The Book of Dirt

by Bram Presser

  The last strain of the air-raid siren echoed down the deserted street. From above, silence—no hum of engines, no piercing whistle, no shaking thunder. Piles of garbage clustered like barricades on the kerb, spilling onto the snow-covered road. A low wind licked at the corner of a hastily pasted sign—Closed for the Victory of the Reich—on the door to Žofie Sláviková’s grocery. Žižkov was at peace.

  In the coal cellar of 13 Biskupcova Street, Františka Roubíčková flicked through an old copy of Kinorevue and waited for her neighbours to leave. Yet again they had crouched together in the shadows, in the chill of the bluestone crypt, those few who had not been taken, those not blighted by the yellow star, and braced for tremors that did not come. Liberation was near, if only they could live to see it. Františka was tired of this paranoid waltz, the way it insinuated itself into her anticipation. She resented the way it struck fear in her daughters’ eyes, how it set back her quotas at the factory and forced her to work late, how it chased her tired legs from the tram to the nearest shelter, how it turned her fingers to matchsticks as she scoured her purse to find her papers lest the warden turn her away or, worse, report her. It was a farce, another way to shackle them inside this national prison. But after the November attack, when Allied bombs had rained down on a suburban electricity station and killed four people, one could never be certain. And so she had no choice but to relent, to cower, to wait for whatever might drop from the sky.

  Why, though, must it always be such a bother? When the siren bellowed across the network of loudspeakers, Františka had been frying schnitzels. Christmas was approaching and Marcela had just returned from the country, her case full of treats. The southern rail was safe from strafing aircraft and so they could feast, both here and in Silesia. The fillets sizzled in the oil, hissing as the crust browned around them. It was an art: knowing the precise time to rescue them before the meat had dried or the crumbs had burnt. That the alarm should sound then, at the very moment she had put a new batch in the pan…Františka struck the bench with her spatula and cursed the clouds.

  She had wept the moment she saw Daša’s handwriting. Only a fortnight before, Pan Durák had appeared at her door in a panic—the girls had been transported east from the fortress town—and they cried in each other’s arms. Then this. The envelope gave nothing away, her name and address in a stiff masculine scrawl. On the back a man’s name, unfamiliar, and an address in Germany. She held it to the light, anxiety creeping through her at the thought of all Daša had risked, all she had come through. My dearestMummy…The note was short. Again they had been moved, this time to a garment factory in Silesia. Write back, dear Mummy. Let me know you have received my news. And, if it was not too much trouble, send some underwear.

  Now, Františka looked across at her two other daughters crouched in the cellar. She had not yet mustered the courage to tell them of the other letter, the one on official Gestapo paper. The age restriction had been lifted. Marcela and Hana were to report in the New Year, to be taken and resettled in one of the camps for mischlinge.

  Františka could not bear the thought of being alone.

  You ask how is the postal service. Parcels arrive perfectly. We hugely enjoy the taste of everything. The parcel with the schnitzels was unfortunately delayed somewhere and, I hear, arrived all mouldy. It arrived at the same time as the last one. Mr B had to throw out all the bread, all the schnitzels and some cakes. The rest he saved. He is very nice and very busy with it. You ask whether you are doing it right with the contents. It is absolutely correct…

  The tram clattered unsteadily through the snow towards the city’s black heart—the Gestapo office in Peček Palace. Around it, the road was empty, only the snaking trails of bicycle tyres. Prague had fallen into disrepair, its trams a fleet of moving wrecks. Františka braced herself for each shrieking halt. Litter filled the wooden slats at her feet.

  ‘Madame?’ The girl was no older than Marcela, her long dress a bright field of flowers, a premonition of spring. Františka wondered if they’d met, shared a class, played in the courtyard, this girl and her own. The New Year brought only the prospect of better tidings for such a child. In a perverse way, it helped to know that there were still those who could frequent the cinema, dine at restaurants, scrape finely chopped offal from snail shells in feigned elegance, rifle through racks of fashionable dresses at the emporia; those afforded the luxury of boredom, of searching out ways to fill their day. Františka tucked her foot back under the seat and let the girl sit next to the tram window.

