Max

by Sarah Cohen-Scali

  He’s staring at me, relishing the look of shock on my face. He’s not even ashamed of the admission he’s just made. In fact he looks pleased with himself. He’s smiling. He’s taunting me again with that little snide smile; that wretched, goddamned smile he used on me when I was caring for him after he was tortured by the wardens. And that ghastly grin is even more odious today, on his swollen, bruised lips, still streaked with dried blood.

  ‘So? What are you going to do?’ he asks arrogantly. ‘Will you denounce me?’

  I’m silent.

  ‘Yes? No?’

  I still don’t speak.

  ‘Okay, while you’re deciding, I’ll have a little nap. I’m knackered!’

  He lies down on his side, his back to me, and within a minute I can hear him snoring.

  Bastard! Low life! Scumbag! Filthy pig!

  It’s one thing that he’s Polish. We got over that. As Ebner said, ‘A seed of the highest quality, which has not been planted in the right spot.’ But Jewish, JEWISH! A YID! A KIKE!

  It’s just too much. A Jew is beyond help.

  What does the bastard think I’ll do? Chicken out? Of course I’ll denounce him! Right now! I leap out of bed, ignoring my pain, and head for the door to call the warden who is standing in as a nurse. She’s there in a flash. (She must have received her new instructions: her charges are no longer just BBFH and a Germanised Pole, but two future Jungmannen. Yeah, sure! Wait till she finds out!)

  ‘You have to warn Herr Doktor Ebner immediately!’ I point in the direction of Lukas. ‘He is…’

  I choke back the last word just before it comes out, so abruptly that I start coughing. I’ve just had a brilliant idea. At last all my powers of reasoning have returned. Lukas lied to me! To think that I nearly fell for it. At a pinch, I could have believed in an aberration of nature—that is, a Jew with blond hair and blue eyes. But Lukas forgot one very important thing. The first time I laid eyes on him was the night of the selection process. He didn’t know I was there. He was too busy being defiant to notice me. But I saw…his dick! All of it! Not a cut-down dick like Jews have! He lied to me because he’s a lunatic; he’s missing a compartment or two in his brain. He’s developed some kind of compulsion to put himself in danger. It’s an obsession.

  I let out a huge sigh of relief, as the warden stands to attention in front of me, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

  ‘He is what?’ she asks finally.

  ‘He is…He is…asleep.’ That’s all I could think to say.

  She glances over at Lukas. ‘Yes, so?’

  ‘So, nothing! Nothing! It’s just that…before, I thought he was dead. But I made a mistake. Everything’s fine.’

  Lukas’s snoring starts up again, as if to reinforce my explanation. But it’s not enough to get rid of the warden, who is looking at me warily.

  Piss off, you old bag! Piss off! I said everything was fine!

  She comes closer and puts her hand on my forehead. ‘You have a fever,’ she declares.

  Of course I’ve got a fever! How could I not, after such an emotional roller-coaster? She jams a soup spoon of disgusting syrup in my mouth. It’s sticky and bitter and I clench my buttocks as I swallow it, so I don’t spit it back out in her face. She better get lost right now. It’s urgent.

  Once she’s gone, I leap on Lukas and shake him roughly to wake him. ‘Liar! Filthy liar! You’re no Jew!’

  To prove my point, before he has time to move—he’s still groggy from the deep sleep I’ve woken him from—I pull down his pants.

  He rubs his eyes, growls a few insults (I think he calls me a faggot), pulls up his underpants, and rolls over. ‘My mother didn’t want me to have it,’ he mumbles, ready to fall asleep again.

  I don’t get it. I shake him again.

  He sighs, exasperated, and sits up. ‘On the day of the circumcision,’ he explains, ‘my mother fainted when the rabbi turned up with his scalpel. She wasn’t a practising Jew and hated all the mumbo-jumbo of religion. And that’s why I wasn’t circumcised: because my father loved her, he respected her wishes. Got it now?’

  Yes, I sure do. My hopes are dashed. Lukas is a Jew. Even if I still refuse to accept the fact that his uncircumcised penis doesn’t prove anything. I run over and shut the door. On the other side of it, a few metres from us, is the warden. I still haven’t decided whether, in a few minutes’ time, I’m going to denounce Lukas or not. All the same, I have a feeling he wants to keep talking, and I’d rather no one heard for the moment.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, facing him, arms crossed, waiting.

