The Dark Room (29 page)

—
Can you tell me about what happened? While the Germans were here?

Kolesnik frowns, tilts his face up a little.

—So many things happened here.

Micha thinks he might be mocking him.

—
Yes. I know. But, please, if you could tell me what they did here.

Micha shuts his eyes, briefly. He knows what they did:
they killed.
His request sounds naïve. He knows it will sound even more naïve when he listens to the tape again tonight.

—
You could start from when the Germans arrived, perhaps?

—Yes.

The old man clears his throat.

—So. From when the army came?

—
Did they come first?

—Yes.

The old man’s shoulders are not set so squarely now, and he takes
the cigarette Micha offers him. Kolesnik looks at Micha, old man at young. He has the same heavy skin on his face, thick folds hanging between cheekbone and jaw. It is paler, finer around the eyes, and it puckers there as he smokes.

—1941, in the summer. We saw the planes and then came the army. And later the SS came with the police, and they stayed. We had a police station and a barracks, and they set up a new government here. Before it was the Communists, you see, so the Germans found new people and made a new government.

—
New German people?

—Belarusians and Germans. The Germans were in charge, but they had Belarusians who worked for them, of course. It was the same in the police.

—
And after that?

—We had curfews, new laws. They changed everything. Schools, roads, farms. We didn’t have the collectives anymore. The farmers had to work for the Germans instead. To feed the army in the east. Those sorts of things, you see. That’s how they changed it.

Micha waits again, but he doesn’t think Kolesnik will say more of his own accord.

—
And then?

—What do you want to know?

—
There were Jews living here?

—Yes, there were Jews.

—
What happened to the Jews?

—They were killed.

Kolesnik’s face is blank. He looks straight at Micha while he speaks.

—
Can you tell me who did the killing?

—Depends who was there. Sometimes just police, sometimes police, SS, army.

—
Waffen SS?

—Everyone.

—
Germans?

—Germans, Belarusians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians. Germans mainly.

—
Can you tell me about them?

—What do you want to know?

—
Who were they? What did they do?

The old man’s eyes are on his face.

—
I just want to know who the people were, what they did.

Kolesnik nods, smokes.

—
You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.

—No. I know that.

Kolesnik’s words are hard, but his face isn’t. Not so blank anymore.

—
I only want to know about the Germans.

—Yes, you said. What the Germans did to the Jews.

—
No details. Just people. Events.

Micha lets the old man think about what he might say. Stretches his fingers, rubs at the blue-red crescent moons left by his nails on his palms.

—First they made a ghetto. That was the first thing they did. And they stopped the Jews going to school, and also they didn’t let them work, they weren’t allowed to work for themselves anymore, you know. Perhaps that came first.

Kolesnik shifts in his chair. Micha waits and the old man goes on.

—Quite soon after they came, they killed all the men, or nearly all the men. All the old ones, sick ones, the boys. They left enough to keep the work up. In the sawmill, other places. Shot the rest.

—
Shot them?

—Rounded them up in the town at night and in the morning they shot them. They thought the men would be the ones to fight back, you see.

Kolesnik coughs, briefly, wide palm covering his mouth.

—More Jews were killed again in the spring, and then they
brought Jews from all around, all the villages, and put them in the ghetto. They used some to work and the rest they killed. It went on like that, you see?

—
How long? How long did that go on for?

—The last shootings were in 1943.

—
Who did the shooting then?

The old man frowns, irritable.

—Like I said, police, SS, everyone.

—
Waffen-SS?

—Don’t remember. Probably. It was in the woods, to the south, beyond the river. They were buried there.

—
When in ’43?

—Late summer.

—
Late summer.

Kolesnik stops speaking. Micha is thinking,
Opa was here. Same time, same place.

—No. Early autumn. There were haystacks in the fields.

Micha looks up. The old man is looking out the window.

Such a strange thing to remember. Killing and haystacks; they murdered and the seasons changed again.

—After that. The Jews that were left, they were hiding in the villages, in the marshes, with the partisans. And the Germans, they went looking for them there.

Micha stares at the old man in front of him.
He saw all that. Remembers it.
Murder, summer, autumn, winter, spring. The ghetto being emptied and filled and emptied again.

Micha opens the notebook in front of him. It is reflex, something to do.

—What are you writing?

—
Nothing.

—Will you be writing things down while we speak?

—
I don’t know. I thought I might. Do you mind?

Kolesnik blinks.

—No. No.

They sit in silence. The old man waiting dutifully for Micha to speak.

But Micha can’t say anything, he can only think:
Same time, same place. Summer, autumn 1943. He remembers it all.

Micha closes his book again.

—
Sorry. Do you mind if we stop? I don’t think I want to go on today.

In the evening, Micha cycles between the villages. Fast at first, but then slowing down.

When he gets back to Andrej’s, he takes out the photo of Opa and lays it on the small table in front of him.

Micha knows: he could take this picture with him to Kolesnik’s tomorrow, show him, be direct.

This is my Opa. Do you remember him killing the Jews?

Micha listens to the tape again.
Same time, same place.
He tries to bargain with himself.

I don’t even need to tell him. Kolesnik doesn’t need to know. I don’t have to say Opa. I can just say Askan Boell.

In bed, however, he thinks of Kolesnik. The old man’s broad, slow hands, the soft skin around his eyes. His blunt answers. Micha is still too afraid.

—
Can you remember any of the Germans?

—Yes.

—
Can you tell me about them?

—What do you want to know?

—
Doesn’t matter. Anything. Just whatever you remember.

