Mendelssohn is on the Roof Read online

  He spoke to them with the help of an interpreter, because they didn’t know German. Frank had taught them the required salutation and they knew how to raise their paws – that was probably all he could expect from them. Frank spoke for them because they weren’t able to utter a single word, they were so terrified. He spoke a few words to them, which Frank translated, something about St Vaclav, perhaps the only thing they understood. Then Frank led them away. The office had to be aired out for a long time afterwards. It was quite an agreeable diversion to have cave people suddenly appearing in his office, although it cost him considerable time. Besides, there was the stench to endure. But he was fulfilling his duty as ruler of this land and its protector.

  He had already read the newspaper in Panenske Brezany. They brought it to him by motorcycle early in the morning. On the table was a heap of mail that had been sorted by a secretary, and also several envelopes meant for him personally and carefully marked Confidential. He should get started on the sorted mail already initialled and annotated by the secretary, and he should also break the seals and open the confidential dispatches. But first he had to hear from Giesse about his schedule for the day. He pressed a button. Giesse appeared immediately and stood at attention. He ignored Giesse for a long while – an excellent lesson in discipline for secretaries.

  Finally he said, ‘What work do I have for today? Speak briefly, as if you were giving a military report.’

  Giesse blurted out: ‘The state secretary’s report about the political and economic situation in the Protectorate, a prearranged conversation with Berlin scheduled for three o’clock, a visit to the military command in connection with the inspection of new weapons manufactured in the Protectorate, a meeting with Reich industrialists who have come to inspect factories that belong to their companies, then a light supper followed by a festive concert. And the poet whose appointment was at ten has been waiting in the reception room for over an hour.’

  ‘What? A poet? Have you lost your mind? Who gave him an appointment? You know how much work I have. I can barely get to the mail by night-time, and you make an appointment for some good-for-nothing poet? Why can’t one of the lower officials see him?’

  Giesse explained that this was a matter of a prize to be presented by the Protectorate of the Reich on the occasion of the opening of the German House of Art. The Acting Reich Protector himself had suggested that the prize be given not at the celebration but in his own office because it was important to save time under war conditions. The commission had awarded the prize to the poet Mally for his cycle of poems about Prague dedicated to the Leader. The poet was waiting with the rector of the university, two members of the jury, and the state secretary to accept the prize from the hands of the Acting Reich Protector.

  ‘Mally? That’s not a German name.’

  Giesse answered that the poet came from the Sudetenland, where such names abounded. But the poet had an Ahnenbrief proving that he was of pure German origin.

  Yes – he grimaced, the Sudetenland, everything was confused up there, a real mess. Czechs had German names and Germans had Czech names. All that would be corrected after the war. But now there was nothing to do but receive the scribbler with the idiotic name.

  A uniformed orderly opened the door wide. The secretary, Karl Hermann Frank, in uniform, followed by other men in black suits, walked into the office with slow, grave steps. Heydrich recognised the rector; he had spoken to him once before and his memory was trained for faces. He had called him in that time and told him that the Prague German University, which was supposed to serve this country as a bastion of the Reich, was a regular pigsty. Jews had infiltrated the schools during the Republic. Though the Jews were now gone, their spirit remained. The students only wanted to pursue their studies and evade military exercises. But where was the Reich to find officers? The rector hadn’t dared make any objections. He knew well what would happen if he did.

  One of the three people standing with the rector had to be the poet. The Acting Reich Protector had learned to read faces in the police service and was pretty sure he could pick out the poet, though it was a little hard, since all three came from the Sudetenland. He would probably be the one with the stupidest face. In any case, Frank took care of everything. He praised the poet, enumerating his achievements as a warrior for the Reich: even as a student he had fought for national rights; during a demonstration against the Jewish rector Steinherz he had pulled off a policeman’s helmet, getting beaten up in the process. And during the glorious days before the occupation of the Sudetenland he had fled to the Reich, where he joined the Storm Troopers, in spite of poor health and a heart ailment. Frank spoke about all sorts of things, everything except the content of the poems, though as a bookseller he might have been expected to have read them. But obviously even Frank had no time to read books. In the long run the content of those verses made no difference. The prize had to be given to someone, so it might as well be Mally.

