Jakob the Liar (11 page)

Jacob takes shelter behind his work; Kowalski is right, of course, from his point of view. The words that would calm him down Jacob mustn’t say, and any others would lead to a new outburst. Later, Kowalski, when all this is behind us, when we two are sitting quietly over a glass of schnapps, when the pancakes are sizzling in the pan, then I’ll tell you everything. At our leisure, Kowalski, you’ll hear the whole truth; we’ll laugh and shake our heads to think how crazy the times once were. You’ll ask why I didn’t tell you right away, tell you, at least, my best friend, and I’ll answer that I couldn’t because you would have told all the others, and they would have taken me for one of those thousands of liars and rumormongers and would have been without hope again. And then you’ll put your hand on my arm, because maybe you’ll have understood, and you’ll say, “Come, Jacob my friend, let’s have another vodka.”

When, after quite some time, the outhouse door opens again, the stack of crates rears up proudly, as if no one had ever brought about its collapse. The soldier strolls over, his hands clasped behind his back, uniform all adjusted; he has been expected. Not exactly with longing, merely to have the matter finally over and done with. But the way he approaches and then stops and holds his head, his whole manner, is enough to make one uneasy, for he looks more benign than critical. Somehow he is looking at the world with different eyes; how a few good minutes can change a person. The crates, he’s completely forgotten about the crates, he has eyes only for Kowalski’s swollen face, which for the time being is red but on which one can already divine blue and green and purple, and the soldier looks concerned. If Jacob can trust his eyes, he looks concerned. What’s one to make of that? Without a word he turns around and walks away. Jacob is thinking, Lucky he didn’t discover his soft heart until now and wasn’t a good person from the beginning or he would never have dashed away from the outhouse door; he would have stayed there and very soon his goodness of heart would have undergone much too severe a test.

In passing, the comrade drops two cigarettes, Junos, without tips. He drops them either by mistake or on purpose, a question that will never be resolved, any more than his motives, assuming it was deliberate. Anyway the cigarettes belong to Kowalski; he has paid for them, after all.

A few minutes later the Whistle emerges from the brick building and trills for the midday break: the railway man whom up to this hour none of us has heard say a word, but who nevertheless is the most informative among our Germans because he left behind a halfway useful radio. It all started with the Whistle today, and he suspects nothing, whistles as usual for soup time, and has no way of knowing how shamelessly his forgetfulness, or whatever it had been, was exploited. Only Jacob knows, reminded by the little squares of paper under his shirt, and the double page that meanwhile has suffered an uncertain fate and shouldn’t really have been left behind unused.

“By the way, did I tell you that the Germans are suffering huge losses?” Jacob asks.

They are already lining up; Kowalski turns around to him, and in the midst of his bruises, a hint of a grateful smile — grateful in spite of everything — blooms fleetingly.

T
he radio turns out to be not particularly fruitful. Jacob arranges the squares side by side on his table, nine of them altogether, and Piwowa and Rosenblatt refrain from disturbing him. Today they are what they are, long since dead, due to cat meat and a guard; today they don’t interfere in Jacob’s business, for he has to concentrate on his game of patience.

The name of the newspaper appears nowhere, nor does the date; blind chance has seen to that. The nine squares of newspaper yield not a single coherent page, the Whistle having picked up squares at random, which means extra work for Jacob. He tries this way and that but can find scarcely two scraps that fit together. At the end of all his effort he is faced with two extremely patchy pages, the gaps revealing the color of the tablecloth: two pages that look as if a circumspect censor had cut out everything worth knowing and taken care that only items of no consequence find their way into the hands of unauthorized persons. The sports section, for instance, has been perfectly preserved: how happy the Jews will be that the Luftwaffe boxing team has defeated a Navy team ten to six. Or that once again the Berlin soccer team, as so often in the past, didn’t have a chance against the Hamburg eleven. Then the uncommunicative page divulges the earth-shattering news that a
Gauleiter
whose name has been torn off has made some favorable comments about an art exhibition somewhere, that His Excellency the Spanish ambassador would like to see a further expansion of mutual friendly relations, and that, in a people’s court trial of two agents in the pay of Jewish world capitalism, justice has prevailed.

You sit there looking disappointed; you hadn’t ever expected much — a little favorable wind for your poor brain, the occasional hidden allusion from which with a bit of skill a feast could be prepared — but you hadn’t counted on quite so little. Not a word about Bezanika, through which the Russians must long since have advanced; not so much as a hint that the Germans are encountering difficulties. Instead, those nitwits are playing soccer and putting on exhibitions and meting out justice.