  After an interminable silence, Lukas decides to continue. ‘My mother was…’ He pretends to clear his throat, but really he’s choking back sobs. ‘She was someone really special. She wasn’t just any old Polack with a scarf on her head and wrinkled stockings around her ankles. She was beautiful, intelligent, independent. She smoked, wore make-up, had been to university and spoke French and German fluently. She often went to Germany because she could stay with various family members there. That’s how she got to understand very quickly that your piece-of-shit Hitler was going to ruin everything. And that’s why she taught me your fucking language when I was young, barely four years old. She told my father, “People have to believe he’s German.” And, because I wasn’t circumcised, it worked out well. As for my father, he’d been a professional soldier in the Polish cavalry. When he married my mother, he stopped everything to help her manage the shop she’d inherited. A bookshop…’

  As he talks, he’s gazing at the ceiling. Now he glares back at me. ‘Huh! Skullface! Do you even know what a bookshop is? Do you know what books are for? Books are for reading, not for burning like your mates do, yelling like barbarians.’

  I don’t react to his insults; they’re water off a duck’s back. It’s an effort, but I can do it. I’ve decided not to respond to his provocations. I’m much cleverer than he is and he’ll end up getting sick of it. Anyway, the door isn’t far away. As soon as I’ve had enough, I’ll call the warden.

  ‘When the first German soldiers entered Lodz, my mother said to my father: “It’s all over for us, but he might have a chance to get out.” Him, that’s me, not my little brother. He was…How old are you? Six? Seven?’

  I separate the fingers on my right hand, raise my left thumb, then place my left index finger on my right index finger to show that I’m six and a half. I don’t want to stoop to talking with him. It’s already enough that I’m listening.

  ‘Six and a half? Yeah, he must be about…He would have been about that age now. But back then he was only three. Too little to escape by himself. I was ten, that’s why my mother chose me. So, anyway, my parents gathered together everything they owned—silver, chandeliers, jewels—and they gave it all to a customer at the bookshop, a Polish goy, so she’d hide me at her place, pretending that I was her son. After a week, I ran away and came home. My mother locked herself in the bedroom with my little brother, so they wouldn’t see me, while my father gave me the worst thrashing of my life. “You will never ever do that again, understood?” he said after three whacks with the leather belt. “You do not know us anymore, you are no longer our son! Get lost!” The next day, all the Jews in the town were locked up in the ghetto.’

  Lukas stops talking. I have no idea if that’s the end of his tale or not. Nor can I tell if he just happens to be staring at the door, or if he intends to go over and open it and denounce himself. He’s perfectly capable of that. Maybe he’s waiting for me to say something. But…I don’t know what to say.

  ‘At the entrance of the ghetto, there was a big yellow sign: “Jewish residential area. Entry forbidden. Danger of epidemics.” The whole area was surrounded by a high fence and barbed wire. The doors were two huge blocks of wood. It was impossible to get in. But I knew my family was behind the fence and the barbed wire. So one day I tried to sneak into a hole I’d spied in the fence. Sofia, the Polish goy who had taken me in, grabbed me by the pants and gave me a smack, sc
reaming, “Don’t be crazy, Lucjan! You’ll catch typhus if you go in there with those Jewish vermin! Do you want to bring lice back home?” She winked at me so I’d know that her words were meant for the ears of the passers-by, to prove that I wasn’t Jewish, to prove that I was really her son. Back home, she gave me another smack and said, “Lucjan, never ever do that again! It’s too dangerous. I promise we’ll try to see your parents, but first you have to promise you’ll do as I say.” I promised and she explained that she was going to find a way to get a message to my parents. They would work out some sort of meeting.

  ‘A week later, Sofia announced, “Listen carefully, Lucjan: tomorrow we’re going to take the tram that goes through the Jewish neighbourhood. You’ll see your parents, but you’re not allowed to move, or say a word, or make the slightest gesture at all. Otherwise, you’ll die, I’ll die, and so will your family. Got it?”

