Mendelssohn is on the Roof (2 page)

Then the car stopped, right by the river. The Gestapo men woke up and stumbled out of the car along with Schlesinger. The driver pulled a big bag from under his seat. The Gestapo men began to gather stones and quietly gestured to him to do the same. Everything was happening quietly, by the blue light of a few shrouded torches. They stuffed the wooden box, together with the metal and the
stones, into the bag. Then they gave it a few swings and heaved it into the water. Only now did one of the Gestapo men speak.

‘That’s it.’

They dropped him off at the same place they had started from, the Old Town Square, near his apartment in a new house on Dlouha Street. And so ended the night of his mortal sin. Now the ghost was having its revenge. The statue of the Jewish musician was coming to punish him for helping remove the earthly remains of the Unknown Soldier. He had been living in fear from that night on, constantly reminding himself of his terrible crime, the dishonouring and desecration of the dead. But what else could he have done? How could he have got out of it when Krug had threatened him and those two Gestapo men were guarding his every step?

Disobeying an order means death – that’s what Krug had said that time. And as long as there was a war on, it still held true, and maybe even after the war.

There was no use tormenting himself with recriminations. Without a word he handed the roof keys to the guard, who didn’t ask any questions. He wouldn’t have dared.

Schlesinger went out into the street. The workmen didn’t dare walk next to him, but glued themselves to his heels, as if they were rejoicing at his bad luck, as if they wanted to wait and see him carried off in the black car to Bredovska.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped at them.

‘Oh, nothing, Boss,’ Becvar began mildly. ‘We just sort of wanted to go to lunch, if nothing is happening with that statue. We’ll be right back after lunch, for sure, just in case something else happens with that statue.’

‘Get out!’ shouted Schlesinger. ‘When I need you I’ll find you. At lunch, if need be.’

The workers went into the lunchroom and Schlesinger walked through the door of the Town Hall.

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Becvar.

‘That crazy Kraut, and there’s potatoes and gravy again for lunch.’ Stankovsky sighed.

Schlesinger didn’t even ask if Krug was in his office.

Krug sat at the desk without getting up. He only growled a greeting of sorts. Schlesinger could tell from his face that something was wrong. Krug was sly. Nothing got by him. He knew everything.

‘So, has the order been carried out?’ Krug asked severely. ‘Giesse has already been asking.’

‘No,’ answered Schlesinger softly.

‘What do you mean, no?’ Krug screamed. ‘Couldn’t those two idiots even manage a job like that? I’m going to have their heads. They stuff their bellies here in the Protectorate but they can’t knock down an ordinary statue. You should have helped them, Schlesinger, or forced them to do it. This is criminal neglect. There’s no other course for you but to work for your Iron Cross at the front.’

Schlesinger stood at attention, shaking. With an effort he stuttered out, ‘Those statues have no identifying names. I couldn’t tell which one was the Jew.’

Krug barked an obscenity at him. And then he fell silent. They were both silent, Schlesinger with his hands nicely at his hips at attention and Krug at his desk with one leg crossed over the other.

Dear Jesus, dear Mother of God, maybe it won’t turn out so badly, since Krug hasn’t had him sent away immediately.
He could simply have dialled a number, given the order, and they would have been here in a minute. But Krug is silent. He’s in trouble, too. Of course, he’s responsible to Giesse, and Giesse to Frank, and Frank to Heydrich, and if the order isn’t carried out, Heydrich and Frank will have them all arrested. Well, maybe not Giesse, he’d just get some punishment and stay at liberty, because Heydrich needs Giesse. But Krug would certainly get it. His prewar good deeds won’t help him now, or his activities in the Polish campaign.

Finally Krug said mildly, ‘The order must be carried out. The General won’t stand for any excuses.’ (He purposely used Heydrich’s military title, to emphasise the meaning of the order.) ‘So what do you propose to do now?’

Schlesinger’s head was whirling. He had to think up something fast, to gain time. But he couldn’t come up with anything. To ask Giesse, the next time he telephoned? That meant admitting that the order hadn’t been carried out. And besides, Giesse wouldn’t know what the statue looked like anyway. Only Heydrich would know that. In a minute Krug would start screaming again. He was scared, too, and he’d want to save himself at any cost. The
telephone
was on the table in front of him. In one more minute he’d pick up the receiver.