Let us at least try to be fair and admit the possibility the newspaper is old or that the best part of it was used by the Whistle, but still, one way or another, it was idiotic to have had such high hopes. Anyone who gave it a mere five seconds’ thought would have known what to expect. We all know what kind of newspapers those people can produce; years ago there was a German paper in our area, the
Völkischer Kurier
, and don’t ask me what that was worth. No one ever bought it. Throwing away money is a sin, but sometimes you did run across it, whether you wanted to or not. At the market they wrapped fish in it, at the dentist’s there was a copy in the waiting room, and at the insurance office as well, of course, and occasionally at Kowalski’s barbershop, because he wanted to make a cosmopolitan impression. He was told; Kowalski, we told him, if you leave that filthy rag lying around any longer, you’ll ruin your business. Or do you really think some German customer will happen to stray into your place so that your Yiddish fingers can fiddle around with his Kaiser Wilhelm mustache? That’s none of your business, Kowalski replied in an offended tone. Do I tell you how much sawdust to mix into your potato pancakes? That’s how Kowalski was, and may my hands fall off right here and now if this slander is true. Anyway, a glance at the
Kurier was
enough to show what kind of rag it was. The Germans were constantly feeling threatened and humiliated and discriminated against by God and the world; according to them, it wasn’t they who humiliated us, but we them. The question of how long Germany was to go on suffering from the shameful consequences of the last war obsessed them in every issue, three times a week. And on the last page, alongside the picture puzzle, there were poems so unintelligible that you almost thought you had forgotten their language.

Only the classified advertisements weren’t so bad; they had a certain flair for that section. Every other Wednesday or Tuesday the two middle pages were closely printed with classified ads, and if you needed something that was hard or impossible to find on the market, say a few nice-looking chairs with woven rattan seats, perhaps, or a modern standard lamp or a sizable lot of plates because dishes never lasted long in the shop, then a glance at the
Kurier
wouldn’t do any harm. Of course, it was essential to pay attention to the name of the person offering the goods. If it was Hagedorn or Leineweber, you didn’t even bother to go; if it was Skrzypczak or Bartosiewicz, you went with great reluctance; and if it was Silberstreif, you simply went. For when it came to advertising, the
Kurier
people weren’t choosy. They took from anyone; what counted was the ability to pay. But, as I said, that was only the classified section, every other Wednesday or Tuesday; the rest was sheer unadulterated rubbish.

All this might have been remembered in time to avoid sticking one’s head in the noose, to no avail, and only getting it out again through a miracle wrought by a friend. That’s how they used to produce newspapers, and that’s how they produce newspapers to this day; so far nobody has shown them a better way. Only the talent for successful classified sections has apparently stayed with them, and the four abandoned pages filled with death notices would seem to indicate that there are still people on the job who know their business.

Jacob turns over each square, one by one, all is not yet lost; there is still an unread reverse side that has as many gaps as the front but may tell us a little more. There is an item about a hero such as only our nation can produce, a pilot with a French name who shoots down enemy planes like sparrows out of the African sky. The Führer has replied to a message from the Duce, and in Munich a truck collided with a streetcar, causing a traffic jam for several hours. A cartoon. A man holding a lighted match over a sandwich. Question: What does this mean? Answer: Sandwich under fire. And a fat headline claiming, Victories on All Fronts! One can believe it or not, we’d rather not, the lower half is missing. As a claim it hangs in the air, so to speak, and we know they have been trying to tell us that they were already not far from Moscow. It was the Germans who claimed that, not us, but we heard with our own ears that there is fighting near Bezanika. There’s quite some distance between the two; if that’s what a victory looks like, you’re welcome to hundreds more of the same.

That’s all very well; Jacob can figure out for himself that they tell a few fibs, but how is he to answer the questions that will rain down upon him first thing tomorrow morning? His notion of what it would be like, he told me with a sigh, had been far too naive: one reads their slanted reports, he had thought, sees through them with no effort, or very little effort, simply turns everything around, and right away one’s mouth is bursting with news ready to be released at the appropriate time. But now try just turning things around. The Luftwaffe boxers didn’t win against the Navy, they lost; the
Gauleiter
with the torn-off name declared the art exhibition to have been atrocious; the German hero didn’t shoot down a single plane in Africa; the streetcar in Munich skillfully avoided the truck; and the Führer didn’t reply to the Duce’s message because he never received one. I tell you, nothing but rubbish. Perhaps I can make something out of the cartoon, I think; Sandwich under fire means they’re firing at Sandwich, and Sandwich, if I’m not mistaken, is a town in England, and if they’re firing at England, then England will be firing back, which seems reasonable. Wonderful, they’ll tell me tomorrow morning, so England is defending itself, but England is far away, and what about us? Perhaps I could turn the victories on all fronts into defeats, but what do I know about fronts, where they are or how many there are? Defeats must be substantiated with details, and I don’t know any. What would you have done in my place?

Jacob comes to a crucial decision. The power failure was a divine respite, the only drawback being that we had no influence on its duration. We’ll gain another respite for ourselves, but without the drawback, because the interruption we have in mind has no end. When they ask us, What’s the latest, Jacob, our shoulders will droop and we’ll put on our saddest expression and whisper in a despairing voice: Just imagine, Jews, last night I sit down with expectant ears at my set and turn the knob, like I always do, but not a sound! Not one! Yesterday it was still singing like a little bird, and today not a murmur. It’s no use wringing our hands, Jews. You know how temperamental a radio can be, and now it’s dead.

