Jakob the Liar (24 page)

After a couple of hours, I imagine, Jacob makes up his mind. He hangs the cloth in front of the window, turns on the light, then picks up a knife, takes off his jacket and removes the yellow stars from front and back. He does this very carefully, even unpicking the little white threads so they won’t betray the infamous places. That done, Jacob puts on the jacket, which now seems strangely denuded. His eyes roam the room for objects that might be useful for his undertaking: the pliers, of course, which he puts in his pocket. Nothing else catches his eye, so he turns out the light and gives a last look out of the window, into the black deserted street. It is long past eight o’clock and curfew time, probably already midnight. In the distance he might, if you like, recognize his searchlight as it ranges duty-obsessed and aimlessly over the roofs.

Since there are no limits to my arbitrary inventions, I say that it is a cold and starry night. Not only does that sound pleasing, it also comes in handy for my ending, as we shall see. Accordingly, Jacob, without his yellow stars and long after eight o’clock, walks along the street, or rather, he slinks along close to the buildings, trying to resemble a shadow; after all, he has no intention of forfeiting his life. One street, and another, and yet another: what they all have in common is that they represent the shortest route to the boundary of the ghetto.

Then the boundary. I have chosen the most favorable spot of all, the old vegetable market, a small cobbled square with barbed wire drawn across it. Previous escape attempts have succeeded or failed almost invariably at this place. To the right, at the very end of the square, is the watchtower, this one without a searchlight. The sentry on top doesn’t move while Jacob observes him from a doorway on the far left side. The distance may amount to five hundred feet. Along the whole length of the barbed wire, which surrounds the entire ghetto without a gap, there is no other spot that far from a watch-tower. Only here have they left that much space, either for the sake of economy or because of the unimpeded view.

On the tower all is as quiet as on a monument, so that Jacob is already beginning to hope that the sentry has fallen asleep. Jacob looks up at the sky, waiting prudently until one of the few clouds drifts across the inconvenient moon. When the cloud finally does him the favor, Jacob takes the pliers out of his pocket and starts running.

Let us pause briefly at this highly dramatic moment in my ending, to give me a chance to admit that I cannot provide the reason for Jacob’s sudden flight. In other words: I don’t take the easy way out and declare, “In my ending he just wants to escape, that’s all.” Obviously I am in a position to offer several reasons, all of which I consider plausible; I just don’t know which one to choose. For instance: Jacob has given up all hope of the ghetto being liberated while there are any Jews still left in it and therefore decides to save his own skin. Or: he is fleeing from his own people, from their persecution and hostility, and from their thirst for news too, an attempt to find a refuge from the radio and its consequences. Or a third reason, for Jacob the most creditable one: he has the daring plan of returning to the ghetto some time during the following night; he only wants to get out now so as to obtain some useful information to feed through his radio.

Those would be the chief reasons. None of them to be ruled out, one must admit, but I can’t bring myself to commit Jacob to any one of them. So I offer them as a selection; let each reader choose the one that, according to his own experience, he finds the most valid. Maybe some readers will come up with even more plausible ones. I merely wish to remind them that almost anything of importance that has ever happened has had more than one reason.

Under cover of the cloud, Jacob reaches the barbed wire unobserved. He lies flat on the ground; his simple plan is to crawl out under the barrier, which, of course, is easier planned than done, the lowest of the many strands being only four inches above the ground; but that is no more than was expected, hence the precautionary pliers. These are now put to work, rapidly snipping away at the thin wire that can’t resist them indefinitely and splits more quickly than expected. But then there is that noise, for the wire is taut, an appalling whine that Jacob imagines capable of rousing a whole town from its sleep. He holds his breath and listens in fear, but everything remains as calm as before. Gradually, however, the light increases, for no cloud lasts forever. The next strand is four inches higher, thus eight above the ground. Jacob calculates that to crawl under it would entail some risk to body and clothing; after all, though he has become terribly thin, he still is a fully grown man. On the other hand, he would rather not risk breaking the silence by twanging the second wire, which will be not a jot quieter than the first one, and he can’t for the life of him think of any third option.