  Representing the prize jury, the rector spoke next. He must have actually read some of the Sudetenland scribbler’s stuff, because he cited certain verses about a golden city with a hundred towers, about a city whose statues and palaces spoke of its glorious German past, and then verses about the Leader sitting on the seat of Czech kings now belonging to the Reich, whose eagle eyes surveyed the splendour that had returned after thousands of years to the hard but merciful hands of Germany.

  He listened to the rector’s drivel with half an ear. He wished he could cut him off with an impatient gesture, but one of the duties of the master of the land was to listen to blabbing of this kind. Fortunately, Frank had already tactfully warned the rector to finish his speech quickly. One could count on Frank – a good fellow. Then the rector introduced the poet. He hadn’t been mistaken. The poet was the one with the stupidest face. He waved at him to come forward and handed him the envelope with the money and the diploma. Then Heydrich was obliged to say a few words.

  ‘We’ve been talking about palaces and statues. Yes, statues have always been the faithful shields and sentinels of this German city. The statue of Roland, symbol of the German law that once ruled this country, carries a sword in his hand. We who have come to liberate this city, to reinstate German law and German order, we also hold a sword in our hands, which is a guarantee that no force will ever make us surrender this country. Once it was treacherously snatched away from us, and now we will guard it against all enemies. Wherever we stand, that is Germany. Whatever has been won at the cost of German blood, that will remain in German hands for ever and ever.’

  Then Frank escorted the rector, the members of the jury and the poet to the door. The Acting Reich Protector was alone for a few moments. Yes, his words about the statute of Roland and his sword were well said. Too bad he’d wasted his wisdom on nobodies like those Sudetenland bastards. The statue stood above the river with its face turned towards the bridge. The river flowed under the bridge, carrying its waters to the Reich. Formerly the statue had stood alone in the company of twisted and gnarled saints with gaping eyes. Now that tanks and artillery were rumbling over the bridge, now that regiments were marching over it accompanied by the music of fife and drum, the statue was alone no longer, for it was surrounded by all those live beings assigned by Providence to rule in a German land. Didn’t Roland’s headpiece resemble the steel helmets of the German army that was occupying this city? Didn’t the statue hold the coat of arms of the city, its symbol, in its firm hand?

  Frank returned and the regular workday began. Frank’s report was extensive. Beginning with Protectorate business, he reported on the political situation, on the mood of the inhabitants, on the results of the Red Decrees, which listed those executed. The Acting Reich Protector listened to Frank, but he knew all these things already. They came from various offices and also from the Gestapo. But the Gestapo didn’t transmit certain information even to Frank. Only he, the Acting Reich Protector, knew it. Still, on the basis of the information available to him, Frank had given a well organised
report. Not a bad job. But nothing new.

  And the Jews?

  That was his most important task. What Frank didn’t know was that he, Reinhard Heydrich, had been commissioned by the Leader himself to oversee the liquidation of the Jewish inhabitants of the entire Reich and subject nations. Even Frank did not know that every office for Jewish Affairs in all of Europe reported directly to him, Reinhard Heydrich. And he also knew nothing about the conference at which the guidelines for the annihilation of the Jews were established, at which deadlines were set and plans made for the construction of gas chambers and crematoria. There was time enough for Frank to find out about it. First he assigned him the task of locating a Czech town where a temporary ghetto could be established. The establishment of a ghetto was also one of the results of the conference. It was to be a trap, a pit. At the same time it would camouflage what was happening from neutral nations.

  ‘Terezin,’ said Frank.