‘I think,’ Schlesinger suggested, ‘that we should ask for help at the SS barracks. They’re near the concert hall. They’ll be able to find an expert there. We’ve got our order directly from the Acting Reich Protector, so they’ll have to help us.’

Krug thought it over: Schlesinger was an idiot, but this wasn’t such a bad idea. It might be easier to turn to the Gestapo. They had experts on everything there. You could
even find musicians. On the other hand, it was always dangerous to get tangled up with the Gestapo. They’d send a report to the Protectorate, and even before the statue went down, Heydrich would hear that Krug had screwed up. And then Krug would never escape
punishment
, because Heydrich knew no mercy. At the SS,
however
, they wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. They were used to carrying out orders without asking any questions. They wouldn’t ask at the Protectorate. It would be enough for them to hear that Krug was a Scharführer and Schlesinger an Anwarter.

‘Try it, then,’ he said graciously, ‘and send me a report.’

The telephone rang. Giesse, thought Schlesinger.

Krug answered. ‘Not yet, but definitely today. A small delay, technical problems … yes, I understand, an order from the highest level … it will be carried out … you can rely on me.’

Krug hung up and angrily snapped at Schlesinger, ‘Get going, and don’t let me see you again until that statue is gone. Do you understand?’

Schlesinger clicked his heels and left with the required salute. Krug didn’t bother to respond.

T
HE LAST NOTES of the overture to
Don Giovanni
faded away. The hall thundered with applause. It wasn’t exactly his kind of music – Mozart was too sweet, too delicate, too restful. But Mozart was connected with Prague, and no other music would do for the opening of the Rudolfinum. Mozart’s music had first rung out in this city while it still slept under the chaotic rule of the Austrian Empire. It was sleeping again, this time the sleep of a corpse under the conqueror’s heel. But one day it would awaken as a German city, and then a different kind of music would be heard here. Once, in his youth in Halle, he had loved Mozart. Then they played Mozart at home in their household string quartet, and he was assigned second violin. Second fiddle, that would never happen again, he thought with a frown.
Don Giovanni
was also his father’s favourite opera. He’d often gone with him to see it as a child. The Commendatore’s statue avenged the crime – how ridiculous, how stupid it sounded now, when rivers of blood were flowing: not just the blood of conquered subhumans, but even the best, purest German blood. It remained to be seen, whose blood would flow the most.

The Commendatore’s statue wreaking vengeance was only for opera. But Mozart was still German music, even if it was full of Masonry and God knows what else, and this was a German concert hall, after all, where German music would ring out for evermore. Czech politicians would never open their dirty mouths here again. He had accomplished what that cowardly fat puppet Neurath
had been too scared to do. The Leader had named Neurath Protector in an effort to gull the outside world. But Neurath had messed things up anyhow. What a lot of filth to get rid of around here – his work was certainly cut out for him. But it had to be done and everybody knew he wouldn’t shirk the job. They’d been growing fat as pigs in the muck of this Protectorate. Now he’d teach them to run. But he’d done a good thing with the renovation of the German House of Art. That sort of work had the same value as a sentence of death under martial law. But nobody around here saw that. The Leader would surely understand why this task was his first; the Leader knew the meaning of art in the life of the Reich.

That’s what he said to all the people now clapping in the hall as the concert was about to begin. He stood among the musicians at the conductor’s podium, feeling strange to be in uniform among people dressed in black tie. They were the only ones in black besides the diplomatic corps, who had been invited purposely to see how the Reich had put an end to the parliament, and to see how the Reich spoke out here in German Prague, not only with artillery, tanks, mine sweepers and aircraft, but also with music, German music. Never again would the works of Jewish composers be heard in this hall. Never again would a Jewish conductor appear at this podium. Race and music, blood and the great German Reich, the Czech and Moravian lands which had returned to it – everything was a holy symbol to endure for the ages.