Jacob is still lying there undecided, plucking cautiously at that second strand to see if it can be loosened and the noise thus reduced as the pliers cut through it, when the decision is taken out of his hands by a higher authority. I said at the beginning that this ending of mine is rather at Jacob’s expense. A raucous burst from a submachine gun shatters the night silence: our sentry hasn’t been that fast asleep. And there is nothing more to calculate, and Jacob is dead, all his endeavors at an end.

But there’s more to come; what kind of an ending would this be anyway? I imagine further that tranquillity is far from returning to the ghetto. I visualize a revenge for Jacob, this, I have decided, being the cold and starry night when the Russians arrive. Thus the Red Army succeeds in surrounding the city in no time at all; the sky is lit up by flashes from the heavy artillery. Immediately following the salvo aimed at Jacob, an ear-splitting, thunderous roar starts up, as if inadvertently triggered by the unfortunate marksman on the watchtower. The first ghostly tanks, shells hitting the military office, the watch-towers in flames, tenacious Germans defending themselves to the last bullet, or fleeing Germans unable to find any hole to crawl into — dear God, what a night that would have been. And, behind the windows, weeping Jews for whom everything has happened so suddenly that they can only stand there in disbelief, holding each other by the hand, Jews who would give anything to rejoice yet find themselves unable to; there’ll be a time for that later. I imagine that by dawn the last battles are over, the ghetto is no longer a ghetto but merely the most run-down part of town. Anyone can go wherever he likes.

How Mischa thinks that Jacob is sure to be feeling better now; how he tries to take Lina back to him but doesn’t find him in his room; the taste of the bread given us in ample quantities; what happens to the poor Germans who fall into our hands — all that and more is, to my mind, not important enough to be accorded a place in my ending. Only one thing is important to me.

Some of the Jews leave the ghetto by way of the old vegetable market. There they see a man, not wearing stars, lying on the ground with the pliers still clenched in his right hand, under the barbed wire of which one strand is cut — obviously caught while trying to escape. They turn him over on his back, Who is this poor fellow, they ask, and someone is there who knows Jacob. Preferably Kowalski, but it could also be a neighbor or myself or anyone else from the freight yard, just someone who knows him, except Lina. This person stares in horror at Jacob’s face; perhaps he heard the first good news from Jacob the very day he himself was preparing to forego the rest of his life, and he now murmurs words of incomprehension. Someone asks him, “What do you mean, you don’t understand? The poor fellow was trying to escape because he didn’t know the end was so near. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

And, with a lump in his throat, that one person makes the hopeless attempt to explain what will forever remain inexplicable to him.

“But that’s Jacob Heym,” he says. “Don’t you understand? It’s Jacob Heym! Why was he trying to escape? He must have gone out of his mind. He knew perfectly well that they were coming. He had a radio….”

That, roughly speaking, is what he says; then, shaking his head, he walks with the others out into freedom, and that, roughly speaking, would be my ending.

B
ut, finally, after the invented ending, here is the pallid and depressing, the true and unimaginative ending that makes one inclined to ask the foolish question: What was the point of it all?

Kowalski is irrevocably dead, and for the time being Jacob goes on living, with no thought of foisting Lina upon strangers, does not strip his jacket of the prescribed stars, leaves the pliers in the drawer (assuming he even owns any), consequently does not tempt any sentry at the old vegetable market, on a cold and starry night, to fire shots capable of setting off such a mighty echo. That day, and we know why, he missed going to work; the friend who hanged himself haunts his mind but must by next morning give way to some hard thinking. Jacob could see with his own eyes what the elimination of the radio can lead to; perhaps not in such extreme form in every case but quite possibly in one or two, and for that reason there will be no change regarding the radio. The grieving for Kowalski, whom suddenly he misses more than he ever wanted him around while he was still alive, must be put aside for now. Instead, the little news factory that feeds its man so laboriously starts working, for tomorrow there will be questions again, as there are every day. Like it or not, life drags on.

