Kaputt (19 page)

Thus speaking the old man had risen with a deep bow. The other two old Jews and my friend Kane had also risen and bowed low.

"I have little hope," I said, seeing them to the door.

In silence, one by one, they shook hands with me, they walked out and went down the first steps. I watched them sinking down the steep stairs, disappearing bit by bit—first the legs, then the backs, then the shoulders, their heads last. They disappeared as if they had sunk into a tomb. I threw myself onto the bed and fell asleep almost at once. In the dimness of the room, faintly lit by the flame of the glittering candle, I saw the four Jews sitting around the table. Their garments were torn, their faces bloody. The blood dripped slowly down from their wounded foreheads into their long reddish beards. Kane was also wounded, his forehead was split open, his eyes were clotted with blood. A terrified cry escaped my lips. I found myself sitting up in bed unable to move; an icy sweat dripped down my face, and the frightful sight of those pale bleeding ghosts sitting around my table remained long before my eyes, until the muddy light of dawn, the color of dirty water, crept slowly into the room and, exhausted, I fell into a deep slumber.

I awoke late, - it must have been after two in the afternoon. The
lustrageria
at the corner of the Strada Lapusneanu was closed. The windows of the Jockey Club were shut for the sacred hours of the siesta. A group of working men, street cleaners and the coachmen who ply from morning till night in front of the
Fundatia,
were eating in silence, sitting on the tombstones and on the steps of the
adapost.
The greasy smell of
brenza
wafted through my windows followed by swarms of flies.

"Good day,
Domnule Capitan,"
said the coachmen and street cleaners raising their eyes and nodding their heads in greeting. By then everybody knew me in Jassy. The workmen also raised their eyes, pointing to their bread and cheese with gestures of invitation. I shouted,
"Multzumesc
—Thanks!" pointing to my own bread and cheese. But there was something in the air, something was certainly in the air. The sky, overcast with black clouds croaked quietly like a muddy pool. Romanian policemen and soldiers were posting large posters on the walls with Colonel Lupu's proclamation: "All the inhabitants of houses from which shots are fired on the troops and those of the neighboring houses, men and women alike, will be shot on the spot,
fara copii
—except the children."

"Fara copii
—Except the children." Colonel Lupu, I thought, has already prepared his alibi; fortunately he loves children. It pleased me to think that there was in Jassy at least one decent person who loved children. Squads of policemen remained hidden in doorways of houses and in the orchards. Military patrols walked by clicking their heels hard on the asphalt. "Good day,
Domnule Capitan,"
smiled the workmen, the coachmen and the street cleaners sitting on the tombstones. The leaves of the trees were so green against the dark sky they looked as if they had been dyed with a phosphorescent green and rustled in the damp warm wind blowing from the river Prut. Groups of children were running after each other among the mounds and the ancient crosses; it was a lively and gay scene to which the hard leaden sky imparted a feeling of the last moment of a vain and desperate game.

A strange anguish weighed upon the city. A huge, massive and monstrous disaster, oiled, polished, tuned up like a steel machine was going to catch and grind into a pulp the houses, the trees, the streets and the inhabitants of Jassy,
fara copii.
If I had only been able to do something to prevent the pogrom. But General von Schobert's headquarters were at Copou, and I did not feel like walking as far as Copou. The Jews mattered nothing to General von Schobert. An old soldier, a Bavarian gentleman, a good Christian does not get himself involved in certain things. What concern were they of his? What concern were they of mine? I must go to General von Schobert, I told myself; I must at least try; one never knows.

I started off toward Copou on foot. But when I arrived in front of the university, I stopped to examine the statue of the poet Eminescu. The trees of the avenue were teeming with birds. A little bird had alighted on Eminescu's shoulder. I remembered then that I had in my pocket an introduction to Senator Sadoveanu. A learned man, Senator Sadoveanu, a happy devotee of the Muses. He might perhaps offer me a glass of iced beer, and he would certainly declaim some of Eminescu's lyrics for me.
La dracu
General von Schobert;
la dracu
the Senator, too. I turned back, crossed the courtyard of the Jockey Club and began to go up the stairs; perhaps it was better for me to go and talk with Colonel Lupu. He would laugh in my face. "
Domnule Capitan,
what do I know about this pogrom of yours? I am no augurer." Nevertheless, if a pogrom was really being engineered, Colonel Lupu would certainly know all about it. In eastern Europe pogroms are always engineered and carried out with official connivance. In the lands across the Danube and the Carpathian mountains chance never plays a part in what takes place; it has no bearing on fortuitous events. He would laugh in my face.
Fara copii. La dracu
Colonel Lupu,
la dracu
the General too.

