Mendelssohn is on the Roof (3 page)

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!’

T
HEY 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 attention 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.

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.