So next morning Jacob, tight-lipped, walks past Kowalski’s building, his eyes fixed firmly on a safe point at the end of the street. Yet, as we know, any attempt to force oneself not to think of something specific is doomed. Jacob sees him lying there exactly as if he were still standing beside him in the room; once again he unties the remains of the rope from the window, pulls up the chair because he doesn’t want to sit on the bed, and as if that were not enough, hears the end or the beginning of a conversation.

“In that building there.”

“Number 14?”

“No, 16. The corner building.” 

“And do they know who?”

“Not really. A name like Kaminski or something.”

While still some distance from the freight yard, Jacob realizes that something unusual must have happened: the Jews who have arrived for work are crowding around the entrance because the gate is locked. Why they are not being allowed in is at first a mystery to him; a mystery also why the first man to notice him points in his direction, says something, and the others turn to look at him. Fifty or sixty men have been waiting for Jacob, myself among them: we are watching the only person who can still, we hope, stand between us and disaster as, looking puzzled, he hesitantly approaches us. We make room for him, forming a narrow lane to allow him to walk right up to the gate and read the notice on it, then tell us that things aren’t that bad. Beside me, Lawyer Schmidt shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and I hear him muttering, “Get a move on, can’t you?” because Jacob is walking with such maddening slowness and looking at people’s faces rather than straight ahead.

Punctual for work, Jacob reaches the locked freight yard gate and reads the notice attached to it. That today, at 1300 hours sharp, we are to assemble in the square in front of the military office, ten pounds of luggage per head, all rooms to be left unlocked and in clean condition, anyone still found in his building after the appointed time …, the same applies to the bedridden and the infirm. Further details at 1300 hours at the location indicated.

And now try and give them some more comfort, where to find it is your business, make them believe it’s all a bad joke, that actually it’s going to be a mystery trip with lots of nice surprises; after all, that’s the kind of thing they’re waiting for behind your back. Not to worry, brothers, is what they want to hear, just forget about that scrap of paper. Anyone who is curious can, if he likes, go to the military office at one o’clock if he has nothing better to do. Either way, nothing can happen because — of course you don’t know this yet, stupidly I forgot to tell you — the Russians are waiting around the corner and will take care that not a hair on the head of a single one of you will be harmed.

Jacob stands so long in front of the sign without moving that one would think he is learning the few lines by heart. Why is he standing there so long? we silently wonder and begin to fear the worst. What will his face look like when he shows it to us again, and what will he say? He’ll have to say something. I also notice the first few starting to drift quietly away. With dreadful certainty I know they are right, there is nothing more to hope for here, yet I go on hoping and stay rooted to the spot like most of the others.

A waste of time. After an eternity Jacob turns around, presenting us with two vacant eyes, and at that same moment even the stupidest must recognize that the last hope of salvation is gone. Jacob has no time, he tells me, for any private horror at the course of events, this being pushed aside by the horror of the others who are looking at him like bilked creditors, as if he were someone for whom it was now time to redeem the pledges he had so carelessly distributed. Again he stands for a long time without daring to raise his eyes, and they don’t make things any easier for him either, by leaving, say. For the ten pounds of luggage to be selected there is still plenty of time, the rest of their lives so to speak. The narrow lane that had opened for Jacob on his way to the gate has closed up behind him; now he is standing in a tight semicircle — to use Jacob’s own words, like an entertainer who has forgotten his lines at the crucial moment.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than stand there gaping?” asks a sentry on the other side of the fence.

Only now do we notice him standing a few feet from the gate; he alone knows how long he’s been there. In any case he won’t have heard much, though everything that matters has already been said. We finally move off, why annoy him unnecessarily, and silently go our separate ways. The sentry shakes his head in amusement at these strange creatures. Jacob is almost grateful to him for the unintentional help.