Mendelssohn is on the Roof Page 4

  He couldn’t read, but not because his eyes didn’t function. His eyes fulfilled their duties well. They saw everything – the high windows, the white plastered ceiling, the faces of the visitors and doctors. But his hands refused to hold a book and turn the pages. Once in a while his roommate would read to him. Sometimes it was a book that he wouldn’t have wanted to read in his former life. Now he was grateful for every word, even of a bad book. His neighbours kept changing. Some were discharged, some died, some were delirious with fever. There was nothing left for him but to look at the ceiling and count the hours and days. They dragged behind him like a chain, all the hours and days, all the years since that long-ago moment when this strange disease had struck, when his legs had buckled and his arms had stopped obeying him. For some time afterwards he remained ‘dear colleague’, but after a while no one remembered he was a doctor. He had become a rare case and he lived like one. In the end it didn’t make any difference, because he had long since ceased to be a living person. And when the bed next to his was empty, or when the patient lying there was unconscious, then there was nothing for him to do but bring up memories, take stock of his life, judge it, assess its fairness, and vainly search for blame. It was hard to figure out why he, of all people, had been struck by this disease that was turning him into a living statue.

  They slept in the hayloft. They clambered up the ladder and there they were, high above the river. They slept well, although the dust from the hay got into their nostrils and made them cough. They woke up the next day intoxicated by the scent of hay. The river was already full of sun. They washed and swam in the river and cooked their breakfast on an alcohol burner – it wasn’t worth it to make a real fire. They ground the coffee beans in a little mill, tossed some bacon, which Jan sliced on a flat rock, in a pan, some eggs on the frying bacon. They brought out a chunk of bread which hadn’t soaked through in the boat bag. They ate heartily that morning, and then rested on the bank for awhile, talking about everything under the sun. They’d have to be careful going through the rapids. They’d have to really knuckle down at the Vranska dam. But once that was behind them they could take it easy.

  If the heart stops, if it ceases to beat, if it turns to stone, then all movement ceases. The heart will probably be the last to go, it will probably continue to beat quietly for a while even after the lungs have turned to stone and he has stopped breathing. He’ll never see Adela and Greta again. He had promised his sister that he’d take care of them if anything happened to her and Richard. But now he can’t keep his promise. He had begged Jan, his last remaining friend, to look after them, though he knew that Jan was working for an underground group and was in constant danger.

  Afterwards they floated along slowly on their approach to Prague. It was twilight, and lights were twinkling on the river surface. They found themselves in a caravan of boats, all returning home to boathouses along the river edge. Some were wreathed with flowers and branches, to show they had come from far away. In others people were singing to the accompaniment of a guitar. Flowers and music were floating along the river, as they neared the city. Dance music dropped down from the circle of lights at Barrandov. They lay at the bottom of the boat and rested, letting the current carry them now that there was no need to hurry. Every once in a while, they dipped a paddle in the water just to steer the boat in the right direction or to avoid a steamboat. They bobbed a bit on the water, but they never came really close to one as many others did to show off their bravery. They began to paddle only when they saw the lights. They landed at the little bridge and carried the boat up on shore. They stowed their sweatsuits, sneakers, oilskins and boat bags in a locker, changed into summer clothes, sat down at a table on the veranda, drank milk, and watched the boats landing at the little bridge at the end of their long or short journeys. And then they left, slowly closing the club gates behind them.

  Jan Krulis came in, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned towards him, and whispered the news. It was bad news, even worse than the stories making the rounds of the hospital. Transports were leaving for the fortress town, and continuing from there to the East. People were allowed to take up to fifty kilograms of belongings. They were herded into the Radio Mart, where they were picked clean before being crammed into trains and taken away. Numbers were hung around their necks and their apartments and furniture were confiscated.

  It didn’t depress him to hear this news, though it was dismal. He was able to listen to it because he had settled his accounts with life long ago. He had only one remaining responsibility and it weighed heavily on him all the while his body was turning to stone: Adela and Greta. Jan told him that they were living with friends, that they weren’t registered anywhere, that they could never go out. Jan managed to get food for them and went to visit them occasionally late at night. They were being brave – no need to worry about them. He smiled at this, because his face hadn’t turned to stone yet. Even his eyes smiled. He was glad that Jan had taken on his responsibility. At the same time, he was sorry that he had to ask him to do it. But he had no alternative.

  They strolled about the town square on that summer Sunday evening, taking it all in – music floating from the open cafe windows, reflections of neon lights bathing the cobblestones, newsboys shouting out the headlines, aromas of various dishes from the snack bars wafting over the entire street. They walked slowly, looking quite like other passers-by, but their hands were still throbbing, they could still feel the river flowing through their limbs. They stopped at the lighted shop windows and looked at the displays. After their week on the river, with its floodgates and rapids, its bluffs and sandy banks, its mills, villages and river cafes, everything looked new and strange. Though they weren’t hungry they deeply inhaled the delicious food smells. They gazed at the colourful hoardings as if wanting to throw themselves into this different river and float along it forever. They listened to its din rushing through the square from one end to the other, they listened to the laughter, the shouts and the soft whispers. A thousand footsteps accompanied them, a thousand lights assailed their eyes, and the music from the various cafes crisscrossed the squares and streets. They were home at the end of a long journey and for now they were carefree. They parted at the trolley stop.

