PSALM 44 (13 page)

The child still lay beneath her, but when she came to understand this and lifted her arm and liberated him, he again began to cry with the exultant full-throated voice of a newly freed animal, and from the distance responses came in the form of the rabid barking of a dog and furious artillery volleys. The little creature kept crying in the intense blackness of the night, and his voice rose, twisting like a vine, like the stalk of some miraculously green plant glimpsed among the cavities of skulls, amid the ashes of a fireplace, from out of the entrails of a corpse; and from far away replied the cannon, proclaiming the terrible love between nations.

Beside the rutted road at the point where it branched and continued in two directions,
Ž
ana discovered a dilapidated sign. This was on the third day of their flight, not counting that first night. They found themselves some five hundred kilometers from Berlin. Most of the distance they had covered in carts, together with masses of refugees.
Ž
ana wanted to make it to Strasbourg. Marija was looking for a way to get to Poland where, as agreed upon, she
’
d wait for Jakob.

“
Take the child,
”
Ž
ana said and handed the bundle off to Marija.

It was a crisp foggy morning.
Ž
ana hurried down the high embankment and turned the road sign over like it was a corpse. Next to the mud-caked signpost, which had barely been moved from the spot where it had lain, a dark fossilized stripe remained; last year
’
s grass lay in it, withered and pressed as if for preservation. Marija was stamping her feet at the edge of the road, eyeing the pockmarked letters.

“
What does it say?
”
she asked.
“
What does it say?
”

Ž
ana made no reply. She was seated on a stone, with her head bent down low, preoccupied with the bullet-riddled board.

“
What does it say?
”
Marija repeated.
“
Wipe off the mud. I can
’
t see anything from here. You know, this fog reminds me of . . .
”

Ž
ana started to move, lowering herself to her knees. Her head was nearly touching the striped pole. Her arms dangled superfluously, uselessly, at her side.

“
What does it say?
”
Marija asked for the third time.
“
From here none of it is legible.
”

Then
Ž
ana said, barely loud enough to be heard and without lifting her head:

“
It doesn
’
t matter what it says. It
’
s all the same. I can
’
t read it either.
”

“
Then we
’
ll go on in this direction, to the left,
”
Marija said.
“
I think we have to go this way. To the left. Don
’
t you think so too?
”

Once more
Ž
ana gave no answer. Her body just quivered.

“
Are you crying,
Ž
ana? You
’
re crying!
”
Marija said.

At which point
Ž
ana declared firmly:

“
Go. Go left. I think that road leads to . . . I don
’
t know where. I don
’
t know what direction this road sign faced originally. But you should go that way. To the left.
”

“
And you?
”
she said.
“
What about you?
”

So
Ž
ana turned her head and raised that small hand of hers that had been hanging there as if unneeded. Marija thought she was going to point to the right. Or somewhere into the fog, across the fields. But her hand, with its finger half-clenched, stopped around the level of her eyes, though she didn
’
t touch them. She went on to say:

“
Farewell, Marija!
Adieu
. . . And don
’
t turn around; I implore you: just do not turn around. I believe it
’
ll be easier for you that way.
”

Marija was still standing at the edge of the road. She watched, panic-stricken, as
Ž
ana, now lying on her belly, quaked with sobbing. And suddenly she felt her vision clouding and the baby in her arms becoming heavy as lead . . . And wanting to lean on
Ž
ana
’
s shoulder, she embraced only emptiness, and stumbled and then turned and with a frantic burst of pain and strength she began to run along the fog-wrapped road to the left.

Early that evening, fatigued and enervated, she knocked on a door. It was some sort of wayside inn. It looked abandoned to her; no one opened the heavy oak doors for a long time.

“
Who
’
s there?
”
came a man
’
s voice from inside.

She knocked again with her fist.

“
What do you want?
”
asked the same voice, now a little closer.

“
Please open up.
”
And she added:
“
I have a child.
”

Slowly the door opened, just a crack.

“
Refugee?
”
the woman asked. Marija was astonished when she recognized in the woman
’
s voice the deep baritone that had answered from behind the door.