  Yes, he had seen that town. A sleepy barracks town in the lovely countryside on the very border of the Reich. The inhabitants were Czech, while the German Army lived in the barracks. The Small Fortress contained the auxiliary prison of the Gestapo. All in all, a good neighbourhood, with fortress walls that were easy to guard. It was quite small, but even that was convenient, since it would only be a stop on the way to the ‘final solution’. An excellent expression, ‘final solution’. A good choice had been made. But it was not necessary to praise Frank. The town had been selected by someone from the Security Police and not by Frank.

  ‘Good. Therefore, it will be possible to begin the transports in the immediate future.’

  ‘Yes.’ Frank clicked his heels.

  After Frank’s departure, he had to move on to the daily schedule Giesse had set up for him – a long, hard workday. Only now, during Mozart’s music, could he take a little rest. The music was soothing and relaxing, but still his day was not over. Another tiresome duty awaited him after the concert, a reception for the diplomatic corps at the Cerninsky Palace. He wouldn’t make it to Brezany tonight.

  The concert ended to thunderous applause, the first concert of German music at the newly restored German House of Art. An orderly was guarding his black limousine at the side entrance, and the chauffeur was already seated at the wheel. But Heydrich had to wait for Giesse, who had remained in the hall to discuss the details of the reception and who’d surely appear in a minute. In the meantime, he could breathe the fresh night air. The sky was clear on this autumn evening and the white light of the moon, the only light in the darkened city, drenched the building, sliding along the statues on the balustrade. They reminded him of the statues at the Leipzig opera, which he had often visited with his father on trips from Halle. Giesse was just coming out of the side door, and he stood at attention before him in order to give his report. Heydrich was still carefully examining the balustrade. Suddenly his face twisted with fury and hatred. What? This was unbelievable! How could he have given a speech in a building with a statue of that disgusting composer on its roof? What a disgrace, how humiliating! Why hadn’t someone thought of checking the building before it was dedicated to German art?

  ‘Giesse,’ he barked, and pointed at the balustrade. ‘See to it that that statue is torn down immediately. Call the Municipal Division this very moment. Somebody must still be on duty there. This is unacceptable. This is outrageous. This is worse than treason – it’s incompetence. Mendelssohn is on the roof!’

  THREE

  THEY LAY in the high grass beside the flowing river, Jan Krulis under the boat and Rudolf Vorlitzer in a sleeping bag. They were tired and silent; they didn’t feel like talking after the long trip. Their hands had got used to paddling, to sinking oars into the water – now the absence of movement and the very peace and quiet seemed strange. After supper they rested in the grass on the narrow strip of shore. Though the forest began just behind them, they had no interest in it, except perhaps as a source of the twigs they now gathered to lie on. Their connection was with the river, the river that flowed and flowed around them, that whispered and murmured endlessly, that spilled over the rocks forever.

  He lay on a hospital bed in a large room. There was so much pain and suffering all around him that it seemed to rise to the very ceiling of the old building. The disease had struck several years ago and the paralysis was progressive. A slate at the head of the bed bore the name Rudolf Vorlitzer, born March 6, 1904. A clinical chart hung at the foot. But he didn’t try to study his chart – he couldn’t even stretch his hand towards it. He couldn’t make the smallest movement, as all his limbs were dead, petrified. He had an unusual disease, a curious and rare one: all his limbs and organs were gradually turning to stone. Nobody knew how to treat his disease. They brought various foreign visitors to his bedside, professors with famous names, not to help him, because there was no help for him, but to examine a rare case, a unique case. The doctors valued such rare cases in their hospital, and even he shared this pride with his colleagues. His brain was not yet petrified. It functioned, it could think, it could recall the past. His brain hadn’t turned to stone and he still had a voice, because the disease had not yet reached his vocal cords. He could still breathe, because his lungs were still working and his heart was still beating. But everything else had turned to stone.

