Mendelssohn is on the Roof Read online

  ‘Weil writes about savagery and pain with a brevity that in itself seems the fiercest commentary that can be made on the worst that life has to offer.’ Philip Roth

  ‘Comic, sardonic and deeply moving … we ignore such rich literature at our cultural peril.’ Simon Mawer

  ‘A brilliant, bitter satire that gradually turns into tragedy. Unmissable.’ The Times

  ‘A brilliant novel … Jiří Weil was a writer who witnessed the worst of this century and testified to his experience in works of unflinching and astonishing literary vision.’ New York Times

  ‘Weil had advantages that would in themselves ensure that his work stood out on the black mountain of Holocaust literature. He was there.’ Guardian

  ‘Mendelssohn is on the Roof sunders the heart with a combination of savage irony and charity that is one of the glories of Czech literature … the novel builds to an unforgettable climax.’ Newsday

  The translator would like to thank Joan Winn for help at every stage of this translation. Acknowledgement is also due to Roslyn Schloss of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, and to Kurt Wehle, Eva Recheigl, Mila Recheigl, and the Reverend Miloslav Baloun.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  PREFACE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  About the Author

  ALSO BY JIŘÍ WEIL

  Copyright

  PREFACE

  I first heard Jiří Weil’s name in Prague in 1973, where a survivor of a distinguished Jewish literary family told me Weil was one of Czechoslovakia’s best writers. When I got back to New York I met a translator who, it turned out, had translated two Weil stories, perhaps the only translations of his work into English. I read them and was stunned, not solely by the horrors they described but by the elemental means that served to communicate Weil’s hatred for the Nazis and pity for their victims. They were stories conceived in rage and tears, then told with the matter-of-factness of the journalist and the disarming simplicity of the family anecdotalist. I thought of Isaac Babel. Weil’s animating emotions were harsher and less ambiguous than Babel’s and, from the evidence of these translations, Weil appeared to have been by nature a colloquial storyteller rather than a relentlessly self-scrutinising stylist of the minimalist persuasion. What he shared with Babel was the ability to write about savagery and pain with a brevity that in itself seems the fiercest commentary that can be made on the worst that life has to offer.

  From what I have since learned through various sources about Weil’s life and work, there are other resemblances to Babel. The two were born only six years apart, Babel in Odessa in 1894, Weil near Prague in 1900. Both writers were Jews and knew it. Both read Russian and knew Russian literature – in 1928 Weil received his doctorate from Prague’s Charles University for a thesis on Gogol and the English novel. Both became literary victims of socialist realism and political victims of Stalinism (and Stalinist anti-Semitism). And each lived through his lonely years as a writer and a man, unpublished, unread, withdrawn and silent – and, by party stricture, unmentionable in literary circles and classrooms.

  In the mid-Thirties Weil wrote From Moscow to the Border, a polemical novel that partly grew out of what he had observed of Soviet totalitarianism while he was working in Moscow, in the Czech section of the Comintern publishing house, during the early years of the Stalinist terror. A citizen still of the Czech democratic republic, he could not be put to death for his disenchantment, but his comrades’ attacks were severe and they were renewed with the post-war publication of Makana the Father of Miracles, The Harpist and Life with a Star. The last was considered by the Communists a ‘decadent’ example of ‘pernicious existentialism’.

  In the early Fifties Weil was expelled from the Writers’ Union; he had already incurred expulsion from the Party for writing From Moscow to the Border (which did not stop him from writing its sequel, The Wooden Spoon, a manuscript that remained unpublished for some thirty years before it appeared in 1970 in an Italian translation). In the late Fifties Weil was made director of the Jewish State Museum in Prague – with the thaw, and thanks particularly to the effort of Nobel Prizewinning poet Jaroslav Seifert, he had been readmitted to the Writers’ Union – but he is said to have lived a retiring, isolated, unhappy existence until his death from cancer in 1959.

  Volume 1 of The Jews of Czechoslovakia designates Life with a Star ‘the outstanding Czech book published between 1945 and 1948’, that is, the brief period of relative freedom between the end of the war and Communist takeover. ‘This work,’ it continues, ‘whose title alludes to the Star of David which the Jews were forced to wear on the street during the Nazi occupation, is the story of the effect of Nazi anti-Semitic measures upon a humble Czech citizen of Prague.’ (A similar description might serve to summarise a later Czech novel of some quality, Mr Theodore Mundstock by Ladislav Fuks.) When the Nazis entered Prague, Weil pretended to kill himself. Hidden illegally in the city – and believed by the authorities to be dead – he was able to survive the occupation. These harrowing experiences furnished the inspiration and probably much of the story for Life with a Star.

  His last book, Mendelssohn is on the Roof, also deals with Nazis and Jews, and most readers consider it his other major work, after Life with a Star. Published posthumously in Czech in 1960, it is reported to have taken Weil fifteen years to write. An SS man has orders to remove the statue of the Jewish composer Mendelssohn from among the statues of musicians that ornament the roof of the Prague Academy of Music. Since he does not know which one is Mendelssohn, he decides to take down the one with the biggest nose. This turns out to be the statue of Wagner. The novel proceeds from there.