  After Jan left the hospital room, only the ceiling remained, and he gazed at it, trying to concentrate. There was no one to go to for advice. He was helpless. What was happening in the outside world seemed foreign to him, inimical, distant. Even if he had been healthy he wouldn’t have known what to do – perhaps try for a personal deferment from the transports. He had to take care of Adela and Greta, after all. But this was all nonsense. Better to suppress such thoughts and find peace before his final days set in, before the stream came to a final stop.

  A doctor bent over his bed. ‘We must move you out of here, Doctor. Yes, we must, we received orders.’

  They hadn’t called him ‘Doctor’ for a long time. Things must really be bad.

  FOUR

  THE FLAG of the SS Elite Guard fluttered in the wind. The building, formerly the Law School, had been part of the Czech University. As a barracks it had its advantages and disadvantages. The main advantage was central heating. The disadvantage was being located so near the Jewish quarter. It wasn’t pleasant to look at Jews. The barracks guards had had enough trouble with them in Poland during the mobilisation, and now they had to deal with them again in Prague. Barracks duty rotated – a tour of duty in the Protectorate was a reward for a tour of duty in the field. Here they could rest and fatten up, here they could bask in the warmth before setting off once again for the Russian freezing cold.

  The job was easy, although discipline had to be maintained. The Protectorate had been turned into a non-combat zone. There were no air-raid sirens blaring there. Troop reviews were the most taxing duties.

  The telephone rang at the command headquarters. It was Krug, calling from the Municipal Division. Rottenführer Schulze II was on telephone duty. Krug introduced himself as a Scharführer, but th
at made no impact on the man who answered. Outside the Elite Guard such ranks were bureaucratic, not earned in the field. Just being an SS member was no guarantee of anything. Krug explained that he had an order from the Acting Reich Protector, and that it had to do with some sort of statue. Schulze II was surprised that they’d bother the SS Elite Guard with such a trivial matter. But if Heydrich wanted it done, then it had to be done. But it wouldn’t be necessary to disturb the commander about it, Untersturmführer Wancke would do. Schulze II would inform him of the matter, and the gentlemen could visit him at his office.

  Krug had been very reluctant to turn to the Elite Guard for help. They’d surely scorn him as a civilian, even if he wore his uniform with the badge from the Polish campaign. He certainly couldn’t send Schlesinger alone, they’d throw him out in a flash. Krug ordered a car, though it wasn’t far from the New Town Hall to the barracks, because the barracks officers would assume the two of them were mere petitioners if they arrived on foot and then their reception would be even worse. Of course, someone, possibly Dr Buch, might accuse him of wasting valuable petrol at a time when the Reich needed every drop at the front. It was an official car and the driver had to keep a list of every trip. But Krug preferred risking such accusations to going on foot with that idiot Schlesinger. It was an official visit, after all, a matter of an order that had to be carried out quickly.

  He settled down in his car, and only then did he have Schlesinger summoned. Let him get a little exercise. Krug had to laugh to see him come running out of the door, all out of breath. Schlesinger was also wearing a uniform. They drove quickly to the barracks without having to avoid any cars. The streets were completely empty and the driver paid absolutely no attention to traffic signals.

  They were interrogated by the guard at the entrance for a long time before being admitted to the command headquarters. Everything here was run according to strict military rules.

  Untersturmführer Wancke was having a boring day receiving telephone reports and keeping the daily record. Suddenly his orderly Rottenführer Schulze II burst into the office. Upon giving the proper salute he announced the arrival of two officials from the Municipal Division. What the hell did they think they were doing at the Elite Guard headquarters? Schulze II was going on and on about some Jewish statue and some order from the Acting Reich Protector. He was obviously all mixed up. Schulze II was a former farm boy and didn’t even know how to make a decent telephone call. On the other hand, when it came to drill he was always in his place. He was such a good marksman you’d think he’d been in a circus. But that kind of amusement wouldn’t do now. Shooting, women, drinking and petty thievery were only for those in the East. Here it was strictly forbidden. The Czech and Moravian Protectorate was part of the Reich. The Reich laws all applied here. There was time enough for fooling around at the front. Once Frank told them that a time might come when their services would be necessary for taking measures against the traitorous Czechs. But that would probably never happen. They had quite a comfortable life in this Protectorate, but it was boring. Wancke would have a bit of fun with these Protectorate loafers. He’d show them what a front-line soldier was made of.

  Krug greeted Wancke ceremoniously, right arm outstretched, loudly pronouncing the required greeting. Lamely Schlesinger tried to imitate him. But he didn’t dare go too far. He didn’t feel sure of himself in the SS barracks. Wancke responded to the greeting in a lackadaisical manner, and inspected his visitors. They looked pretty well fed. It wouldn’t harm them to get a little exercise on the front and enjoy the nice Eastern frosts. Krug tried using Kamerad, but Wancke cut him off angrily.