  She got off near the museum and hurried across the thoroughfare to the park. Below her, the great stretch of Wenceslas Square. From above, the stony eyes of gargoyles perched on top of the Prague Museum followed Františka as she walked towards the great columns and disappeared into Peček Palace.

  ‘Come in, please. Sit down. I am surprised to see you again.’

  Františka looked around at the sparse chamber. ‘I’ve had other concerns. Time has its way. This—’

  ‘Is what happens if you’re not sent to the front.’ The clerk shifted in his chair. ‘Paper warfare,’ he continued. ‘I had hoped for a more active role in the organisation but in winter it is some mercy. Perhaps there is glory in shelter. My wife certainly thinks so.’

  ‘I should have thanked you.’

  ‘It wasn’t my doing. I was pleased for you nonetheless. When you stopped coming I knew. You weren’t the type to give up. A few of us had a wager. I have you to thank for six cigarettes. Tell me something Paní—’

  ‘Roubíčková. It is my husband’s name.’

  ‘Yes, of course. So tell me, do you watch the planes?’

  ‘I run to the cellar like everyone else. But yes, I have seen the odd one.’

  ‘I’ve seen them all. I suspect they use the square as a waypoint. We are forbidden from taking shelter so we run to the windows. This place is safe enough. If the bombs should drop, assuming there isn’t a direct hit, we won’t come to any harm so long as we move to the middle. But this city is charmed. The planes have no appetite for its beauty. So we just watch them pass over in waves, stalking their way to the Fatherland while we play a fanfare of sirens in the streets below. You know, my parents are still in Berlin. I fear for Mother’s heart. The years have weakened it.’

  ‘I’ve come about my daughters.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s no longer possible.’

  ‘No. The others. Last week I received this.’

  ‘Oh—’ The man looked at the paper. ‘Yes, sorry.’

  ‘They don’t know. What little they have of Christmas I wasn’t going to take away. But it’s almost the New Year and—’ She pulled the little purse from her pocket and emptied it on the table.

  The man leaned forward and inspected the jewellery.

  ‘There is cash too. I have managed to save. Just take them from your list. Find a way.’

  ‘You’ve never asked about my family. You know, all the times you came and begged to see your daughters you never once thought to ask.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Three daughters. All under ten. My wife still promises me a son but we’ve finished. The thought that he might be conscripted, sent to the front. Not in this war, but there’s always the next. I would worry from the moment he was born.’ He scooped up the rings and carefully dropped them back into the purse. ‘Take it. You will want to wear them again. Italy and France have fallen. Greece too. Stalingrad is a memory. The Reich is collapsing. The Protectorate…he will hold on until his dying breath but eventually…’ The man pushed back in his chair and stood up. ‘I ask only one thing in return. When the time comes, find me. Wherever I am, with the Russians, the Americans. Speak for me, for what I’ve done.’ He scribbled his name on a sheet of notepaper and handed it to her. ‘Tear up the letter, forget it ever came. Nobody will come for them.’ He ushered her to the door. ‘Take care of your girls, but also spare a thought for mine.’

  The afternoon sun had turned the ground to a dirty grey mush. Fran
tiška Roubíčková stepped out onto Bredovská Street, pulled the sheet from her pocket and dropped it to the ground. With each step she cast him further from her mind until, when she climbed aboard the tram back towards Žižkov, he was lost to her, to history, forever. There will only be this: once there was a Gestapo man who sought in her an absolution she could not give.

  So Mummy dearest, this is all for today, since I must still write to Marcelka and Hanička so that they are not angry with me that I never write to them. I wish you all a happy and merry New Year. Let it be happier than the last.

