Jakob the Liar (23 page)

Jacob could not have expected such a flight of fancy; cunning old Kowalski has surpassed himself, has even made his calculations where there was nothing to calculate. How are you going to convince him that at least now you are telling the truth? All you can do is suggest that he ransack every nook and cranny in this room and the basement. But to protest with upturned palms — “When did I ever lie to you?” — that you can no longer do. And if you actually do urge him to search the place and tell him that whatever radios you find here, Kowalski, you can keep, he will give you a knowing wink and respond with something like, “Let’s not play games, Jacob. Haven’t we known each other for forty years?” He will intimate that any attempt at hide-and-seek is a waste of time. The impossible can never be proved. Jacob, alarmed, says: “You don’t believe me?”

“Believe, disbelieve, what’s the difference?” says Kowalski in a low voice and more absently than expected, in a tone similar to Jacob’s just now in his little speech to all. That’s all he says for the time being, as his fingers drum a measured theme on the table, his head tilted back, sunk in private thoughts.

Jacob considers further ways of justifying himself. It means a lot to him that he be judged with leniency, and for that the reasons for his actions must be known, as well as the reasons for the sudden cessation. But these are still not entirely clear to himself; and because of this, and because he realizes that not only his standing but Kowalski’s, too, is at stake in all this, he says nothing and saves his request for extenuating circumstances for some later date.

This is followed by the sobering thought that his own standing is not at stake at all; no one in the ghetto is less important than he, without a radio. The only people who matter are his recipients, Kowalski among a great many others. And they couldn’t care less about excuses, however plausible; they have other worries, and not minor ones either — they want to know, for instance, what is going to happen now after Pry.

Kowalski stops his drumming and brooding, gets up, and places a friendly hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, old man,” he says. “You’re safe with me. I won’t ask you anymore.”

He goes to the door, reviving his smile. Before opening the door he turns around once more and actually winks with both eyes. “And I'm not angry with you.” And leaves.

N
ext morning, after the most sleepless night for a long time, Jacob is on his way to work. Before stepping out into the street he had furtively pressed down the handle of Kirschbaum's door, for whatever reason, but the door was locked. Horowitz, his neighbor, caught him at the unrevealing keyhole and asked: “Are you looking for something in particular?”

Of course Jacob hadn’t been looking for anything in particular, just looking, human curiosity, and with a vague explanation to Horowitz he left. Then there had been that iridescent patch in front of the building, on the road, where the small German van had stood yesterday. A few drops of oil had seeped from it and were now gleaming in thin streaks on the dwindling remains of a reservoir deposited there by Siegfried and Rafael, first by way of their rolled-up shorts, then, when their sources had dried up, with the aid of a bucket of water. They had set to work immediately after Elisa Kirschbaum's departure, for with so little motor traffic such opportunities were few and far between. Jacob had still been at the window observing them with Lina, who was disgusted at the boys’ indecency.

But back to Jacob on his way to work: from a distance he can already see a fair-sized crowd at a street corner, right in front of the building where Kowalski lives. Jacob’s first thought is that Kowalski must be at the center of the crowd; his best friend will have come out into the street and, true to his nature, been unable to keep his mouth shut. Either, in thinking it over last night, he has come to the conclusion that he has after all been told the truth, or, as is more likely with Kowalski, he still doesn’t believe it but outwardly pretends to do so, for true friendship means sticking together. Has come out of the building and has lost no time in scaring the Jews to death with his dire news, since he must at all costs be the first; whether on the road to hell or to paradise, Kowalski always in the lead. Has thereby cut off all one’s paths of retreat — not that, after giving it much thought, one meant to take any such path, but what business was that of Kowalski’s?

Jacob feels inclined to turn back, he tells me, and to make a short detour; it’s going to be hard enough anyway, they’ll give him a grueling time at the yard. Let Kowalski cope with this on his own, that’s his problem, this is a good opportunity to stay out of it. Now Jacob notices, while still some way off, that those people are hardly speaking, yet surely they should be agitated after the presumed revelation. As he approaches he sees that most of them are standing in shocked silence. Some are looking up at an open window that, at first sight, does not seem to have anything unusual about it, being merely empty and open. Jacob is not quite sure whether it is Kowalski’s window or the one next to it. But on closer inspection he does see what is unusual: a short piece of rope, fastened to the transom and no longer than a finger, hence unnoticed until now.