  They walked on to the brightly lit terrace of the dance hall, still wearing their sweatsuits. The lights were blazing, the music blaring. They sat down at an outdoor table and ordered black coffee, and its taste overpowered their palates after the awful stuff they’d been guzzling at the river cafés. As they watched the dancing couples whirling around on the concrete circle, they were still on the river, the river was still flowing. Clouds moved above them, the sun stood at a single spot, the waves sparkled over the rapids, the water rumbled at the floodgates. Even the outdoor lights didn’t stand in one place; they swayed and circled as if they were dancing on the concrete circle. Finally a sweet fatigue made itself felt through their drunken words, as, their heads bent backward, they looked into the lights falling on the dancers.

  The heavy stone weighed down on him. He couldn’t make the smallest movement with his hand; nothing in this paralysed body listened to his head. He knew he was sentenced to death. He was a doctor, after all, and he understood all the Latin phrases used by the visiting doctors as they consulted over his bed. They came from far and wide. Some spoke in foreign languages, but even they used the same phrases. He also had ordinary visitors on days they were permitted, but naturally their numbers decreased as times grew worse. All his visitors looked worried, because outside very bad things were happening. But they didn’t talk about these things. Rather, they passed along gossip about various acquaintances, and also jokes, which they whispered because these were forbidden jokes. They didn’t have to tell him the news; it made the rounds of the hospital in any case. It went from bed to bed and nobody could avoid hearing it. Even as he lay here deprived of movement, knowing he would never leave the sickroom on his own feet, yet he could not avoid the world beyond the doors of the room and beyond the gates of the hospital.

  They were paddling in a storm that day. The rain was pouring off their oilskins, filling up the bottom of their boat, coming down in sheets. It was impossible to land; they could only paddle straight ahead. They couldn’t even make out the shore, it was so black on the river, only, every so often, the lightning lit up the sky. And not a river café for miles. All they could do was listen to the river and follow its current. Their hands were frozen and their oilskins soaked through. They took turns bailing. They were alone in the middle of the river, surrounded by darkness. Then, suddenly, the bright lights of a house appeared on the shore. It was the Mandat.

  He knew he would die. He was reconciled to it. He had seen so many people die and helped so many people at the hour of death that it held no terror for him. He also knew that he would have been dead long ago had he not been a rare case to show off to visiting doctors. He received a great deal of attention, but he knew the atte
ntion wasn’t for him, the living person, but only for the case, the rare case that had to be kept alive as long as possible so that it could be studied. His body would end up on the dissecting table, and that was good; he’d serve science even after his death; only science was certain and reliable in this mad world, where some of his friends envied him because he could die in a hospital while they were terrified of dying a violent death.

  It’s possible to reconcile oneself to death. But even his illness doesn’t protect him from what is happening outside. Even the stone can’t free him of responsibility. His responsibility is Adela and Greta, his sister’s children. They are alone in the world because they’ve lost both their parents. Now they are tossed about like balls; they stay in this place for a few days, then in that place a few days, living from day to day, always in hiding. He can still help them a little, for he hasn’t completely turned to stone. But what will happen to them afterwards? He’ll never know the answer.

  First they had to pull the boat on to the shore. Then they had to remove the boat bags, turn the boat over so the water could pour out, and place it on the trestle. It was hard and laborious work because they were tired from all their paddling. Their feet were sliding on the muddy ground. But they had to take care of the boat first, before they could settle down in the warm restaurant. They dragged their bags through the hallway, water dripping from them, leaving puddles on the floor. They hung their oilskins in the hall and stood the paddles beside them. Only then did they enter the dining room, fall into chairs and stretch their legs out comfortably. They felt good as they sat at the cloth-covered table and looked forward to warm food and black coffee. Meanwhile, the rain kept falling on the windowpanes. When they had finished eating, they began to doze off. But they forced themselves to stay awake and keep looking out of the window, waiting for the storm to blow over so they could continue their trip. It would soon be mid-morning, and they had a long way to go. Besides, they preferred not to stay at the Mandat because they were running out of money. They’d sleep in a haystack somewhere. Setting up a tent in this sort of weather was out of the question.