  With many memories I say goodbye to you and send my kisses,

  Your only Daša

  12

  THE MARCH FROM SACHSENHAUSEN

  They did not stop to rest. Throughout the night they had walked along the road. The sun rose soon after they passed the second village, where roosters crowed to wake the locals, who stumbled from their shanties and stood at the roadside so they could spit and curse at the ragtag parade. Georg threw his clogs away before morning; the wood had sliced purple arches into his swollen skin. As he trudged on, he tore the blanket on his shoulders into strips. He asked one of the guards if he could stop to relieve himself. He squatted on a nearby knoll, his pants strung across his calves as sludgy droplets fell beneath him. The guard watched on, his bulky frame perched on an old bicycle, as Georg wrapped his feet in the blanket.

  To a volley of threats and blows, they marched until sunset, when they began to slow. Georg lurched to the centre of his column and let the miserable stream of bodies push him forward. He looked at the ground, at the stumbling feet of the man in front of him. He did not look up when the shots rang out, or when the barks and screams and sounds of ripping flesh shattered the country air. Only the cheerful trill of a bicycle bell pulled him from the monotony of the march. The guards laughed like children and roared like beasts.

  Another village. They were diverted from the road to an open field. Some fell to the ground, kissing the earth like it might open up and swallow them, steal them away from this glacial hell. Others plucked at the grass, hungrily snatching it to their mouths, chewing the blades. Nearby, a commotion. One man had found a snail. He chomped on it, shell and all, while those around him watched with envy. At the field’s edge the guards had gathered to eat and drink: sausages, bread, canned meat, cheese and schnapps. They sang and laughed and shot indiscriminately into the horde of prisoners. They threw the leftover food into the mud, crushed it beneath their boots, then stood around to drench it in streams of their own piss. Then they gathered their columns and sorted the thousands of prisoners into groups of five hundred, to continue the march to Wittstock. The prisoners close by set upon the discarded slop, clawing at the mud with their bony fingers, digging out what morsels they could salvage. They swallowed them without chewing, the bread softened by urine, only to vomit them back up with a force long forgotten by their bodies. Those who did not scrabble to pick up the slurry were pushed aside by others who did not hesitate to see if they might fare better. Men who, for a moment, had glimpsed hope, life, were now doubled over in agony, on their knees, shivering in the field. When the guards were ready to move on, they sauntered over to those men and shot them one after the other so the march would not be delayed.

  At night, while the stars hid behind a fleece of clouds, they were guided only by the sting of bitumen under their feet. The blackness spared them the sight of blood and pus and sloughed skin that streaked the road in their wake. In the early morning, they passed another town, larger than the others. Not a soul stirred as they trudged through its main street. Even the animals slept in their pens. Suddenly, Georg began to laugh. Had he not once said to Jakub that one must walk humbly before the Lord? That one ought not make a spectacle of oneself? Well, here it was, the paradox of observance. If only Jakub could have been with him to see it. For was there ever a more humble walk than this? Or a greater spectacle?

  Not that it mattered anymore. Jakub was dead. Of that Georg was certain. Sachsenhausen was already in flames when Georg had begun to march. The SS were burning everything they could in the rush to flee. Georg could not look back, could not bear to see the inferno consume his friend. He walked on, hand in his pocket, his fingers playing their melodies around the hardened clay. It did, he had to admit, have a music of its own. He would fulfil Jakub’s dying wish and bury it on the banks of the river. It was in this act that he would honour his friend’s memory.

  On the third day they reached Wittstock. Georg thought they might stop. He had heard the guards talking, heard them say they would wait for other columns to join before continuing. All the camps around Berlin had been evacuated. Most of the prisoners were marching north to the port of Lübeck, where they were to board ships, destination undecided. Wittstock was to be their point of convergence, the town that would remove the last vestige of their individuality, their camp identities. The people of Wittstock came out to watch them, left buckets of water and stale bread along the way for those who dared break from the columns. By the great gothic cathedral, women turned away so that the prisoners would not see them cry. Onwards they marched, five hundred after five hundred, thousands of men and women, flanked by SS guards and the German prisoners enlisted from among their own ranks to accompany the procession, through the streets and past the north-western boundary. The pavement gave way to gravel and the houses to trees: a canopy of spring foliage, teeming with birds and forest creatures that peeked out with curiosity and horror.