  ‘The next day, we took the tram. We sat in the carriage reserved for the “lower-class” people (that is, the Poles); the Germans had their own carriage reserved up front. The ghetto doors opened, but as soon as the tram had entered, it stopped. A Jewish policeman climbed on board. He went into every carriage and locked all the doors with a special key, so they could only be opened from the inside. So no Jews could try to escape from the ghetto. As he went through the carriage reserved for Germans, the passengers put handkerchiefs over their mouths—they were so terrified of catching a disease. If only that had been the case. If only the three SS bastards who were there had caught a deadly disease.’

  Lukas is clenching his fists—even the one sticking out of the plaster cast—and grimacing in pain. He gives me a black look. (Yes, you can have a black look with blue eyes, and it’s pretty terrifying.)

  I withstand the black look and I keep staring at him, even though my eyes are smarting. I don’t know what the matter is; dust must have got under my eyelids.

  ‘The tram started up. Sofia had told me that my parents would be at the crossroads of the fourth street. I had to look at them as discreetly as possible, without moving or showing any emotion at all. A wink, that was all, as the tram crossed the street. My heartbeats counted the streets. Boom, the first. Boom, the second. Boom, the third. The fourth street was further away, only by a few metres, but it felt like kilometres. Then I saw my parents. Standing on the corner, my little brother between them. They stayed motionless when they saw me. I met my mother’s gaze just as the tram passed in front of her, but that was it. I glimpsed her lips trembling. Was she trying not to cry, or trying not to smile at me? I could see how my mother, who had been so beautiful, was now thin and shrivelled. She had been so elegant, too, and now she was wearing dirty rags. My father didn’t look at me: just as the tram passed, he leaned down to my little brother. Afterwards, I worked out that it was so Czeslaw wouldn’t see me, but so that I could still see him, and that’s all. He was too young, he might have screamed, or called out to me. It was too dangerous…I didn’t move. I didn’t leap at the tram window like I wanted to, I didn’t knock on it, I didn’t scream out. Sofia held my hand. She squeezed it hard, very hard; she was hurting me, but I didn’t realise until I got back that night and saw the red mark on my wrist. When the tram kept going, I didn’t turn around. I didn’t run to the back of the carriage. I kept it together, even when I saw the rest of the ghetto. All those people who were so horribly thin, dying of hunger, filthy, in rags, riddled with illnesses from lack of hygiene and food. They were dying a slow death, killed by those bastard Germans who had locked them away in that foul neighbourhood. And not one person on the tram showed any sign of caring. For them, what was going on outside was normal.’

  Another break. My eyes are hurting even more. If only the dust hadn’t got into them, but I’ve got a feeling that if I rub them they’ll get worse. I’ll end up crying and Lukas will get the wrong idea.

  ‘Sofia organised that we’d see each other like that once a month. Each time, my parents had got much thinner. My father, who was once a big guy, was half his former size and barely able to stand up. The same went for my mother. As for Czeslaw, there was no longer any need to stop him from crying: he was nothing more than a little parcel in my mother’s arms, weighing hardly anything, I imagine. There were people sprawled in the gutter, rats swarming all over them. They were so weak they could no longer move. Or they were dead and no one had removed their bodies. There were men roaming the streets, piling corpses into carts, but more often than not there wasn’t room in the carts…We saw my family like that five times. The last time, at the crossroads of the fourth street, I only saw my mother and father. Czeslaw wasn’t there. Do you know what that means?’

  I stare at Lukas.

  ‘That means he died, of hunger, or of cold, or of a fever. That day I stood up, I didn’t obey Sofia’s orders. I couldn’t leave my parents alone, without their children. Here I am, me! I was alive and I belonged with them. But Sofia tripped me up, she made me fall over, to stop me from throwing myself at the tram door. By the time I got up, the tram had moved forwards and my chance had gone. That evening, Sofia punished me. No more meetings: it was too dangerous, she no longer trusted me. Three months went by. I begged Sofia. I swore that, whatever happened, I wouldn’t move. She said no, no, and then she said yes, and she organised another meeting. Off we went. At the crossroads of the fourth street, only my mother was there. My father, the soldier, the ex-cavalry lieutenant, the big guy, the tough guy, was dead. It was too much for him. I kept my promise, I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. There were no more meetings. There was no point anymore. A week later, all the Jews from the ghetto left for Treblinka.’