I went down the stairs and without even turning my head passed the Corso Café-Restaurant and entered the cemetery. I stretched myself on a tomb in the shade of the green transparent leaves of an acacia and watched the black clouds gathering over my head. It was hot; flies were crawling over my face. An ant crept up my arm. After all, what concern of mine was this affair? I had done all that was humanly possible to prevent the massacre; it was no fault of mine if I could do no more. "
La dracu
Mussolini," I said aloud, yawning;
"La dracu
with him, with all his nation of heroes.
We are a nation of heroes..."
I began humming. A bunch of bastards is what he has turned us into. I was a fine hero too—no doubt about that. The sky croaked like a swamp.

I was roused toward sunset by the scream of sirens; it was an effort to get up; with a yawn I listened to the hum of the motors, the rattle of anti-aircraft machine guns, the thud of the bombs, and the deep, long, dull crumbling of hit houses. This silly
razboiou.
Laced in their leather jackets, those Russian girls were dropping bombs onto the houses and the gardens of Jassy. Much better if they would stay at home and knit I thought, and I began laughing. As if those girls would have the time and the inclination to stay at home and knit!... The sound of a gallop suddenly made me sit up on the tomb. Drawn by a maddened horse, a cart was hurtling down the
Fundatia,
it rushed by in front of the churchyard and smashed against the opposite wall close to the shoe-shine parlor. I saw the horse shatter its head against the wall and, kicking, fall to the ground. The railway station was on fire. Thick clouds of smoke rose above the Nicolina sector. German and Romanian soldiers went by running, cradling their rifles in their arms. A wounded woman was dragging herself along the street. I stretched myself out again on the tomb and closed my eyes.

Suddenly there was silence. A boy went whistling by the churchyard wall. Merry voices could be heard floating on the dusty air. A little later the sirens began screaming again. The hum of the still-distant Russian aircraft spread like a smell in the warm evening. The anti-aircraft batteries of the Copou aviation camp were firing furiously. I must have been feverish; long shudders went through my aching bones. Who knew where Mica was at that moment—hairy as a goat?
Stai, stai!
shouted the patrols through the thickening shadows. Stray rifle shots echoed here and there among the houses and the orchards. Hoarse voices of German soldiers broke through the rumble of the trucks. Laughter, French words, and the clatter of china reached me from the Jockey Club. My God, how I liked Marioara!

Suddenly I became aware that night had already fallen. The Copou batteries were firing at the moon—a yellow, clammy moon, a huge round summer moon that slowly climbed up the cloudy sky. The anti-aircraft guns were barking at the moon. The trees shivered in the damp wind blowing from the river. The dry, angry barking of the flak rose above the hills. Soon the moon became entangled in the branches of the trees, it hung for a moment on a branch, dangled like the head of a man from the gallows, and sank to the bottom of an abyss of black stormy clouds. Blue and green flitting lightning suddenly cut the sky. Within the yawning wounds, as in the fragments of a broken mirror, appeared deep perspectives of nocturnal landscapes of a livid and dazzling green.

While I was walking out of the churchyard it began to rain, a slow warm rain that seemed to drop out of a cut vein. The Corso Café-Restaurant was closed. I began hammering against the door with my fist, calling Marioara. At last the door opened slightly and through the crack Marioara's voice began to moan, "Oh, oh, oh,
Domnule Capitan,
I cannot open. Curfew has already sounded,
Domnule Capitan,
oh, oh, oh!"

I reached with my hand through the opening of the door and clutched her shoulder in a tight grasp, as sweet as a caress. "Marioara, oh Marioara! Open Marioara! I am hungry, Marioara!"

"Oh, oh, oh,
Domnule Capitan,
I cannot—
Domnule Capitan,
oh, oh, oh!"