  ‘I’m SS Untersturmführer to you.’ Obviously Krug’s uniform did him no good at all.

  He broached the subject of his visit cautiously. They had received an order in the name of the Acting Reich Protector to remove a statue of the Jewish composer Mendelssohn from the balustrade of the Rudolfinum.

  ‘Don’t know. Never heard of him,’ said Wancke.

  ‘Yes, but the Acting Reich Protector does know this statue and demands that it be removed immediately. He sent SS candidate Schlesinger there with two Czech helpers. But they couldn’t find the statue because there are no inscriptions on any of them. They decided to look for help at the SS barracks.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you actually want from us. We’re not in charge of pursuing Jews here in the Protectorate. There are other bureaus for that, the Gestapo on Bredovska Street and the Security Police in Stresovice. You should try them.’

  Krug explained: he couldn’t try the Security Police because he wasn’t even authorised to speak to them. That was a secret bureau with direct lines to Berlin. And the Gestapo was a little out of the way. He needed help immediately. Giesse from the Reich Protector’s office kept calling every minute to see if the statue had been torn down. If the Untersturmführer would be so kind, they could carry out the order immediately.

  ‘What’s that? The nerve!’ screamed Wancke. ‘Are you suggesting that the Elite Guard is here for the purpose of finding the statue of some Jew or other? You can take that job and shove it …’

  ‘Oh no,’ continued Krug meekly, ‘it would be enough for the Untersturmführer to send someone to the Jewish Community to drag out some learned Jew or other. Then they could take him to the roof and have him identify the statue.’

  ‘Well now,’ said Wancke thoughtfully, ‘you fellows at Municipal live like pigs in clover. Tit for tat, gentlemen. How about some cigarettes, whisky and chocolate? But it better be first-rate. No imitations.’

  Krug began to waffle. He was only a lower official. He lived on rations just like anyone else. If he made a tremendous effort he might scout up something, maybe whisky.

  ‘No excuses,’ Wancke interrupted him. ‘Either we get what we want or nothing doing. Nothing’s free except death. And even that’s not always true, because cartridges cost money.’

  Finally Krug gave up. There was no sense haggling with Wancke. These people were used to giving orders.

  ‘I’ll get you some, Herr Untersturmführer.’

  ‘You’d better,’ said Wancke.

  Each of them was busy thinking. Krug was planning to wring it all out of Schlesinger, even if that fellow had to give up his pay for the month. The whole thing was his fault, and he should be grateful to him, Krug, for begging at the SS for him. Schlesinger would pay for this humiliating experience.

  Wancke decided to send Schulze II. He was an idiot, but he had brains enough to go to the Community to get a Jew. The main thing was that he wouldn’t ask any questions and so there’d be no need to share anything with him. At most he’d give him a glass of whisky. Actually, there was very little risk connected with this sort of thing. Of course, the Stresovice people might make trouble. This actually fell under their jurisdiction, because the Jews and their property belonged to them and they didn’t intend to share them with anyone. The Security Police wouldn’t make trouble. They wouldn’t care in the least if he briefly borrowed one of their Jews. Just a small friendly favour – when it was over he’d mention it to the head.

  ‘Very well’ – Wancke ended the conversation – ‘I’ll send Rottenführer Schulze II to do it. He’ll bring you your Jew. You’ll take him to the roof and then you can let him go. He can get back himself without an escort.’

  He called Schulze II in from the adjacent room.

  ‘Go to the Jewish Community. You know, to the main building in Josefovska Street. Tell them to give you a learned Jew and then bring him back here to the barracks. But step on it, step on it …’

  Schulze II clicked his heels and went out quickly.

  People were standing around outside the main building of the Jewish Community on Josefovska Street. They huddled in little knots, whispering together in confusion. There were many little knots going all the way to the Jewish Town Hall. The knots unravelled and then formed again. People ran around from person to person, from someone who thought he knew some bit of alarming news to another
who thought he knew some bit of comforting news. Thus they alternated between hope and despair, passing along news to one another. The news travelled back and forth, and sometimes good news collided with terrible news.

  Transports.

  An ordinary word, one usually associated with furniture moving. But now it had a different meaning. The news, premature disclosure of which had occasioned the shooting of two people, had become a reality. It circulated among the little knots of people. It expanded, and then contracted. ‘It won’t be so bad, after all. We’ll all be together in a work camp.’ And then it grabbed the throat and clutched the heart like tidings of death and destruction.

  The little knots disintegrated when Rottenführer Schulze II appeared. People ran off in all directions to avoid coming into his view. Here a uniform meant a herald of death.

  Schulze II marched along the street as if it were completely empty. He looked neither to the right nor to the left and headed straight for the door. But the whole building knew he was coming; they had seen him from the windows. The whole complex bureaucratic machinery suddenly came to a standstill. The rooms were overflowing with clerks. Before his arrival they had all been furiously working, writing things down, crossing things out, pulling out file folders and then putting them back again, making in-house telephone calls, running from one floor to another. On the top floor they ran across to the adjoining building along a passageway, where other people just as hard-working and just as meticulous sat in offices and did the same unnecessary, mindless work.