Mendelssohn is on the Roof (4 page)

A doctor bent over his bed. ‘We must move you out of here, Doctor. Yes, we must, we received orders.’

They hadn’t called him ‘Doctor’ for a long time. Things must really be bad.

T
HE FLAG of the SS Elite Guard fluttered in the wind. The building, formerly the Law School, had been part of the Czech University. As a barracks it had its advantages and disadvantages. The main advantage was central heating. The disadvantage was being located so near the Jewish quarter. It wasn’t pleasant to look at Jews. The barracks guards had had enough trouble with them in Poland during the mobilisation, and now they had to deal with them again in Prague. Barracks duty rotated – a tour of duty in the Protectorate was a reward for a tour of duty in the field. Here they could rest and fatten up, here they could bask in the warmth before setting off once again for the Russian freezing cold.

The job was easy, although discipline had to be
maintained
. The Protectorate had been turned into a
non-combat
zone. There were no air-raid sirens blaring there. Troop reviews were the most taxing duties.

The telephone rang at the command headquarters. It was Krug, calling from the Municipal Division.
Rottenführer
Schulze II was on telephone duty. Krug introduced himself as a Scharführer, but that made no impact on the man who answered. Outside the Elite Guard such ranks were bureaucratic, not earned in the field. Just being an SS member was no guarantee of anything. Krug explained that he had an order from the Acting Reich Protector, and that it had to do with some sort of statue. Schulze II was surprised that they’d bother the SS Elite Guard with such a trivial matter. But if Heydrich wanted it done, then it had
to be done. But it wouldn’t be necessary to disturb the commander about it, Untersturmführer Wancke would do. Schulze II would inform him of the matter, and the
gentlemen
could visit him at his office.

Krug had been very reluctant to turn to the Elite Guard for help. They’d surely scorn him as a civilian, even if he wore his uniform with the badge from the Polish campaign. He certainly couldn’t send Schlesinger alone, they’d throw him out in a flash. Krug ordered a car, though it wasn’t far from the New Town Hall to the barracks, because the barracks officers would assume the two of them were mere petitioners if they arrived on foot and then their reception would be even worse. Of course, someone, possibly Dr Buch, might accuse him of wasting valuable petrol at a time when the Reich needed every drop at the front. It was an official car and the driver had to keep a list of every trip. But Krug preferred risking such accusations to going on foot with that idiot Schlesinger. It was an official visit, after all, a matter of an order that had to be carried out quickly.

He settled down in his car, and only then did he have Schlesinger summoned. Let him get a little exercise. Krug had to laugh to see him come running out of the door, all out of breath. Schlesinger was also wearing a uniform. They drove quickly to the barracks without having to avoid any cars. The streets were completely empty and the driver paid absolutely no attention to traffic signals.

They were interrogated by the guard at the entrance for a long time before being admitted to the command
headquarters
. Everything here was run according to strict military rules.

Untersturmführer Wancke was having a boring day receiving telephone reports and keeping the daily record.
Suddenly his orderly Rottenführer Schulze II burst into the office. Upon giving the proper salute he announced the arrival of two officials from the Municipal Division. What the hell did they think they were doing at the Elite Guard headquarters? Schulze II was going on and on about some Jewish statue and some order from the Acting Reich Protector. He was obviously all mixed up. Schulze II was a former farm boy and didn’t even know how to make a decent telephone call. On the other hand, when it came to drill he was always in his place. He was such a good marksman you’d think he’d been in a circus. But that kind of amusement wouldn’t do now. Shooting, women, drinking and petty thievery were only for those in the East. Here it was strictly forbidden. The Czech and Moravian
Protectorate
was part of the Reich. The Reich laws all applied here. There was time enough for fooling around at the front. Once Frank told them that a time might come when their services would be necessary for taking measures against the traitorous Czechs. But that would probably never happen. They had quite a comfortable life in this Protectorate, but it was boring. Wancke would have a bit of fun with these Protectorate loafers. He’d show them what a front-line soldier was made of.

