I Am Juden Page 8

  He inclined his head at this, lowered his spectacles and peered at me above the frame.

  ‘A shoe-maker?’ he said. ‘A shoe-maker in Kiel?’

  ‘Yes.’ An inexperienced liar, I was terrified of giving myself away. I needed to retreat to the more comfortable territory of the truth, or at least the partial truth. ‘And here in Wilno for a spell, on Pilies Street.’

  ‘What happened?’

  This was more difficult. I could not mention Akiva, or the arguments with Herman Glik, or what had happened with Mr. Donelaitis’ friends. So I decided to condense my timeline and bring the truth forward by a year or so.

  ‘Our shop was bombed.’

  At this, my interrogator closed his eyes, jutted his chin, took the index card his colleague had started writing, tore it in half and dropped the two halves in the basket by his side.

  ‘Return to Herr Siegler his belongings,’ he said, dusting his hands with two short claps.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I followed the second officer out of the room, past my group of four and back to the ballroom.

  ‘One moment.’

  He disappeared inside.

  For the first time since being pushed through Lukiskes gate, I was left unguarded.

  Several minutes expired.

  The officer came back without the leather pouch but cupping my belongings, which he thrust at me. I slid the wallet and coins into my pocket and tried to fasten the watch around my wrist but my fingers would not stop shaking. The ballroom door had failed to shut and between the panel and the frame, I saw a half-empty box of pouches in the middle of the floor. A dozen or so had been ripped open, their contents scattered and raked into piles.

  My escort was already leading the way up a flight of stairs and had yet to realise I’d remained behind, or that I’d glimpsed his colleagues’ rampant thievery. There was nothing I could do except follow.

  We walked up several stairway, leaving the administrative centre of the prison and ascending the main towers. If I craned my neck upward, I saw a web of walkways and landings and through their iron lattice, a hundred locked cells. My escort stopped at what must have been the fourth or fifth landing and led me to an open door.

  I stepped into the cell and darkness stole over my head as the door swung to. The room had looked empty, but I didn’t risk moving until my eyes accustomed to the gloom. There was only one source of light, a small window near the ceiling of the opposite wall. Its bars dissected a wan moon, casting the brick walls a sickly green. A single open hole in the corner for toilet purposes. One bunk bed, unoccupied.

  Now, irrevocably, my capture was complete. Several times tonight I’d reached that same conclusion, each of them prematurely. If only I’d known I was still free, at the garages, in the streets, before the prison gates, five minutes ago, outside the ballroom’s secret spoils.

  This cell was the end, I knew it in my bones. And most likely the end of liberty for every Jew brought here this most wretched of evenings. To have escaped the Soviet gulag for the German concentration camp, which is where they were surely heading. Frying pans and fires. Lukiskes prison was in the hands of a rogue flock of SS vultures, picking over the last of our possessions while we shuffled obligingly into penal servitude.

  Yet I been singled out from the multitude. I wiled away my hours on the bunk trying to work out why. For telling them I was a shoe-maker? My interrogator had stared at me as if I’d claimed to be the Second Coming. Was it possible that the phrase ‘A Kiel shoe-maker’ was some kind of double entendre I didn’t understand? What exactly had I confessed to? I couldn’t see how a man of such humble trade could engender the officer’s ire. Perhaps a Jewish doctor could have failed his loved one, as Mr. Donelaitis’ friends evidently believed, but it was difficult to conceive the damage a cobbler could inflict. Misplaced one of my interrogator’s father’s best brogues? Pinched his daughter’s toes a little too tightly in the measuring? Was it my reference to the German bombs that had so angered the officer? Perhaps we were all supposed to pretend they’d never fallen.

  Whatever my crime, I was certain of my fate. No records of my incarceration now existed. The interrogator had ripped my index card in half and dropped it in the bin. My meagre belongings were to be burnt or buried at my side. No SS officer would be discovered six months from now, when the war was over, wearing the stolen watch he’d forgotten to drop. The Nazis had wiped their hands of me, with that most casual of gestures. Clap, clap.