  PHILIP ROTH

  When Zeus heard of the crimes and iniquities mankind had committed, the murders, perjuries, frauds, robberies and acts of incest, he decided to wipe out all forms of life on earth. Explosions destroyed all human habitations, water flooded the countryside, heavy clouds disseminated death. Finally only Deukalion and his wife, Pyrrha, remained on earth. Zeus saved them because they were just. They settled on Mount Parnassus in the land of Phokis. Then the deadly clouds dispersed, the sun came out again, and the skies were blue and shining. Yet Deukalion and Pyrrha wept at being alone in the midst of the wasteland. They built an altar to Themida, the Goddess of Justice, and begged her to teach them how to bring the human generation back to life. For they were old and unable to people the earth. And the Goddess told them to shroud their faces and cast stones behind them. They obeyed the Goddess. And when a stone fell against the hard ground, a man was born once again.

  ONE

  ANTONIN BECVAR and Josef Stankovsky were on the roof, walking around the statues. It wasn’t a dangerous job – the statues were on a balustrade and the roof was relatively flat. Julius Schlesinger, a Municipal official and a candidate for the SS – not even for the Elite Guard, but just the plain, ordinary SS – was afraid to go out on the roof. Had he had a higher rank, he wouldn’t have had to waste time like this here. He might have found more lucrative work with the Gestapo. Still, a job at Municipal was more comfortable. Anyway, how far could he advance as a former locksmith? Unless they sent him to the front, out there in the East, and that would be a bad thing. Until this moment he had be
en doing pretty well in the Municipal division. But now things were beginning to go wrong.

  He didn’t want to go out on the roof. Secretly the workmen made fun of him: What a coward! Afraid of climbing up, only shouting orders from the little gate. Of course, you’ve got to be careful with Germans. They’ve arrested so many people, or sent them to the Reich for no reason at all, maybe just for not following an order quickly enough.

  Schlesinger spoke Czech. He was from Most, where Czech was spoken, and for a time he had worked at the Ringhoffer plant. He had received his commission even before the occupation. He had assumed he’d be better rewarded for his services: why, he’d even had to pretend to be a German Social Democrat in order to get along with the workers. That’s how far he was willing to go for the cause. But in spite of everything, they had only made him a Municipal official and a candidate for the SS. It was all because of his name. If only he’d been called Dvorzacek or Nemetschek. That would have been fine. Hundreds of people have names like those and nothing stands in their way. But Schlesinger, and to top it all off, Julius Schlesinger. It sounded like a Jewish name and created doubt everywhere. He always carried his Aryan papers with him, papers going back to his great-great-grandfather and great-great-grandmother. But that seemed a bit suspicious, too, for documents can be falsified. Hadn’t he himself been given fake documents by the political boss in Most for the Ring-hoffer job?

  But nobody could make him go out on the roof. He was afraid of heights and he was afraid of the wrath of God, because as a devout Catholic he had committed a terrible desecration and he knew he shouldn’t have done it. Perhaps he could have avoided it. He could have dreamed up some illness. But that probably wouldn’t have helped either, for they would have sent him to the front. Possibly to a penal colony. The order for removing the physical remains of the Unknown Soldier had come directly from Frank. Krug had expressly told him so, and Krug had got the order himself from Giesse. So there was nothing left for Schlesinger to do but obey. Besides which, he was a former locksmith. Who was better suited to the task than himself?

  This business on the roof was about something else. Here it was a matter of a statue, a Jewish statue. Knocking down a statue of a Jew and, on top of everything, a musical composer, was no sin. A statue can’t file a complaint before the heavenly throne. Though who knows the ways of God; even a statue can bring forth divine retribution; he had once seen an opera about it. But could a statue do it in broad daylight? These are strange times, no rules apply, day can turn into night. For such a grievous sin as his there is no mercy. Who could forgive him the pliers, the screwdrivers, the metal cutters, the hacksaw? There is no absolution for such a sin, except maybe a pilgrimage to Rome, like in the old days, to beg forgiveness directly from the Pope. What would his superiors say to that, that wretch Krug, or fat Dr Buch, who was in cahoots with the Gestapo. Schlesinger had actually been forced to sign a declaration that he’d never reveal anything about it to anybody under penalty of death, not even to his own family. If he were to confess to his priest, the priest might denounce him – after all, the Gestapo had its agents even among priests. But its power didn’t extend to the Pope. The question was how to get to the Pope. Maybe he’d find some pretext. Just so he didn’t face his judgement before receiving absolution. Then nothing could help him. He’d have to fry in hell for eternity.

  The workmen trudged around the balcony listlessly, dragging a thick rope with a noose behind them. There were many statues out here, each one representing a composer. They looked down at the street. Empty. Of course, it’s a weekday. Everybody’s at work. The universities are closed. Once in a while someone slips into the Museum of Industrial Design. People don’t like to walk around here with the SS barracks and the Jewish Bureau nearby. This is the SS zone. What a stupid job this is, walking around on the roof with a rope looking for a statue. Only the Krauts with that efficiency of theirs could think up something like this. And who knows if two people alone can manage such a big statue. Schlesinger doesn’t want to bring in more people either. He wants to keep it quiet, so he made the workmen swear secrecy. How stupid, as if people wouldn’t notice that a statue is missing. But who can reason with these new bosses. How long do they have to stand around on this stupid roof? Why doesn’t Schlesinger come out from behind that gate and tell them what’s going on?