Krug greeted Wancke ceremoniously, right arm
outstretched
, loudly pronouncing the required greeting. Lamely Schlesinger tried to imitate him. But he didn’t dare go too far. He didn’t feel sure of himself in the SS barracks. Wancke responded to the greeting in a
lackadaisical
manner, and inspected his visitors. They looked pretty well fed. It wouldn’t harm them to get a little exercise on the front and enjoy the nice Eastern frosts. Krug tried using
Kamerad
, but Wancke cut him off angrily.

‘I’m SS Untersturmführer to you.’ Obviously Krug’s uniform did him no good at all.

He broached the subject of his visit cautiously. They had received an order in the name of the Acting Reich
Protector
to remove a statue of the Jewish composer
Mendelssohn
from the balustrade of the Rudolfinum.

‘Don’t know. Never heard of him,’ said Wancke.

‘Yes, but the Acting Reich Protector does know this statue and demands that it be removed immediately. He sent SS candidate Schlesinger there with two Czech helpers. But they couldn’t find the statue because there are no inscriptions on any of them. They decided to look for help at the SS barracks.’

‘I don’t understand what you actually want from us. We’re not in charge of pursuing Jews here in the Protectorate. There are other bureaus for that, the Gestapo on Bredovska Street and the Security Police in Stresovice. You should try them.’

Krug explained: he couldn’t try the Security Police because he wasn’t even authorised to speak to them. That was a secret bureau with direct lines to Berlin. And the Gestapo was a little out of the way. He needed help immediately. Giesse from the Reich Protector’s office kept calling every minute to see if the statue had been torn down. If the Untersturmführer would be so kind, they could carry out the order immediately.

‘What’s that? The nerve!’ screamed Wancke. ‘Are you suggesting that the Elite Guard is here for the purpose of finding the statue of some Jew or other? You can take that job and shove it …’

‘Oh no,’ continued Krug meekly, ‘it would be enough for the Untersturmführer to send someone to the Jewish
Community to drag out some learned Jew or other. Then they could take him to the roof and have him identify the statue.’

‘Well now,’ said Wancke thoughtfully, ‘you fellows at Municipal live like pigs in clover. Tit for tat, gentlemen. How about some cigarettes, whisky and chocolate? But it better be first-rate. No imitations.’

Krug began to waffle. He was only a lower official. He lived on rations just like anyone else. If he made a
tremendous
effort he might scout up something, maybe whisky.

‘No excuses,’ Wancke interrupted him. ‘Either we get what we want or nothing doing. Nothing’s free except death. And even that’s not always true, because cartridges cost money.’

Finally Krug gave up. There was no sense haggling with Wancke. These people were used to giving orders.

‘I’ll get you some, Herr Untersturmführer.’

‘You’d better,’ said Wancke.

Each of them was busy thinking. Krug was planning to wring it all out of Schlesinger, even if that fellow had to give up his pay for the month. The whole thing was his fault, and he should be grateful to him, Krug, for begging at the SS for him. Schlesinger would pay for this humiliating experience.

Wancke decided to send Schulze II. He was an idiot, but he had brains enough to go to the Community to get a Jew. The main thing was that he wouldn’t ask any questions and so there’d be no need to share anything with him. At most he’d give him a glass of whisky. Actually, there was very little risk connected with this sort of thing. Of course, the Stresovice people might make trouble. This actually fell under their jurisdiction, because the Jews and their
property belonged to them and they didn’t intend to share them with anyone. The Security Police wouldn’t make trouble. They wouldn’t care in the least if he briefly borrowed one of their Jews. Just a small friendly favour – when it was over he’d mention it to the head.

‘Very well’ – Wancke ended the conversation – ‘I’ll send Rottenführer Schulze II to do it. He’ll bring you your Jew. You’ll take him to the roof and then you can let him go. He can get back himself without an escort.’

He called Schulze II in from the adjacent room.

‘Go to the Jewish Community. You know, to the main building in Josefovska Street. Tell them to give you a learned Jew and then bring him back here to the barracks. But step on it, step on it …’

Schulze II clicked his heels and went out quickly.