  Next!

  The footsteps came before it was light, heavy boots clomping down the corridor. A key scraped the lock. I sat up in bed, knocking my skull against the bricks so hard I chipped a tooth.

  The brightness from the corridor was dazzling after my entombment, but I had enough sense about me to be sure of what was happening. Instead of ordering me out, the SS officer escorted a new prisoner in.

  A bald man about my age glanced around the cell like a travel-correspondent at the city’s last remaining hotel room. One hand jiggled coins in his pocket, while the other scratched stubble on his cheek. He cast a furtive glance towards the bunk, and I thought he might wink, but instead his face grew impassive when he saw me and he gave a sombre nod.

  I shifted on the bunk and the wood creaked. The next sounds were the man’s boots shuffling in a small circle, followed by the swish of fabric against his legs and a deep sigh as he settled his spine against the bare wall. I had to stop breathing to make out a soft scratching and a wrinkling of paper and then a match exploded in a shower of sparks and our eyes briefly met through the glare. The room filled with smoke.

  I let him enjoy the cigarette in silence, waiting for the stub to be ground against the floor before I spoke across the room with a boldness that could not be denied.

  ‘My name’s Jozef. Jozef Siegler.’

  I was beginning to doubt whether I had in fact spoken aloud when he said, ‘Ronen.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  Another long pause. ‘A few hours.’

  ‘Snatched?’

  ‘Mm hm.’

  ‘We were put to work in a garage before coming here.’

  No answer.

  ‘You?’ I said.

  ‘I was coming back from my mother’s apartment.’

  ‘You have family in the city?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Mine are in Cracow.’

  ‘You’re Polish?’

  ‘No. But I lived there for a while. Born in Romania.’

  ‘Jewish?’

  ‘Of course. Yourself?’

  ‘You don’t look Jewish.’

  ‘You’re the second person to tell me that.’

  ‘Who was the first?’

  ‘The man who put me here,’ I said. ‘I’ve been mistaken for a German before.’

  ‘Could be useful, this day and age.’

  ‘I lived there for many years.’

  ‘In Germany?’

  ‘Kiel. Schleswig-Holstein.’

  Ronen’s meagre font of replies appeared to have dried up with my disclosure. I sensed he’d been testing me, and I’d failed.

  ‘I left because I thought Wilno would be safe,’ I said. ‘Now look.’

  ‘Safest building in the city, this prison.’

  ‘They told us the same thing,’ I said. ‘Depends where you are, I suppose. Inside or out.’

  He lapsed into silence again.

  ‘What’s it like out there?’ I asked.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Quiet?’

  ‘Evacuated. Three square miles, I should think.’

  ‘Has everyone been brought here?’

  ‘Only the men. Nobody’s seen the women.’

  ‘Your mother?’ I asked, trying to keep the alarm from my voice.

  ‘She’s outside the city. She’s safe.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will you pray with me?’

  I was taken aback by the man’s intimacy.

  ‘If you’d like me to.’

 
; ‘You’d rather not?’

  ‘I’m not especially religious.’

  ‘It couldn’t hurt, at a time like this.’

  ‘No. Not so much.’

  ‘Well then. Eight people lost their lives last night when their bus failed to stop at a German checkpoint. Let’s say Kaddish.’

  ‘Without the quorum?’

  ‘Eight of them, plus you and I makes ten.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. What do you suggest?’

  ‘The Birkhat?’

  ‘OK, yes, better,’ he said. ‘You’ll lead?’

  I bowed my head, closed my eyes, then peeked – stupidly - to see if Ronen had followed. Without the light from his cigarette, I could see nothing.

  ‘Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu,’ I began. ‘Melekh ha’olam, hagomei lahayavim tovot, sheg’molani kol tov.’

  ‘Amen,’ Ronen said. ‘Mi sheg’molkha kol tuv, hu yigimolkha kol tov. Selah.’