The radio is dead. Jacob scrunches up the squares of newspaper, all nine of them, into a little heap; he is able to contain his annoyance at not having had this brilliant idea earlier. It is far surpassed by the joy of discovery: if the toilet paper had been of no other use than to enlighten him, then, in spite of everything, it was worthwhile, then the price paid by Kowalski was not too high. No longer will he be lying night after night with wide-open eyes, racking his brain over what lies to tell them next morning. Now he can spend night after night with wide-open ears, listening, like everybody else, for whether the longed-for distant rumble of cannon has finally broken its silence. The radio is dead, the scraps of newspaper are tossed into the stove, Jacob will set a match to them when it becomes necessary to heat the room, the lid is firmly closed.

Just in time, for in his haste Jacob has forgotten to lock his door: it opens, and a smiling Lina enters without knocking.

“Did you forget about me today?” she asks.

“Of course not,” says Jacob, giving her a kiss, and at least now he locks the door. “I was just about to come up to see you, but I had something to do first.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing you need to know about. Have you had your supper?”

“Yes, what you put out for me.”

Lina looks around the room, not in search of anything special but just to make sure everything is tidy and not dusty. She draws her finger across the cupboard, inspects it; the result is not that fantastic.

“I’ll tidy up your room tomorrow,” she says. “I don’t feel like it today.”

“No, you won’t,” Jacob says sternly. “The professor said you weren’t supposed to move around too much yet.”

Lina doesn’t reply. With a smile she sits down at the table; Jacob knows as well as she does that she is going to tidy his room. For some time it has been quite clear who sets the tone here; it’s no longer a subject of discussion. Jacob’s job is to provide the food and clothing and in winter the heating; she is responsible for everything else, even though occasionally he still makes a bit of a fuss. She hasn’t come into the room to argue about matters long since settled, or out of fear he might have forgotten her; she knew he wouldn’t. The reason for her coming goes back a few days, when she heard much and understood little; there was something that was rather unclear to her.

“Have you heard what they’re all talking about?” Lina asks.

“About what?”

“That the Russians will be here soon?” 

“You don’t say!”

Jacob goes to the cupboard, takes out his weekly bread ration, breaks off enough for his supper, and starts eating. 

“Who’s talking about that?”

“Oh, Siegfried and Rafael and Mrs. Sonschein and Mrs. London — everybody. Haven’t you heard anything?”

“No.”

Jacob sits down opposite her, sees the disappointment in her face; she had hoped for enlightenment, and he knows nothing. He divides his bread and holds out one half of it to Lina as compensation. She accepts it, even starts eating, but the bread is not nearly as good as his lack of knowledge is bad.

“Or rather, I did hear something,” says Jacob. “But nothing definite. What’s so important about it?”

Her eyes gradually grow resentful; how stupid does he think she is, as if she were a baby, she who takes care of all the housework. Everybody is talking about something tremendous, and what’s so important about it?

“What’s it going to be like when the Russkies are here?”

“How should I know?” says Jacob.

“Better or worse?”

Jacob is ready to groan. You’ve managed to escape the hyenas at the freight yard for today, even forever if the idea of the broken-down radio stands the test. But already you have to look for some other means of escape, for within your own four walls a new tormentor is taking shape — albeit a much-loved one, but she can ask more questions than you have hairs on your head. Or you don’t look for an escape, you submit to your fate: a child of less than nine, surely you can cope with her. You’ll tell her, as best you can, something about the world of tomorrow, after all that interests you too, and to have a rough idea of what is in store for her certainly won’t do her any harm.

“Will it be better or worse?”

“Better, of course,” says Jacob.

“But how better? What will be different?”

“We won’t have to wear stars anymore. Lina can wear whatever she likes, and no one will stop her in the street and ask where she has left her yellow star.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course not. You’ll get enough to eat. …”

“As much as I like?”

“As much as you like. Just imagine: there’s all kinds of food on the table, you take whatever you happen to fancy, and when you can’t eat any more the table is cleared, and at the next meal it’s all there again.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” she says, because it would be quite nice if he confirmed it to her all over again.

“That’s the solemn truth. And you’ll have pretty dresses, we’ll go shopping together, and —”

“Wait a minute. What kind of food will there be on the table?”

“Whatever you like best. Paté with butter and challah and hard-boiled eggs and fish. You can choose.”

“Will you be making potato pancakes again?”

“I certainly will.”

“In your shop?”

“In my shop.”

“You haven’t forgotten your promise, have you? That I’ll be allowed to help you in the shop?” 

“Of course not.”

“You’ll stand behind the counter making the pancakes, and it’ll be my job to take them to the customers, in my white apron. And in the summer I’ll serve them ice cream.”