Jakob the Liar (25 page)

O
n reaching home Jacob immediately goes up to the attic, expecting to find Lina still in bed, but she is not even in the room, although the weather is by no means ideal, with only a few patches of blue visible in the sky, but Jacob can imagine that his instructions are not taken too seriously. Her bed has been neatly made, the piece of bread has disappeared from the plate on the chest of drawers. Right after he said good-bye to her this morning she must have got up and hurried off to some project or other that he is never told about. Jacob decides to look for her later and first to pack her things, then his own. When that’s done, he can still go and find Lina. He wastes no time wondering whether the notice on the gate applies only to those employed at the freight yard or to all inhabitants of the ghetto. For he has no choice but to take Lina with him; leaving her behind would not mean hoping for an uncertain fate for her, that’s pretty obvious.

The maximum luggage allowance proves to be fairly generous, the total of her usable belongings amounting to scarcely more than a handful. Jacob stuffs underwear, stockings, and scarf into his pockets. While he is folding her winter dress, Lina shows up, holding what remains of the bread in her fingers. She is very surprised to see Jacob but is immediately aware of his disapproving look, which she has no trouble interpreting: he won’t like her having left the attic against his wishes.

“I just went to the pump. I was thirsty,” she explains.

“Never mind,” says Jacob.

He finishes folding the dress and gives it to her to hold, then looks around and once again opens the cupboard doors to see whether he has forgotten anything.

“Am I going to stay with you again downstairs?” asks Lina.

“Come along,” he says.

They go down to his room. On the stairs they meet Horowitz, the neighbor, who has apparently come up from the basement and is lugging a heavy leather suitcase whose locks fail to keep the lid shut.

“What is your opinion about it?” Horowitz asks.

“Have a guess,” Jacob replies.

For the first time he knows with certainty that the proclamation on the freight yard gate applies to the whole ghetto; Horowitz’s inane question and the suitcase he is carrying mean that the same notice was posted overnight at every factory entrance.

“Did you happen to hear where they are taking us?”

“No,” says Jacob.

He hurries into his room with Lina before he can become involved in any lengthy discussions; the only thing he might like to know is what Horowitz, a single man, hopes to gain by that enormous suitcase — his notice can hardly have mentioned four hundredweight per person.

When the door is closed behind them, Lina confesses that she can’t stand Horowitz. She always gives him a wide berth because he invariably has some admonishment ready for her, such as not to hang about, to say good morning nicely, not to act so fresh, to stop making that noise: there’s always something he can think up. Once he even shook her by the arm because she had slid down the banister and landed at his feet.

Jacob says, “Well, fancy that.”

After taking Lina’s things out of his pockets and putting them on the table, he starts packing. But first he has to choose between suitcase and rucksack; there’s plenty of room in either one. Because of its handiness the rucksack wins, for on a journey of uncertain length, when one hand must constantly be available for Lina, a suitcase can become a nuisance.

For quite a while Lina patiently hopes that Jacob will volunteer an explanation for his strange actions, but all he says from time to time is, Hand me that, Hold this, and not a word to satisfy her curiosity. So she has to ask: “Why are you packing all those things?”

“Well, why does anyone pack?”

“I don’t know,” she says, emphasizing her words with an exaggerated shrug, the kind already known to us, pulling her shoulders up to her ears.

“Then think about it.” 

“To go on a trip?” 

“Clever girl.”

“We’re going on a trip?” Lina cries, and it sounds a bit like, And you’re only telling me now?

“That’s right, we’re going away,” Jacob says.

“Where are we going?” 

“I don’t know exactly.” 

“Far away or not so far?” 

“Quite far away, I think.” 

“As far as America?” 

“No.”

“As far as China?”

 “No.”

“As far as Africa?”

Knowing from experience that she is capable of keeping up this game for hours, Jacob says, “Yes, about as far as Africa.”

She starts skipping around the room, hardly able to grasp her good fortune, and Jacob doesn’t try to stop her — after all, the child has never been on a real trip. The hardest part comes when she suddenly gives him a kiss and asks why he isn’t glad too.

“Because I don’t like traveling,” he answers.

“You’ll see what fun it will be!”

As he is finishing up with the rucksack, putting two spoons on top, and is about to fasten it, Lina lays her hand on his arm and says, “You’ve left out the book.”

“What book?”

“The one about Africa.”

“Oh yes. Where is it?”

“Under my pillow. I’ll run and get it for you!”

Lina hurries out of the room, and Jacob can hear her cheery voice in the corridor and up the stairs: “We’re going on a trip! We’re going on a trip!…” From sheer joy, or to annoy grumpy old Horowitz a bit while under Jacob’s protection.

T
hen we are on our way.

It is very cramped and stuffy in the boxcar. The Jews are squatting or sitting on the floor beside their ten pounds, at least thirty of them, I would think. Sleeping at night, if the journey should take that long, will be a problem, for we can’t all lie down at the same time; we’ll have to do it in shifts. It is dark, too; the few narrow openings right under the roof let in only a meager light, besides being almost permanently occupied. There is hardly any conversation to be heard; most people look as if they had terribly important and serious matters to reflect upon, yet with the noise of the rumbling wheels it would be possible to talk, if one wanted to, without being overheard, despite the close quarters.

I am sitting on a checked pillowcase containing whatever I’d been able to salvage, and I am bored; beside me a very old woman is weeping, quietly, out of consideration for others. Her tears have long since been used up, yet from time to time she sniffs so violently that it would seem whole torrents were being held back. And her husband, with whom she is sitting on their suitcase, looks around apologetically each time, because no doubt he is embarrassed, because he wants to convey that there’s nothing he can do about it.