  ‘Well, Boss, we’re all set, so tell us which statue. Just point to it.’ Becvar couldn’t stand it any longer.

  Schlesinger disliked the word ‘boss’. These people didn’t even know how to address their superiors. Nobody had ever taught them discipline. Nobody had ever made them go to military drills the way he had had to go. They were just interested in the black market and planting vegetables in their garden plots.

  ‘Walk around the balustrade and look at the plaques until you find the name Mendelssohn. You can read, can’t you?’ he snapped at them.

  ‘What’s that Jew’s name?’ asked Stankovsky. He held on to his official cap so that it didn’t fly away in the wind. He set great store by his cap as a sign of his rank. It had counted for a lot under the Republic. A Municipal worker wasn’t any old body, but a city employee, with a pension plan. Except that with those Germans one never knew. Still, a cap was a cap.

  ‘Men-dels-sohn,’ Schlesinger said, syllable by syllable.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ said Becvar.

  They walked around the balustrade slowly, looking at the pedestals. They knew perfectly well there were no plaques there, but if Schlesinger wanted them to walk around, why shouldn’t they oblige him.

  ‘There are no plaques on the pedestals, Boss,’ Becvar declared. ‘How are we supposed to tell which one is Mendelssohn?’

  This was a pretty mess. Nobody had ever told him what the statue of that Jew looked like. And even if they had told him, it wouldn’t have done any good. The statues all looked alike. He had counted on there being plaques. Such statues usually have plaques. Yet he couldn’t and mustn’t ask anyone. Probably only the Acting Reich Protector would know what Mendelssohn’s statue looked like. Frank wouldn’t know, or Giesse, or Krug. Heydrich would know, because he was a musician. But who would dare ask him?

  Schlesinger peered out from the gate and looked at the statues, his mind racing. Even if he forced himself to go out on the roof, he wouldn’t be able to tell one statue from the other any better than the workmen. They were standing at ease, waiting for his orders. They were probably laughing at him, but they didn’t show any signs of it. Their faces were blank, expressionless. They were probably thinking, so what if we have to wait, we’re not in any hurry. Meanwhile, he, Schlesinger, had to carry out the order. It came directly from the Acting Reich Protector and he was even more ruthless than Frank. To disobey an order – everybody knew what that meant. Krug had explained it to him that time as they were setting out for the Old Town Square Town Hall: the rules apply just as firmly in the hinterland as they do at the front. The front is everywhere, especially in this country, where their task is to lay down the law for the lowly subjects of the Reich. Military law counts in this country above all. To disobey an order means death. Even if the order is unintelligible.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ said Becvar.

  ‘The rope’s not all that strong, it could break on us. We should really test it, but no, everybody’s always in such a big hurry,’ grumbled Stankovsky. And he wanted to add, ‘And now we’re wasting time here for no good reason,’ but he thought better of it. Schlesinger was steamed up about something. Those Krauts were all crazy. Pretty soon it would be noon. If they didn’t get this finished soon they’d miss lunch in the mess hall.

  Finally Schlesinger had an idea. ‘Go around the statues again and look carefully at their noses. Whichever one has the biggest nose, that’s the Jew.’

  Schlesinger was taking a course called World View, where they gave lectures on ‘racial science’ and showed slides. The slides showed a lot of noses, with measurements next to them. Every nose had been carefully measured. It was a very deep and comp
licated science, but its findings were simple. The upshot was that the biggest noses belonged to the Jews.

  The workers walked around the statues. How idiotic to make them look for the statue with the biggest nose. Becvar pulled out a folding wooden ruler he always carried with him. He had studied carpentry before he started working for Municipal. Now he built rabbit hutches after work. He made a good living out of it. People were fighting to get them – rabbits were in fashion.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Stankovsky shoved him aside. ‘We’re not going to waste time measuring. Seriously now, we could miss lunch. Come on, we can tell just by looking which one has the biggest nose.’

  ‘Look,’ yelled Becvar, ‘that one over there with the beret, none of the others has a nose like him. So I’m going to put the rope around his neck, what do you say?’

  ‘Great,’ Stankovsky agreed. ‘Let’s go.’

  He began to pull at the rope, and the statue was already beginning to wobble. Schlesinger was peeking out through the gate.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Stop! I’m telling you, stop!’

  Becvar and Stankovsky let the rope drop from their hands. That Kraut was carrying on again. Why didn’t he look and see for himself which one had the biggest nose? Why didn’t he come out from behind that gate?

  Schlesinger was sweating with terror. He didn’t recognise any of those statues except for this very one. My God, it was Wagner, the greatest German composer: not just an ordinary musician, but one of the greats who had helped build the Third Reich. His portraits and plaster casts hung in every household, and they also lectured about him in those courses.

  The workers dropped the rope in confusion. The noose swayed around the neck of Richard Wagner.