Her voice was languid and shy, and as I clutched her small soft-boned shoulder, I felt her shaking all over from head to foot, perhaps because of the strong, sweet caress of my hand, perhaps because of the air scented with rain-sprinkled grass, perhaps because of the languid heat of the summer night, or perhaps because of the moon, that treacherous moon. Perhaps Marioara was thinking about the evening when she had gone with me to the old, abandoned churchyard to watch the sickle of the new moon gently cut the acacia leaves. We were sitting on a tombstone, I held her in my arms and the strong odor of her virginal skin, of her curly hair—that strong and gentle odor of Byzantium that Romanian, Greek and Russian women have, that strong and ancient odor of Byzantium, an odor of roses and of white skin, rose intoxicatingly to my face. Marioara had panted gently, straining herself against me, and I had said "Marioara," I had only said "Marioara" in a soft voice, and Marioara had gazed at me through her black lashes, her lashes of black wool.

"Oh, oh,
Domnule Capitan,
I cannot open!
Domnule Capitan,
oh!" and she looked at me with only one eye through the crack of the door. Then she said, "Wait a moment,
Domnule Capitan,"
and she gently closed the door. I heard her walking away, I heard the patter of her bare feet. She came back after a few minutes bringing a little bread and a few slices of meat. "Oh, thank you, Marioara," I said slipping a few hundred
lei
notes into her bosom. Marioara looked at me with only one eye through the crack of the door, and I felt the hot heavy drops of rain beating on the nape of my neck and running down my back. "Oh, Marioara," I said caressing her shoulder, and she bent her head and pressed her cheek against my hand. I was trying to force the door open with my knee when Marioara leaned with all her weight on the door, "Oh,
Domnule Capitan,
oh," and she smiled at me through her long lashes of black wool.

"Thank you, Marioara," I said caressing her face.

"La revedere, Domnule Capitan,"
replied Marioara softly and she stood watching me with one eye through the crack of the door as I walked off in the rain.

Seated on the doorstep of my house I munched very slowly and listened to the rain talking in a soft murmur over the delicate acacia leaves. A dog whined uneasily behind the hedge of an orchard at the end of the churchyard. Marioara was still a child—she was only sixteen. I gazed at the black sky, at the yellow reflection of the moon through the gloomy veil of the clouds. Marioara was still a child. And I listened to the heavy tread of patrols, to the rumble of German trucks driving up toward Copou and toward the Prut. Suddenly through the lukewarm spiderweb of the rain the wailing hoot of the sirens sounded once again.

At first it was a far-off hum, very high up in the sky, a hum of bees that little by little came nearer, and became a high, mysterious language of the black sky. It was a mysterious voice, a sweet and secret language, a voice like a memory, like bees humming in a wood. Suddenly I heard Marioara's voice calling me from amid the tombs. "
Domnule Capitan
," she said.
"Oh, Domnule Capitan!"

She had run away from the Corso, she was afraid of being alone; she wanted me to take her home; she lived on Usine Road, near the power station. But she did not dare to cross the town,- the patrols fired on the passers-by; they shouted
stai! stai!
and fired at once without giving anyone time to raise one's arms.

"Oh, take me home,
Domnule Capitan!"
I saw her black eyes shining in the darkness, now bright, now dim in the warm darkness as on the verge of a night remote from me, as on the verge of a black forbidden night.

People wandered silently by amid the mounds and crosses, groups of people who sought shelter in the
adapost
that had been excavated in the center of the churchyard. Those shadows of men, women and half-naked children went down beneath the ground silently, like the spirits of the dead, going back to the bottom of their dark hell. I already knew all of them, they were always the same; they went by every evening on their way to the
adapost—
the owner of the
lustrageria
across the road, the two old people whom I always saw sitting at the foot of the Unirii monument between the Jockey Club and the
Fundatia,
the coachman whose stable was at the back wall of the churchyard, the woman who sold papers on the corner of the
Fundatia,
the porter of the
des-facere de vinuri
with his wife and five children, the
tutun
seller, the tobacconist whose shop was near the post office.

"
Buna sear a, Domnule Capitan,"
they said in passing.

"
Buna sear a,"
I replied.