To my left, where I now switch my attention, Jacob has managed to get hold of a spot by one of the narrow openings, but I can truthfully state that this proximity is pure coincidence. I didn’t push my way next to him; I don’t go as far as some idiots who make out he is partly to blame for this journey, but I can’t deny a feeling of unwarranted resentment toward him because everything I built up on the foundations he supplied has collapsed. I didn’t push my way next to him; I don’t care who I’m next to: it simply happened that way. Looking between Jacob’s legs I can see Lina, who so far I have known only from hearsay; she is sitting on the rucksack. Because of Lina I find myself liking him a little more again. Who else, I think, would have taken on the burden of a child, and that, I think, almost outweighs my disappointment.

I would so much like to be friends with her, by winking or making funny faces, the kind of thing one does, but she takes no notice of me whatever. She is looking dreamily at the floor, her mind doubtless occupied by thoughts that are remote from everyone else’s, for she occasionally smiles to herself. Or her lips form soundless words, or she grimaces as if suddenly unsure of herself. I enjoy watching her. On the floor I find a little pebble and flick it against her arm. She comes out of her reverie and gazes around to see who it could have been, in every direction except mine. Then she looks up at Jacob, who is beyond all suspicion as he stands motionless at the little opening, his whole attention absorbed by the passing countryside. She taps his leg.

He looks down and asks, “What is it?”

“Do you remember the fairy tale?” asks Lina.

“Which one?”

“About the sick princess?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true?”

It is clear from his expression that he finds it strange for her to be thinking of that just now.

“Of course it’s true,” he says.

“But Siegfried and Rafi wouldn’t believe me.”

“Maybe you didn’t tell it properly?”

“I told it exactly as you did. But they say there’s no such thing in the whole world.”

“No such thing as what?”

“That a person can get well again by being given a bunch of cotton.”

Jacob bends down and lifts her up to the little window. I stand up too: the wheels make quite a racket, and I’d like to hear how it goes on.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” says Lina. “The princess wanted a bunch of cotton as big as a pillow? And when she had it she got well again?”

I see Jacob’s mouth widen, and he says, “Not exactly. She wished for a cloud. The point is that she thought clouds are made of cotton, and that’s why she was satisfied with the cotton.”

Lina looks out for a while, surprised, it seems to me, before asking him: “But aren’t clouds made of cotton?”

Between their heads I can make out a bit of sky with a few clouds, and I must admit that there really is an amazing resemblance: they do look like tufts of cotton.

“Then what
are
clouds made of?” Lina asks.

But Jacob promises to give her an answer later, probably partly because she is getting too heavy for him. He sets her down on the rucksack again, then resumes watching the landscape slip past.

This, I think, is my moment. I sit down too, move closer to her, and ask whether she would like me to explain what clouds are made of. Of course she would, and I tell her about rivers and lakes, and about the ocean, about the never-ending cycle of water, about that almost incredible process of evaporation, how water flows invisibly into the sky, in tiny droplets, and forms clouds there, which at some point become as heavy and wet as soaking sponges until they lose the drops again as rain. I tell her about steam too, from locomotives for instance, and from chimneys and all the various kinds of fires. She listens attentively but skeptically; I know that the whole lengthy story cannot be covered in one lesson. And I see Jacob casting a friendly eye on me; perhaps that lesson is responsible for his singling me out, a few days later, to tell me an even crazier story. For there is nothing from my appearance to show that I would be one of the few to survive.

When my knowledge about the formation and composition of clouds is exhausted, I tell Lina not to be shy about asking if there is anything she hasn’t understood. But she makes no use of this offer; with her chin cupped in her hands, she takes her time thinking through the whole matter again. After all, she has to come to terms with a very significant mistake: clouds are not made of cotton.

“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” Jacob whispers in my ear.

“Why?”

“Because you have no idea the kind of questions this child can ask.”

I look at her and say, “I’ll manage all right.”

His eyes tell me, Just wait and see. Then he asks me whether I would like to look out of the opening for a bit. 

“Thanks, I would,” I say.

I stand up expectantly and look out until darkness falls. I see villages and fields, once even a little town in the distance; at a half-overgrown pond I see a group of soldiers resting among lorries, cannon, and cows. And I see a few sleepy stations with platforms and barriers and railway men’s cottages with green window boxes overflowing with flowers, and I wonder whether these are regulation window boxes because they are attached to each cottage and each one is green. And I see people whose faces I can’t make out watching our train pass, but above all I see trees, which I had almost forgotten although I’m still a young fellow, vast numbers of trees. Beeches and alders and birches and willows and pines — my God, look at all those trees, there’s no end to them. A tree was responsible for my not becoming a violinist, and under a tree I became a real man: the wild boar came too late to prevent it. And at an unknown tree my wife Hannah was lost to me, and an ordinance tried to deprive me of trees for all time. Some say that trees addle my mind, I go on standing there, and to this day I like sometimes to take a ride on a train passing through a thickly wooded area, best of all a mixed forest. Till I hear Jacob’s voice: “Aren’t you ever going to get some sleep?”

“Let me stand here a little longer,” I say.

“But there’s nothing more for you to see,” I hear him say.

“Yes, there is.”

For I can still see the shadows of trees, and I can’t sleep. We are heading for wherever we are heading.