Jacob, forcing his way through the crowd, dashes into the building. He tries to take two stairs at a time but manages only the first two; luckily Kowalski lives only one floor up. The door is open, like the window, so there is a draft. Kowalski’s three neighbors, one of whom we arbitrarily called Abraham, are not at home. Only Kowalski is at home, and two complete strangers are in the room, the first passersby to have seen him hanging. They have cut him down and laid him on the bed; now they are standing about helplessly, not knowing what to do next. One of them asks Jacob, “Did you know him?”

“What?” Jacob asks, standing by the bed. 

“I said, did you know him?” 

“Yes,” says Jacob.

When after a while he turns around, he is alone; they have closed the door. Jacob walks to the window and looks out into the street: nothing left of the crowd, only people walking past. He tries to shut the window, but it jams: first he has to remove the rope with its double knot from the transom. Then he draws the curtain shut; in the subdued light, Kowalski’s face seems easier to bear. He pulls up a chair, not wanting to sit on the bed, and sits down for an indefinite period. I say indefinite because later he is unable to tell me anything about how long he stayed there.

The sight of a dead person is far from unfamiliar to Jacob; it is not uncommon to have to step over somebody, a victim of starvation, lying on the sidewalk and not yet removed by the cleanup squad. But Kowalski is not just somebody, dear God, no he isn’t. Kowalski is Kowalski. A confession has resulted in his death, a confession, moreover, that he pretended not to believe. You crazy fool, why didn’t you stay on last night? We would have had a calm discussion about everything and scraped up that little bit of courage needed to go on living. Haven’t we scraped up enough together, rightfully or wrongfully? If it works, no one asks how it was done. Why did you have to behave like a poker player on your last evening? We could have helped each other, but only you knew what was going on inside both of us, you hid from your friend Jacob Heym, you showed me a false face, yet we could have gone on living, Kowalski, we could have managed.

By profession a barber, had some money stashed away, as we know, intending to change his life one day but would probably have gone on being a barber; was equipped with various questionable attributes, was suspicious, quirky, awkward, garrulous, too clever for his own good, but all in all, in hindsight, suddenly endearing. Once rescued Jacob from a horrendous situation, from a German outhouse, subscribed to the
Völkischer Kurier
for the advertisements, could sometimes put away seven large potato pancakes at a sitting but couldn’t tolerate ice cream, would rather borrow than pay back, wanted to seem calculating but wasn’t like that at all, except once.

As is to be expected, self-reproaches are whirling around in Jacob’s head: that he had Kowalski on his conscience, that he with his petty fatigue was to blame for Kowalski’s resorting to the rope, once you start something you have to see it through, you have to estimate your strength in advance. Here I interrupted Jacob and told him, “You’re talking nonsense. You didn’t overestimate your strength because you had no way of knowing that it would go on so long.” And I told him, “The point is not that you’re to blame for Kowalski’s death but that he has to thank you for having stayed alive up to that day.” “Yes, I know,” was Jacob’s response, “but none of that helps.”

Finally Jacob gets up. He pulls the curtain aside again and, when he goes, leaves the door wide open so that one of the neighbors returning from work will see what has happened and do what’s necessary. It is far too late to go to the freight yard; he can hardly tell the sentry at the gate that he was delayed on the way, and there’ll definitely be no midday meal for him today. Jacob goes home, his only hope being that Kowalski kept his reasons to himself, that for once he held his tongue. For Jacob has rediscovered his radio.

N
o matter how often Jacob rediscovers, reports, invents battles and circulates them, there is one thing he cannot prevent: inexorably the story approaches its infamous ending. Or rather, it has two endings; actually, of course, only one, the one experienced by Jacob and the rest of us, but for me it also has another ending. Without wishing to boast, I know an ending that could make a person turn pale with envy; not exactly a happy one, somewhat at Jacob’s expense, yet incomparably more satisfactory than the real ending. I devised it over the years. I said to myself, What a terrible pity for such a beautiful story to peter out so miserably. Find a halfway satisfactory ending for it, one that will hold water; a decent ending allows many a weakness to be forgotten. Besides, they all deserved a better ending, not only Jacob, and that will be your justification, in case you need one. That’s what I told myself, and so I spared no effort — successfully, if you ask me. But then I was beset by misgivings as to its veracity; by comparison it simply sounded too good, and I asked myself whether attaching a peacock’s magnificent tail to some miserable animal, merely out of love, has any hope of success, whether that wouldn’t be just creating a monster. Then it seemed to me a weak comparison, but I never could make up my mind. And now here I am with the two endings, not knowing which one to tell, mine or the ugly one. Until it occurs to me to get both off my chest, not because I lack decisiveness but merely because I think that this way we will both have our say. On the one hand the story that is independent of me and, on the other, myself with all the effort I would like not to have made in vain. So, first the ending that never happened.