“
I can help you with housework,
”
Marija said. And she added:
“
Until my husband returns from the front.
”

“
Hmm,
”
the woman said.
“
Come in. I
’
m also waiting for my husband. He
’
s in the quartermaster corps.
”

“
Mine is a doctor.
”

“
Right,
”
the woman said suspiciously.
“
I hear that Germany
’
s gone down the tubes. What do you think?
”

“
What about you?
”

“
Well, I think,
”
the woman began,
“
that the Jews have ruined everything. My husband said that they
’
re to blame for the war. And for everything else.
”

“
Yes,
”
she said:
“
every one of them at least brought a nail
.
”

“
What do you mean, a nail?
”

“
When they crucified Christ,
”
she said.
“
That
’
s what it says in the Bible.
”

“
It doesn
’
t say that in the Bible,
”
the woman replied.

“
Then it was somewhere else,
”
Marija said.

“
Are you a Protestant?
”

“
Yes,
”
she said.
“
On my mother
’
s side. My father is a Catholic.
”
She went on:
“
. . . was a Catholic. He perished on the Eastern Front . . . The Jews killed him.
”

The woman lit a sputtering oil lamp and placed it on the table. After that she hauled out an old armchair and set it by the stove.

“
Put the child down,
”
she said.
“
I
’
m going to make a fire. Then we can have our chat.
”

So she brought in an old door made of oak and with a furious racket began splitting it apart with an axe.

“
I don
’
t make a fire very often,
”
she said.
“
I don
’
t have the wood, and I
’
m afraid that they
’
ll come bother me if they see the smoke. There are so many of these refugees, and Jews too. Everything has gone to the dogs.
”
Then, abruptly:
“
Are you hungry?
”

“
No,
”
she said.
“
I have just one favor to ask of you.
”

“
I don
’
t have any money,
”
the woman said.
“
If you stay here to work for me, we
’
ll open a tavern . . . if everything doesn
’
t go to hell.
”

“
No,
”
she said.
“
That
’
s not what I mean. It
’
s a little paper and a pen. Whatever. So I can get in touch with my husband.
”

“
Don
’
t play the saint,
”
the woman said. She cast a glance at the baby.
“
That child is not even half a year old,
”
she said.

“
Three months.
”

“
See, what did I say? Not half a year old.
”

“
But really,
”
Marija said.
“
He
’
s an officer.
”

The woman brought over a greasy old school notebook full of calculations in smeared ballpoint ink. She flipped around in it a bit until she found a blank page.

“
Here,
”
she said.
“
Just don
’
t play the saint.
”

Marija took the pen and pulled the paper closer to the flame of the oil lamp. Then:

“
I
’
m sorry. I can
’
t do it tonight. I
’
m tired.
”

Two or three days later, after the woman had come to trust Marija enough to leave her at home alone (to tell the truth, she did lock the door from the outside) whenever she left for the nearby villages to run some household errands, Marija wrote Jakob this letter:

That was the first letter. After waiting for three months, she wondered if Jakob hadn
’
t received the letter because she had posted it without any stamps. She asked Mrs. Schmidt to lend her the money for stamps.

“
All right, all right,
”
Mrs. Schmidt said.
“
Give me a letter. I
’
ll put stamps on it . . . Just don
’
t you play the saint.
”

“
He
’
ll pay you back, ma
’
am,
”
Marija said.
“
He
’
s a doctor. We lost track of each other ten months ago.
”

That was after three months. In the second letter was this:

In the third letter she transmitted the brief message that their little boy was eight months old and that she thought he looked a lot like him, like Jakob.
He is talking but he isn
’
t walking yet.
He
’
s quite the little phenomenon.
This letter was sent to a special section of the Red Cross and to units of the Allied armed forces.

After fourteen days of feverish anticipation, she received a la-conic reply:

She kissed Mrs. Schmidt on the cheek.