People were standing around outside the main building of the Jewish Community on Josefovska Street. They huddled in little knots, whispering together in confusion. There were many little knots going all the way to the Jewish Town Hall. The knots unravelled and then formed again. People ran around from person to person, from someone who thought he knew some bit of alarming news to another who thought he knew some bit of comforting news. Thus they alternated between hope and despair, passing along news to one another. The news travelled back and forth, and sometimes good news collided with terrible news.

Transports.

An ordinary word, one usually associated with furniture moving. But now it had a different meaning. The news, premature disclosure of which had occasioned the shooting of two people, had become a reality. It circulated among
the little knots of people. It expanded, and then contracted. ‘It won’t be so bad, after all. We’ll all be together in a work camp.’ And then it grabbed the throat and clutched the heart like tidings of death and destruction.

The little knots disintegrated when Rottenführer Schulze II appeared. People ran off in all directions to avoid coming into his view. Here a uniform meant a herald of death.

Schulze II marched along the street as if it were
completely
empty. He looked neither to the right nor to the left and headed straight for the door. But the whole building knew he was coming; they had seen him from the windows. The whole complex bureaucratic machinery suddenly came to a standstill. The rooms were overflowing with clerks. Before his arrival they had all been furiously working, writing things down, crossing things out, pulling out file folders and then putting them back again, making in-house telephone calls, running from one floor to another. On the top floor they ran across to the adjoining building along a passageway, where other people just as hard-working and just as meticulous sat in offices and did the same unnecessary, mindless work.

Richard Reisinger was on duty at the guardhouse. Formerly only the old and infirm had been appointed to guard duty. It wasn’t very taxing to look out of the little window, answer questions, take in the mail, lock up the building and give out the keys. But it turned out to be a painful and difficult job. For the guard was the first person that the new masters, uniformed or not, met up with. He had to endure their slaps and hits, whiplashes, kicks and insults. Because those coming into the building uninvited and unannounced first had to show their power. They had to create fear at the very start, right at the door, so that it
would circulate through the whole building, so that
everyone
sitting in the offices giving out orders, sorting the mail, dictating notes, copying facts on to file cards, would recognise that a representative of power was arriving, one who could make decisions affecting life and death. If such visitors were to encounter an old and infirm person at the guardhouse, it would not be gratifying enough to beat him up – he’d pass out right away. And then they’d get even more enraged. They might actually burst into someone’s office to continue their amusement – that was the dangerous possibility. That’s why strong people now sat at the
guardhouse
.

Before he was assigned guard duty, Richard Reisinger had worked on the highway, then in a quarry, and finally as a furniture mover at the Collection Agency. His work at the guardhouse was the worst job he’d ever had. He had liked highway work because he enjoyed being out in the fresh air. The work at the quarry had been hard at first, but once he got used to it, he liked it even better than the highway job, because he worked there with the other quarry workers as an equal, and the quarry workers laughed at all the business with the stars. Working as a furniture mover, one could always swipe a bit of this or that if one looked into a drawer or a pantry … Besides which, he received extra tips for heavy labour.

Being a guard, however, meant hearing pleas, cries and sobs every day, because who else were people to complain to as they entered the building? It also meant having to listen to the insults and curses of the Elders, because these were nervous and terrified people who spent their entire days in fear. At least they could vent their anger and
powerlessness
on the guard.

He had grown used to almost everything by now except the foreign visitors. Beating up people was just a regular thing with them. It could also happen that one of them might have him arrested for no good reason, just for fun. It wouldn’t be hard to think up an excuse.

Before the war he’d inherited a little hardware shop on the outskirts of town. It stocked a bit of everything, so people wouldn’t have to run into town and buy in the chain stores. He used to sit squeezed between a tub and a balance scale because there was little room in the shop. Nor were there many customers. It was in a sort of
half-commercial
, half-agricultural suburb. He sold scythes and shovels, and also curtain rods. He led a quiet life on the outskirts of town and got along well with people. His only entertainment was boxing at the workers’ club. And now he was sitting in this guardhouse, this wailing wall and entryway to hell. Beasts of prey lurked all around and he could never figure out when they might take it into their heads to organise some amusement at his expense.