He also spoke of St Vaclav. He had to mention him because Czechs still lived in this German land. He spoke of the madness of trying to be an independent country – St Vaclav served a useful purpose while a war was going on.
And then he sat down in his seat in the first row, while the audience was still on its feet, hands raised in salute. He sat down heavily at the completion of his difficult
performance
, because giving speeches tired him out. He didn’t like speeches. He preferred the sound of a machine gun. A machine gun was the proper German speech. Every
conquered
nation understood that sound, from the Pyrenees to Rostov. But he was among his own here and he had to give a speech. He was here representing the Leader and the Reich. He was ‘an enemy of all the Reich’s enemies’, as one of the local newspapers had written. That was a good description.

The orchestra is playing the Prague Symphony. Now he can stretch out his legs comfortably and relax after a tiring day. And he can think about things, make new plans, for he’s here only temporarily, after all, until the Leader assigns him another task. He must try hard to carry out his orders here in the shortest possible time – to bring this country to its knees, to terrify its inhabitants so that they become paralysed robots of the Reich, to root out all enemies, to get rid of the Jews. Yes, the Jews, because even that task had been neglected by the indulgent Mr Neurath.

Again he went over the events of the day. He had a bit of time now, while the music was playing. It didn’t interfere in any way, though it no longer spoke to him, except to remind him of his childhood.

His day at the castle had begun the usual way. He left by car from Panenske Brezany; he drove past the quiet houses. Now, in the autumn, there was no one to be seen in the streets. This was surely because he had taught the village of Panenske Brezany some discipline: No hanging around in the square. No hens or geese on the streets. No fooling
around at fairs or feasts. Quiet after ten o’clock and
lights-out
until dawn. That’s how the village that had the honour of being his residence lived. He would have preferred to have only Germans around, but he couldn’t manage that during the war. At least he ordered the farmers to stay in their houses so that he wouldn’t have to see their wooden faces or hear their unpleasant voices.

The Mercedes-Benz flew along the highway through the desolate countryside. Not until he neared the city did he pass people on the streets. Even they jumped to the sides of the road as the car with the banners hurtled past them. Even they knew who was driving into the city at this hour. Then, more slowly, the car drove by new villas. Quite a few Czechs still lived there, although some were already flying the flag of his fatherland. The flags rippled in the breeze. They brought him greetings from the Reich. It wouldn’t be long before they would line the whole way. But he had to be patient, with a war going on.

As soon as the car drove through the working section of the suburbs, with its shabby little houses and factories, he tightened his mouth and tried not to look out of the window. The air was bad here and it penetrated even the closed windows. Smells of sulphur, smoke and sweat. Right now they needed these subhumans to slave in the factories and breed in their burrows, to provide a greater workforce for the Reich. But some day this, too, would be cleaned out. Great squares would be created here, and tree-lined boulevards. The robots would be herded into reservations behind barbed wire to live in their own dirt under the gaze of guards in towers with machine guns trained on them, to be there for as long as the Reich needed them. And
afterwards
… well, that wouldn’t be his concern any longer.
Enough people would be coming back from the wars for that kind of work. He’d have more important tasks assigned him by the Leader.

In town his car no longer attracted attention. Many similar black cars drove through town. But even so, people quickly stepped into doorways and shops, and cars swerved out of his way. They knew that his banner was the symbol of the master of this land.

The car drove into the second courtyard of the castle. He walked briskly up a broad stairway. The officials welcomed him, arms raised in salute as he walked through the office and finally sat down at a long table with several telephones on it. He would have preferred a plainer office, one with bare walls on which would hang only a portrait of the Leader, rather than these tapestries with military and pastoral scenes. But this office had been decorated by its previous owners, who were now begging for help somewhere in London. It seemed to be a legacy that he mustn’t give up, because in spite of its annoying tapestries and ridiculous furniture, it, too, had become a symbol of power, now that it had become the property of the conquerors.

There was a purpose to such a luxurious office, he realised today, when Frank brought in a bunch of troglodytes of some sort, devotees of the Reich, dressed in sheepskin coats, embroidered shirts and studded belts. Frank described them as a peasant delegation come to pay tribute to him. They might have been real peasants. On the other hand, Frank might have dressed them up in theatrical costumes. They were sweating in their sheepskins, and a disgusting smell emanated from them. They were confused by the splendour and looked at the naked shepherdesses on the tapestries
with horror. It amused him to watch their faces grimacing with fear and amazement. Frank really outdid himself in finding the most thick-headed and dim-witted types.

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.