“
Fine, fine,
”
she said.
“
But you
’
re still playing the saint.
”

“
We haven
’
t seen each other for nearly a year and a half. Just imagine: eighteen months!
”

“
That
’
s nothing,
”
Mrs. Schmidt said.
“
Mine hasn
’
t been heard from for four whole years. And he wasn
’
t a bad one, believe me. Saturday evenings we would take little excursions. By morning we
’
d be on top of a hayrick. Then he
’
d open up his backpack.
‘
Today, my wife, you will be my guest!
’
he
’
d say. Then he would cut two slices of bread and make sandwiches. And pour beer from a thermos into our glasses. Into mine first, then into his . . . Not that I
’
m not playing the saint here.
”

Jakob lay for the third month in an American hospital several kilometers outside Berlin. Along with general exhaustion and stomach problems, he still had an open fistula on the outside of his left knee. He had sustained that injury while escaping from the camp in Oranienburg. That was in November. Two days before the total evacuation of the camp. He still couldn
’
t eat and he often surreptitiously swapped chocolate for cigarettes. He was smoking a great deal and taking sleeping pills. During the day he stared at the ceiling and quarreled with the patients who shouted back and forth to each other and played
pr
é
f
é
rence
.

“
You
’
re a doctor
?
”
the director asked him one day, in English. That was in February. At four in the afternoon, as Dr. Leo was making the rounds of his patients, Jakob hadn
’
t even noticed the entrance of the examiners from the medical board. He lay there sprawled across his iron bed as on a catafalque. He stared at the high white ceiling. One of his hands hung down next to the bed like a dead appendage. From time to time he would bring a cigarette up to his lips, nothing more. Then he
’
d close his eyes for a moment.

Dr. Leo repeated his question.

“
Yes,
”
Jakob said absentmindedly, without taking the cigarette out of his mouth. His eyes, fogged over with the powerful doses of morphine, were still contemplating the peeling plaster on the ceiling.

“
Put out that cigarette,
”
Dr. Leo said in a strict tone.
“
Our fellow doctor should see to it that he doesn
’
t require further warnings about such things.
”

Jakob stubbed out his cigarette on the floor, barely moving his hand.

“
Where
’
d you get the cigarettes?
”

Jakob gave no reply.

“
Where
’
d you get the cigarettes?
”
the doctor repeated.

“
Screw the cigarettes,
”
he said.
“
Leave me alone. I
’
ve been getting them however I can.
”

“
I explicitly forbade you to smoke,
”
Dr. Leo said.

Jakob fell silent once more. Nervously he closed his eyes. Then he said:

“
Why this?
”

“
What?
”
the doctor asked.

“
All of this,
”
he said.
“
All this business.
”

That was in February.

By the next month his condition had only marginally improved. The fistula had ceased festering, but his nerves were even worse. He stopped arguing with the patients. It cost Dr. Leo considerable effort to get so much as a word out of him. He still smoked a lot, but cigarettes were harder to come by now. He wasn
’
t able to put much effort into it. And now he was covering his head and face completely. He couldn
’
t stand sunlight. He demanded that the blinds not be raised during the day, but they didn
’
t listen to him. That
’
s when he started wrapping his blanket around his head. Only at night did he stare at the ceiling. In the dark.

At the end of March, Dr. Leo advised him to start showing some concern for his long-term future. He couldn
’
t stay in the hospital forever. As soon as his wound healed, he
’
d have to move on.

“
I like it here,
”
he said.
“
I can stop smoking,
”
he said.
“
If you insist.
”

“
What I
’
m insisting is that you begin thinking,
”
Dr. Leo said.
“
That you take care of yourself. Why not write up your experiences, for example? I mean with Nazi medical ethics. Or something along those lines . . . You surely have some valuable, and by that I mean authentic, experiences to share.
”

Jakob waved him off with a barely perceptible movement of his hand.

“
Shall I bring you some writing supplies?
”

“
No,
”
Jakob said.
“
Why?
”

“
You have to find a project. Whatever it is. Play chess at least. Or cards. Anything at all,
”
Dr. Leo said.

No answer came. He didn
’
t even gesture with his hand.