K
owalski is allowed to celebrate his resurrection; he completely ignores transom and rope, Jacob having foregone his confession. The evening in question they chat about irrelevant things, although Jacob has something else on his mind. However, Kowalski needn’t be aware of that. Only later, when he is alone again, does Jacob realize that it is beyond his dwindling strength to carry on with the radio lies, especially with no end in sight. Nevertheless, the true state of affairs must not come to light. Jacob imagines the consequences this would have: he might have to fear, for example, that the series of suicides, which for some time has mercifully been at a standstill, would flare up again and increase by leaps and bounds.

The following nights — which, of course, are now free because he need not reproach himself with Kowalski’s death — Jacob spends trying to come up with a final credible lie. Its purpose is to explain why the radio has stopped playing; he has to get rid of this worst of all torments, but the lie simply won’t come to him. It is proving harder to find than all the others.

I imagine for a moment that Jacob hits upon the obvious idea of announcing that the radio has been stolen from him. A lot of things are stolen in the ghetto, why not a radio too? Objects of less value and usefulness have gone missing. I imagine an entire ghetto hunting for the unscrupulous thief. People eye each other suspiciously; visits are now made only to camouflage inspections. In the evening each person listens at the door of his neighbor — perhaps he has just tuned in to the BBC, perhaps he is this contemptible person — hasn’t there always been a strange look in his eyes that your inner voice warned you about? Only one thing is a mystery: what advantage does the thief derive from his crime? None at all; even now he won’t find out any more than he would have heard anyway from Jacob or one of the intermediaries. Just that the rest of us are left groping in the dark: what sense is there in that? How else can one explain his motives than by a thoroughly evil disposition? I go on to imagine that the search for the thief assumes alarming proportions, that a sort of illegal committee is formed that combs through the ghetto building by building after work. And let us assume that, among the several thousand inhabitants, there is one other person like Felix Frankfurter, just one, who also keeps a radio hidden and, unlike Frankfurter, has not destroyed it.

I am well aware that this one person would present a problem for the whole story; for either, like Frankfurter, he was always too scared to listen, or he did listen and must therefore know that Jacob’s daily reports were a tissue of lies, except for the battle of Bezanika. And all this time said nothing. However unlikely either of these two possibilities may be, let us accept one or the other of them for the next three sentences, since that person is a mere figment of my imagination, an ephemeral fancy. During the search the radio is discovered at his place; he is killed by the enraged searchers, a fine fancy one might say, or he isn’t killed, it’s of no consequence. The radio is taken to Jacob, the rightful owner: just the thought of his face is worth the whole idea. Now things resume their normal course, Jacob listens and reports, and for days the talk continues to be of the outrageous incident, how any person can behave so despicably, for no good reason.

But enough of that. Jacob doesn’t come up with the idea of the theft, neither in the actual ending, which surprises me, nor in mine. In mine, no matter how hard he tries he can’t rid himself of the radio, so he decides to rid himself of the Jews. He stops receiving visitors, simply doesn’t open the door; at the freight yard he goes off by himself to eat his midday soup near the Germans’ brick building, where he can’t be asked anything. And as soon as work is over he vanishes like a ghost, even taking the long way around so as to dodge those lying in wait for him. Now and again he does get waylaid, in spite of all his precautions, and he is asked what has suddenly got into him, why he’s stopped telling them anything.

“There’s no news,” he says then. “Don’t worry, if there is any I’ll tell you.”

Or, to even greater effect, he’ll say, “It’s getting too dangerous for me, I don’t want to run any risk so close to the end. Do me a favor and stop asking me.”

This doesn’t make him exactly popular; there are only a few who feel for him in his situation, and yesterday’s great man rapidly declines in prestige. He’s called a coward and a bastard, also because he stubbornly refuses to hand over the radio to someone else, someone with more guts. Soon glances come his way that could scare a person; words are whispered behind his back that are better not heard, but Jacob sticks to his guns. Let them look upon him as the wicked one, he would feel exactly the same in their place, never mind if they take every opportunity of letting him know the taste of contempt: anything is better than telling them the truth.