  ‘Selah,’ I said.

  The prayer complete, Ronen settled back, making himself as comfortable as a brick wall allows. One shoe was kicked off, then the other. He stretched his legs and sighed, rubbing a muscle. Then came the soft brushings of his tobacco and cigarette paper, the careful rolling and the striking of the match. His face appeared in chiaroscuro and was gone. Behind the glowing red ember, he said, ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘I never acquired a taste for tobacco.’

  ‘No cigarettes and no God,’ he said. ‘You really are alone in the world.’

  ‘I was. Until five minutes ago.’

  He spluttered smoke at this, but a good-natured laugh came wheezing through. For his second cigarette, Ronen craved companionship.

  ‘I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure who you were.’

  Ronen had been testing me; I was right. Thrust into a cell with a stranger who looked like a German, of course he was suspicious. That’s why he’d asked me to lead the prayer.

  ‘My name is Jozef Siegler,’ I intoned grandly. ‘And I am a shoe-maker.’

  At that, he leant forward and dashed his cigarette against the concrete floor. Plunged into darkness, I could sense my words had the same effect on my cell-mate as they had on our gaoler.

  ‘Say that again,’ he said.

  ‘Jozef Siegler,’ I ventured. ‘Do you know me?’

  ‘You make shoes?’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On Pilies Street.’

  He said, ‘Is that what you told them before you were locked up?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  He laughed. ‘Because I told them the exact same thing.’

  ‘You’re a shoe-maker?’

  ‘Thirty years, chap and child.’

  ‘This is… ’ Words were failing me. ‘Most odd.’

  ‘Yes it bloody well is.’

  ‘The Germans are known for their order and efficiency. Could they be confining prisoners according to their trade now?’

  ‘Where’s the sense in that?’

  ‘Where’s the sense in any of this?’

  ‘True.’ He tapped the ground. ‘There a special circle of hell I don’t know about?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘They entered the boat in pairs, just as God had commanded.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Two by two. Maybe the Germans are building an ark. If this war goes belly-up, they’re going to need an escape plan.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘The fuck do I know. Maybe they just need more shoes.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got a sense of humour. I think we’re going to need it.’

  ‘Hang on, I’m being serious now. Prisoners wear a uniform, right?’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘And special shoes?’

  ‘I would imagine.’

  ‘And you’d imagine, as of the last few weeks, there’s suddenly a lot more people in jail?’

  ‘Demonstrably true, I’d say.’

  ‘Well, then. I reckon they’re going to put us to work.’

  ‘In here?’

  ‘Prisons have all sorts of workshops. Did they give your valuables back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Same here. See. I tell you, we’re getting special treatment.’

  ‘They had me working on car engines earlier,’ I said. ‘At least making shoes is something I can actually do.’

  ‘Me and you both. I tell you, this is our meal ticket!’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too carried away.’

  He fell silent for half a minute and then started sniffing, one after the other in rapid succession. It was the sound of laughter, until a couple of halting sobs escaped his lungs and I realised it was the opposite of laughter.

  He was sobbing.

  To hear a stranger so utterly undone, in such close quarters, was almost too much for me. We were both grateful for the veil of darkness.

  Luckily Ronen was soon back in control of his emotions. A harder sniff, crunching and resolute, then: ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need, old chap. I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘We’re here because the Germans need us. Or else we’ve made things more complicated than they really are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe the SS were telling the truth about the Bolsheviks.’

  ‘You think? We’re here for our own safety?’

  ‘A big Russian attack is coming sooner or later. Maybe tonight was the start. Either way, we could be going home in the morning.’

  ‘Now there’s a thought.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll all be over soon.’

  Lulled by self-delusions, we grew weary. Conversation flickered out like a candle and after an hour or so of restless turning, I drifted into merciful sleep.