Then Dr. Leo said:

“
Do you have anyone?
Parents or wife?
”

“
No one,
”
he said.
“
So much the better.
”

“
Shall I have them issue you a passport?
”
Dr. Leo asked.
“
What are your thoughts about that? So you can head for Palestine? Or America?
”

“
No,
”
he said.
“
Not Palestine . . . I
’
ve had enough of all that.
”

“
For the US, then,
”
Dr. Leo said calmly.
“
There
’
s none of that there.
”

“
None of what?
”

“
What you fear: scars. No one will hassle you to write your memoirs,
”
Dr. Leo replied with a smile.
“
America is where scars get lost in the crowd. Do you understand? At least there are women there who are still in one piece. And children, of course.
”

“
All right,
”
Jakob said. He turned toward the doctor:
“
I agree,
”
he went on listlessly.
“
Scrounge up a passport for me, if it means so much to you.
”

Dr. Leo promised that it would be ready as early as the middle of April. At the latest by May. Jakob hardly grew any more up-beat. He would take up residence in some quiet spot in Canada. Anywhere. The only thing he cared about was crossing the ocean. That, perhaps, would be his purgatory.

On the day, the last day of March, when he received a letter from Marija and Jan, he was lying in his bed next to the open window. His head was propped up slightly on his pillow. He was watching the flickering of the sun across the white varnish on the opposite wall. He was imagining a large ship gliding across the Atlantic in calm, sunny weather. It was about four o
’
clock in the afternoon, just before the doctors checked in on their patients. Before they came, the mail was handed out. It was going on right now. All the patients, including those on crutches and the ones in wheelchairs, were in the sun-filled lobby of the building where the mail was usually distributed. Only one other person stayed behind in the ward with Jakob: a boy who had recently had an amputation and been delivered to the ward the night before.

“
There
’
s some mail for you,
”
Danijel said, laughing and then straining as he pushed against the narrow planks on the door to make his wheelchair move. One of his legs had been removed
—
a victim of the Institute of Scientific Research. His voice was unnaturally scratchy and his hair had fallen out. Jakob recognized the symptoms of forced sterilization by means of the
“
special method.
”

“
They
’
ve already called your name three times,
”
the boy said, rowing with broad strokes across the smooth parquet floor.
“
I assumed you were asleep . . . Otherwise you would have definitely heard them.
”

Jakob started, and then reached out apathetically for the letter. He quickly scanned the envelope.

“
Danijel,
”
Jakob said as he grabbed the boy by the upper arm. Danijel still had a trace of a smile on his face, and he was staring at Jakob.
“
Have you ever watched someone be resurrected?
”

Now Danijel
’
s little smile was mournful.

“
No? Watch me, then . . . First a person starts to cry, as you can see. Then he drops his letter. It
’
s like when someone has gone hungry for a very long time. You can
’
t gorge yourself right away. Then one lights a cigarette,
”
Jakob said, and he offered the pack to Danijel.
“
There you have it. This, this is what it
’
s like. You see . . . It
’
ll be you one of these days.
”

Dr. Leo too expressed his surprise.

“
How are you feeling, compatriot?
You
’
re an American now . . . Aren
’
t you?
”

“
Excellent, Doctor,
”
Jakob said.
“
I
’
m imagining my trip across the ocean . . . But, of course, I
’
m not alone . . . Do you know what I mean?
”

“
Bravo,
”
Dr. Leo said.
“
But you
’
ve forgotten again that you aren
’
t allowed to smoke.
”

“
Indeed,
”
Jakob said.
“
Forgive me, but I thought that, on the deck of a transatlantic liner, smoking was permitted.
”
Dr. Leo smiled contentedly.

That same day, in the early evening, Jakob left his room unobserved. Most of the patients were asleep. Out on the terrace he ran into no one but Danijel.

“
Farewell, Danijel,
”
Jakob said in a low voice. They shook hands.

“
Where to, Doctor?
”
the kid asked.

“
Do me a favor, Danijel,
”
Jakob said.
“
Give Dr. Leo my apologies and tell him I said thanks for everything.
”

The boy looked as if he understood, so Jakob added only:
“
But not until tomorrow. No earlier . . . Understand? . . . Not before then.
”

“
Have a good trip, Doctor,
”
the boy said and began to row his wheelchair across the smooth parquet floor.