boarded windows that the residents of the ghetto had been forbidden to come near. It entered the
dormitories and from one person to another it flew from barrack to barrack. For the scorned and rejected people already knew what was happening. Even though the penalty for revealing the secret was death, still the news spread from an unknown source, by invisible means.

The commandant of the ghetto waved his whip impatiently. He didn’t want to freeze unnecessarily. The song ceased. They approached the gallows two by two. They were equal in death, and the rope that bound them to each other meant brotherhood. They stood there proudly, courageously. The hangman threw the rope around their necks. And then the first of the condemned cried out:

‘You’ll never win the war!’

The magistrate from Kladno gave a little start. The
commandant
of the ghetto frowned. The head of the Central Bureau smiled; perhaps he was thinking about the death camps. The second of the prisoners repeated: ‘You’ll never win the war!’ Seven prisoners waited in the moat for their turns to come. They realised that they were an odd number and they didn’t know who would be last. That one would have the worst fate, to be alone among the beasts of prey and mute witnesses. When two go to their deaths together they give each other courage, they die together in enforced brotherhood that has become true brotherhood. But that last one would have to watch the dying and deaths of the others, would have to look at their corpses with convulsively twisted green faces lying on the snow. They had to agree on who would be last, who would have the worst fate, or the hangman who bound the pairs together would make the decision.