Not that he has been entirely deserted by well-wishers. I would think that Kowalski and Mischa remain faithful. Mischa goes on carrying crates with him, and Kowalski says sometimes, although less often than before, “Well, what’s new, old man? Surely you can give
me
a little hint? No one else needs to know about it.”

Jacob always refuses, even if it means losing his oldest friend. He doesn’t lose him; Kowalski proves to be a tenacious friend.

One day Mischa says, “Jacob, I hate to tell you this, but they’re talking about taking away your radio.”

“Taking it away?”

“Yes,” says Mischa gravely. “By force.”

Jacob looks across to the others. So there are one or two among them who are prepared to resort to intimidation; Jacob doesn’t want to know who it is.

“Can’t you stop them?” he asks.

“How?” asks Mischa. “I’d be glad to. But can you tell me how?” 

“Tell them I’ve hidden it so well that they’ll never find it,” says Jacob.

“I’ll tell them,” says Mischa.

At home Jacob strictly forbids Lina to be in his room when he is not there. As a precaution he no longer leaves the key in the. hole in the wall behind the doorframe, not for Lina and not for anybody. As far as possible she is to remain in her attic and stay put. To offset her boredom he lets her take the book about Africa upstairs; she can use it to learn to read, which will do her more good than hanging around doing nothing.

The next few days prove to be a strenuous test of Jacob’s sorely tried nerves. Twiddling his thumbs, he has to sit still and wait, for liberators and intruders, in both cases uncertain whether they will come or not. Mischa tells him he has no idea whether the opposition has changed its mind; ever since his loyalty to Jacob has been noticed, in spite of all that has happened, ever since he has offered his services as a go-between, he has been excluded from the deliberations. Moreover, something of the general contempt has rubbed off on him too. The same goes for Kowalski.

I have not given any thought to my own attitude in this matter, on whose side I am, whether I am Jacob’s friend or enemy. But knowing myself, and considering how much the steady flow of information has meant to me, I would say I am his enemy, one of the worst, in fact. Let us assume that I strongly plead that no one be confused by all this talk, that the sooner his radio is taken away the better. Many people share my view, but there are also some Jews who think differently and want to be heard — those, for example, who right from the start have regarded the radio as a danger. Basically they are delighted with Jacob’s change of heart. “What’s all the fuss about?” they say. “If the Russians come at all, they’ll come, radio or no radio.” And others again say, “Let’s hold our horses, maybe Heym will come to his senses. We must give him a little more time.”

In any event, the break-in does not take place, not in my ending.

These bad days are a test of Jacob’s nerves in another respect, too. At some point he has to acknowledge that he has clung to what is by now almost an old habit, that once again he has overestimated his own strength. He was convinced that the wave of hostility, which he obviously had to count on, would not affect him very much, that he could survive it intact. He found encouragement in the thought that he was experienced in such matters, that all his years in the shop had, after all, been little more than a struggle of one against all. That was a facile and mistaken conclusion. What Jacob overlooked was the period after Bezanika during which he had been showered with goodwill, affection, and respect, with every indication that he was indispensable, something to which he had become accustomed with absurd rapidity. And now the exact opposite: after ten days at most, that wave of hostility threatens to engulf him; the cold shoulders become unbearable.

Lina notices changes in Jacob that she cannot account for. Because she obediently heeds his instructions and keeps to her attic, she hears nothing. She merely notices that, whenever Jacob is with her, he sinks into a gloomy abstraction, hardly speaks, doesn’t even show the proper surprise when she reads out a whole sentence from the Africa book, unaided. Whenever she sits on his lap she might as well be sitting on a chair. Only a short while ago he would gladly take her on his knees, and now he seems not to notice her at all. When she asks him for a story he says he can’t think of any and puts her off till such time as he remembers one.

“Are you angry about something?” Lina asks.

“Angry? Why angry?”

“Because you’re acting so strangely.”

“Acting strangely, am I?” says Jacob, lacking the strength to avoid an unmerited sharpness in his voice. “Look after your own business and don’t bother me.”

Lina continues to be mostly alone and has very little to look after — except Jacob, to whom something incomprehensible must have happened.

One important evening in my ending, shortly after the first of the month because that is when the ration cards are always distributed, Jacob knocks on Mischa’s door. He has to wait a while before it is cautiously opened. Mischa says in surprise: “Jacob?”