Kolesnik is unsure. Micha thinks he looks almost embarrassed for a while, struggling for words.

—
Anything. Start anywhere. Please.

—I remember one.

—
What was his name?

—Tillman. A doctor with the police. He taught them. How to shoot people. The cleanest way, you see. But you didn’t want details.

—
No.

Kolesnik looks relieved. Micha is relieved. They both sit in silence again.

—
If you can remember the German names, maybe? I thought you could just tell me those?

The old man remembers a few, quite a few. He lists them slowly, and Micha listens, writes, waits. Surnames and some first names, too, but Askan and Boell are not among them.

—
There were more than that, though? There must have been more?

—It was a long time ago.

—
Yes.

Micha thinks while the tape hums.
Two more days.
He decides to allow himself two more days before he shows the photo.

—I remember one who shot himself.

Not Opa.

—
He killed himself?

—Behind the barracks. After one of the shootings.

—
He thought it was wrong?

—Yes, I think so. I remember they shot the Jewish children, and then the next day he shot himself.

—
He did it, though? He shot the children.

—Yes. He did.

There are long, empty seconds while Micha can’t speak. Kolesnik is watching him, and Micha knows it.

After a while the old man gets up. He pours vodka, one for each of them, and sets a small, full glass on the table in front of Micha. His hand shakes. Micha looks at him.

—
Sorry.

Kolesnik nods. He waits until Micha drinks, and then he drinks, too.

—
I think it is better without details. That would be easier for you, probably?

Kolesnik nods again. Micha thinks the old man might say something, too, and he waits, but the moment passes.

Kolesnik points at the tape recorder, and though he is feeling braver now, and warmer from the vodka, Micha stays true to his word and turns it off.

Late afternoon and Andrej plays cards with Micha, the rules of the game clarified through mimed agreement. Give and take: some German, some Belarusian variations, and some confusion and laughter, too.

They drink vodka and Micha’s stomach burns. He thinks of the paragraph left out of his letter, still unsure whether it was cowardice or good sense not to write those lines. Watches Andrej warm soup on the stove and cut bread.
How to explain now. Where to start?

He wanted to call Mina tonight. Walk to the phone box in the main square and speak to her. Instead, he eats his food, brushes his teeth and gets into bed.

Kolesnik is standing out on his porch when Micha turns the corner on Andrej’s bike. The old man holds a hand up in greeting as Micha cycles up to the house, and Micha raises his hand, too. A silent hello.

Kolesnik comes down the steps while Micha unties his bag from the handlebars.

—Listen, Herr Lehner, I have been thinking.

Micha stops. He looks up at the old man.

—
You want me to leave?

Kolesnik looks tired; deep sleep creases in his face.

—No. No. I was just wondering. Can I ask you something?

—
Yes. Of course.

Micha leans the bicycle against the house, faces forward, smiles.

—They didn’t tell you about me. The people at the museum. Did they?

—
They said you remembered the Germans.

—Yes, but they didn’t tell you what I did while the Germans were here.

—
No.

—No. I thought they had, you see, when you came before. But your questions. I just started wondering.

Kolesnik stands very close, and his voice is soft. Micha holds his breath. The old man is so close, it’s like being touched.

—I think I should tell you.

—
Yes?

—Yes.

—
I’ll set up the tape, then?

—No, I’ll just tell you here.

Micha is confused. The old man is too close. Micha puts his hand out, holds the bike frame. He wants to turn away.

—My father was a teacher. He taught me languages, Polish and German, and when the Germans came I worked with them. I collaborated. That is the word for it, yes?

—
Yes.

Micha tries not to let the shock of it show in his face.
He can see it.
Kolesnik nods, he goes on.

—Everyone knows. Here, around here. I thought that’s why you came to me, you see?

—
Yes. I see.

Collaborated.
It never occurred to Micha that it could have been that way.

—It wasn’t regular, the work. But I translated for the SS, for the police. So I knew, you see? What they were doing.

The old man nods to himself, briefly.

—And then I shot Jews. Other people too, partisans, but mainly Jews.

—
I see.

—I know what we arranged. I said I didn’t want to talk about it, but that was when I thought you knew. I realized it is impossible to talk about these times unless you know. So I thought I could tell you and then we could go on.

Micha nods. He unties his bag from the handlebars, fingers struggling with the knots. He can’t stand still. He busies himself with the buckles and straps and the bike, climbs up the five steps to the door.
Get on with it.
Get a few feet of air between himself and the old man, too.

Micha is shaken.

Micha thinks,
I didn’t want to know.
But it is too late.

—You were interviewing today?

It is Micha’s first phone call home, and Mina sounds happy to hear from him.

—
Kind of. Couldn’t really get very far.

—He didn’t want to answer your questions?

—
No. It was me. I just couldn’t do it. I left after about ten minutes, cycled around all day.

Mina is quiet for a while. Micha squats down on the floor, leaning back against the phone booth.

—Does he remember your Opa?

—
I mean, I haven’t asked him yet.

—Oh.

He murdered Jews.

Micha listens for her reaction. Nothing.

—
Kolesnik, I mean. Not Opa. Maybe Opa, too. Probably. Mina. He killed people. He told me today. I just couldn’t stay after that. I couldn’t speak or look at him.

—Are you okay?

—
No.

—Micha.

—
It’s fine, Mina, sorry. I’m not okay, but it’s fine.

—Micha. Why don’t you just come home?

He knows he could. When he started the phone call, he thought he would. Now that Mina has said it, he’s not sure anymore. He keeps quiet, hears Mina sigh.