  Without warning they came to a stop. The guards blew their whistles, told the prisoners to rest. They would wait for further instructions. Until that time, anyone caught trying to escape would be shot. They scavenged like voles, picking at the grass and leaves, searching for hidden veins of water. Georg slumped against an immense trunk. The bark scraped at his back. He tried to pick at the crusted green barnacles but his nails could not withstand the pressure and tore from his fingertips. He had not eaten in three days.

  He woke to the sound of engines. Around him, a swell of excitement. He could catch only phrases. They were calling it the camp in the Below Forest. Sachsenhausen’s final outpost. Then familiar words: Red Cross. They arrived in convoy, trucks laden with boxes of supplies. They kept the engines running as they jumped from the cabins to unload the cargo. Georg watched from a distance as Red Cross men negotiated with the guards, had them sign off on the load. The cluster of heaving bodies untangled to form long lines, winding through the trees. When the Red Cross boxes were torn open, a great cheer resounded through the forest. Georg pressed his hands firmly to the tree roots and pushed, willing himself up to join the line, but he could not lift even what little was left of his body. They had been right, those around him: this was a camp like any other. There was no need for gas chambers or crematoria; here nature would play the executioner. Georg let the air fill his chest, then closed his eyes. Beside him, a crouching woman was nibbling at a sausage and some chocolate. Georg reached out to her but the woman stumbled backwards, clutched the food to her chest. Georg began to speak, pleading for a bite. The woman looked at him, confused by the strange words. From her muttering, he understood that she was, like many of those on the march, a simple woman from rural Hungary, recently evacuated from Ravensbrück and brought to join the great procession from Sachsenhausen. What did she know beyond simple survival? Georg slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the clump of dirt. He held it out to the woman, pounded at his ribs with his free hand and tried to explain, but the woman staggered away. The first stars appeared through the tree canopy. Georg closed his eyes.

  The next morning the guards blew their whistles and told the prisoners to reassemble in their columns. The march to Schwerin would commence before midday. Georg tried again to stand. He straightened his back against the trunk, pulled his knees to his chest and pushed with his legs. For a moment he lifted from the mossy earth but his strength deserted him and he landed back with a thud. He could see the columns begin to move. He could see the march had beg
un. He didn’t, however, see the SS man approach from the side. He didn’t see the guard unclip his holster. He didn’t see the gun raised to his head. And he most certainly didn’t see the flash that watered the old tree with his blood.

  Many years later, it might have come to pass that an old Hungarian woman would, on her deathbed, remember the slight man with the wavy hair who struck at his chest and cried out with that strange word: golem, golem, golem. But she, too, perished, shot in the neck only two days later, when she collapsed on the roadside not far from the town of Zapel-Ausbar. And so nobody will ever know.

  13

  MERZDORF/RETURN TO PRAGUE

  She no longer knows silence. For almost three years there has only been noise. The hubbub of an overcrowded street. Gasps, whimpers, sobs. The steady hum of electricity pulsing across deadly filaments. Dogs: panting, barking, scratching at wood. The swish of buckets filled with human waste. Screams, coughs. An orchestra of motors. The crunch of heavy boots. The screeching needle of the loom. The thud of falling sacks. No birds. Never any birds.

  She no longer knows freedom. And so she stays: a day, another. She ventures outside the factory only to find him, the one who saved her. But they have gone, deserted the town. She watched them flee on bicycles. Now she sits in the attic watching over the pile of rags that is her sister. Of all that she has endured, this is the hardest. She counts the breaths, uneven, quick, and waits for the thick fluid to break up. It is a relief, the cough. It means the girl is alive. From the corner window she sees them swarm in, their uniforms like the spring. Their voices drift upwards; they speak in tongues and she is relieved at last not to understand. Their guns are slung loosely on their backs. In their hands, bottles held aloft to toast the day. They crash into the surrounding houses, disappear. She hears them laugh, sing, cheer. But beneath their sound, there are others, yelps, grunts. Their conquest is all consuming.