  I awoke to grey light seeping through the window above my bunk. It was 7.10am. From all around came the sounds of the prison returning to life. I wondered how I had slept through it until now: the shouting and clanging beyond the cell-door, horses snorting outside the window, the whistles and shouts, the trundling wheels of wagons.

  My cell-mate was still on the floor by the door, but he had been joined overnight by a plate of bread and two metal cups. The way Ronen sat cross-legged next to them reminded of a child playing picnic with their dolls, but the food and drink was no figment of his imagination. I tried to banish the phrase ‘ritual last meal’ from my mind.

  ‘Breakfast,’ Ronen said, grinning at me. ‘I waited for you. Half each?’

  I crawled off the bunk onto my hands and knees and lumbered over.

  There was one brown unbroken roll between us, and a fine dusting of crumbs on the plate. I suspected Ronen had polished off a first roll by himself, but I did not begrudge him. The sustenance had certainly improved his mood since last night. I let him go ahead and tear the second roll in half, and insisted on taking the smaller piece for myself.

  The first bite was wasted because my mouth was so dry the bread was almost impossible to swallow, sticking like wallpaper paste to the back of my throat. But after a sip of water the meal became quite enjoyable. At least we were being fed: the Germans wouldn’t waste supplies on a pair of walking corpses.

  We ate quickly, in case our captors realised their mistake. I rose to relieve myself in the corner, but found the bucket full.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ronen said. ‘Weak bladder.’

  A minute after I’d drained my cup the door opened. The guard read our names from a clipboard; we identified ourselves.

  ‘Come with me.’

  We collected our meagre trinkets and warily stepped into the corridor. No other prisoners were outside their cells at this time of morning. We descended the landings with only guards as our witnesses, and they had no interest in our movements. It was as if we had already ceased to exist.

  We followed outside to a st
able courtyard where black horses were being groomed and saddled, through an archway into a rectangular park of army vehicles that overlooked Gediminas Avenue. I inhaled my first taste of freedom, so far away, so close. The handsome apartments of the city looked the same as they had last night: no signs of Bolshevik terrorism.

  The guard led us to an olive drab truck, unlocked the wooden doors at the rear and indicated with a shove to my back that we were to climb in. Ronen and I sat opposite each other on benches while the guard shut the door. The truck’s roof was tarpaulin, six covered windows along the sides. I waited until the guard walked past to take his place behind the wheel before jumping up from my bench to peer through the gap in the fabric.

  We rolled out of the prison gates onto the street and slowly ground our way north, crossing the river at the Green Bridge. The last of Wilno fell away behind us, the factories and warehouses on the outskirts where Ronen had been certain we were heading.

  But he was wrong.

  We would never see the city’s ruined spires again.

  4

  We crossed the Neris River a second time at Lazdynai and turned off the main road to Guoptos onto a dirt track through lush forest. Across from me, Ronen turned white as a china plate and started to cross himself as we bumped along.

  ‘Come look at all this greenery,’ I told him from the window. ‘The colour’s meant to sooth travel sickness.’

  ‘You fool.’

  ‘Old wives’ tale?’

  Ronen shook his fists at the tarpaulin roof. ‘This is who God sends me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘My last day on earth.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Ponary. The forest. You must have heard.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Please stop talking in riddles.’

  ‘It’s where they bring people.’

  ‘For what?’

  Ronen stared at me a long time before saying, ‘Many roads lead to Ponary, my friend. But none go back.’

  The deeper we went, the more my thoughts conspired. Bird song conspired with dappled sunlight to strike as much oppression into the human heart as any Lukiskis prison cell. Could it be true? That shoemakers were brought here, away from the city of witnesses, in order to be disappeared? For what, crimes against shoe leather?

  We rumbled on, passing a murky brown lake and a crooked little church. At the next turn, an expanse of trees in the distance, sheer as a cliff face. In the middle of the foliage, I spied the red, white and black of a Nazi flag. I followed its pole down until I came to the top of a chimney, and below that a tessellation of roofs. I kept quiet, praying that we would pass on.