Jacob enters the room. The first thing he says is: “If you really want to hide her you shouldn’t leave two cups on the table, you donkey.”

“You’re right,” says Mischa. He goes to the wardrobe and lets Rosa out. Rosa and Jacob stand facing each other wordlessly, until at length Mischa finds the situation embarrassing.

“Do you two know each other?” he asks.

“We once saw each other very briefly,” says Jacob.

“Won’t you sit down?” Rosa says quickly, with a smile, before Mischa can ask about that once. Jacob sits down and looks for a way to begin, for he hasn’t just dropped in: what he has in mind is quite a tall order.

“The reason I’m here,” he says, “I want to ask you a favor, and if you say no I’ll fully understand. I just couldn’t think of anyone else to turn to.”

“I’m listening,” says Mischa.

“The thing is, these last few days I’ve been feeling rotten. Physically, I mean. I’m not as young as I was, my heart’s starting to act up, so’s my back, and my head aches all the time — it’s rather sudden and a bit much all at once.”

Mischa still can’t think what kind of favor it could be and says, “That’s bad.”

“Well, not that bad really, it’ll pass. But until it does, Mischa, I was wondering whether you could take Lina in for a while.”

The general awkwardness results in a pause, during which Jacob doesn’t look up; probably he’s expecting a bit too much of the young man. Two illegal womenfolk in his room; but after all Jacob did say he wouldn’t blame him if he refused.

“Well, you know,” Mischa says slowly, his intention being quite clear.

“Of course you can bring Lina here,” says Rosa, with a reproachful look at Mischa.

“I would never have come to you if you’d been alone,” Jacob tells the unhappy Mischa. “But since Miss Frankfurter is here all day, and Lina is always alone too …”

“I’m looking forward to having her,” says Rosa.

“How about you?”

“He’s looking forward to it too,” says Rosa.

Mischa gives himself time to rearrange his expression — they all know he isn’t exactly happy. “All right,” he says, “bring her here.”

Relieved, Jacob puts the ration card down on the table; it is intact except for one coupon, so Mischa need no longer fear that Jacob is also demanding full board, free of charge.

“When can I bring her?”

“When did you have in mind?”

“Tomorrow evening?” asks Jacob.

Although Jacob assures him that it is entirely unnecessary, Mischa accompanies him for a few steps out into the street. When Jacob holds out his hand to say good night and Mischa keeps it in his a shade longer than necessary, Jacob detects a vital question in Mischa’s blue eyes. Mischa is absolutely right, Jacob concludes, one good turn deserves another, especially when it is sought so modestly.

“You’d like to know what the situation is?” he asks.

“If you don’t mind,” says Mischa.

Jacob divulges that Pry has meanwhile been taken but that halfway to Mieloworno the Germans have established a fortified line that will be fought over for quite some time, it appears, but which has already been breached at several points, this in turn leaving room for hope. And he asks Mischa to keep this news to himself, otherwise there’ll only be endless questions at the freight yard, why is one person told and all the others are not. Mischa promises, no doubt hoping for further periodic news items. That is how I account for his tactics.

The following evening Lina moves. Jacob has given her the same reason he gave Mischa, a separation for only a few days, and Lina accepts it calmly enough. After all, she is fond of Mischa, it’s almost a secret love, and he is presumably fond of her too, only that Rosa woman sticks in her gullet because of that visit and those reproaches — she might have some trouble with her. But Jacob again assures her on the way to Mischa’s that Rosa is very easy to get along with, helpful and kind, that only last evening she told him she was looking forward to having Lina. It would be best not to say a word about that stupid visit the other day.

“You’re a big girl now, so don’t disgrace me.”

After delivering Lina, Jacob goes straight home, ostensibly to lie down. For a long time he sits in the dark room, brooding over whether his decision, for the sake of which Lina had to leave, is justified. He doesn’t want to have to reproach himself later, if there is a later; he has made enough wrong decisions recently. To have the Russians come almost within sight was a mistake, to discontinue the radio broadcasts was a mistake, the radio itself was the first and biggest mistake, it seems to him: too many mistakes for one man. Of course, he could still undo some of that, go back to his old routine. In three or four days he could feel better, illnesses of this kind can be cured at will, then he could bring Lina back, act as though he’s had a change of heart and go on supplying reports, both good and bad, to the news hungry at the freight yard. But where would that all lead, Jacob wonders?