  Lukas stops to look at me. I’m expecting one of his really black looks, but no, this time I don’t feel like I’m under fire.

  ‘Do you know what Treblinka is?’

  Of course I know. Treblinka’s the same as Ravensbrück or Auschwitz. It’s a prison camp.

  ‘It’s a concentration camp,’ explains Lukas, echoing my thoughts, ‘and hardly anyone ever comes back from there. When I found that out, I ran away from Sofia. I just ran, down whatever road it was, straight into one of those Sister bitches, who carted me off.’

  There’s a long silence. This time I think Lukas has come to the end of his story. He’s not crying. Nothing. His eyes are dry, whereas mine are wet because of this dust that makes them so horribly itchy. He’s smiling: he seems to find it funny, idiot that he is. Then he lies down again, rolls on his side like before, ready to go back to sleep.

  ‘You’d better decide this time, Skullface!’ he hurls at me. ‘After everything I’ve told you, you shouldn’t hesitate. You can raise the alarm!’

  I fell asleep too. Thump. I landed on my pillow as if someone had knocked me out. Except I had a bad dream. The warden came hurtling into the room.

  ‘Get out, Jew! Get out!’ she yelled, furious, whacking as hard as she could with her club, until the body under the sheet turned red, soaked in blood. ‘Do you want to see your fucking Jewish mother in Treblinka? That’s where you’re headed, believe me! If I don’t kill you beforehand!’

  But…

  She’d made a mistake, and was hitting the sheet covering me. She was pounding me to a pulp. I tried calling out: ‘No, not me! I’m not Jewish! It’s him! I’m the BBFH!’ But she only roared louder, ‘I don’t give a damn! How do you expect me to work it out, now there are Jews with blond hair and blue eyes? Jews with uncircumcised dicks! The Führer probably made a mistake when he baptised you!’

  I woke up with a start. I think I was screaming, or sobbing. I must have smothered the sound with my sheet; fortunately the warden didn’t hear—the real one, not the one in my nightmare—and Lukas didn’t wake up either. The good thing is that I must have cried a lot in my sleep; my tears washed away the dust that was hurting my eyes before.

  I have to gather my thoughts. I get out of bed, otherwise I might have another nightmare. I’d rather walk round the room; when I get to the door, I’ll decide: to open the door and call the w
arden.

  Or not.

  First I go over everything Lukas told me, in order. He’s Jewish. No doubt about it. He’s a Jew.

  I glance at the door. Perhaps I have blurred vision from the tears still in my eyes, because it looks like the handle is moving, that some invisible hand is turning it.

  The next thing Lukas had said was about his mother. ‘She wasn’t just any old Polack.’ She had a job, she was independent, she smoked, she wore make-up…So, she must have been a whore! She spoke German, she went to Germany regularly. On one of her trips she probably slept with a German guy, and never told her husband about it when she found out she was pregnant…Which means that Lukas is half-German. Which means that the German blood he inherited from his father—his mother’s lover, not the Polish cavalryman—was more dominant than the Jewish blood!

  I’m heading towards the door now and my vision has cleared; the doorhandle isn’t moving anymore.

  So, Lukas then told me about what happened to his family when our troops entered Poland. I know from History classes that we invaded Poland in September 1939. Lukas said he was ten then. It’s 1942 now. A little bit of elementary arithmetic: From 39 to 42 makes 3. And 10 + 3 = 13. Lukas is thirteen. (Ebner was completely wrong to make his date of birth the 18th of March, 1932.) But I don’t care whether he’s thirteen, more than twice my age; he still doesn’t mean a thing to me. A thirteen-year-old Jew—or a half-Jew, or a three-quarter Jew—is still inferior to a six-and-a-half-year-old pure Aryan.

  Then there was the whole story of the ghetto, of the dead little brother, the dead father, the mother deported to Treblinka. The death of the little brother reminds me of Wolfgang’s death. That was tough. I had a very sore stomach, and nightmares for several days…Perhaps Lukas’s family didn’t deserve it? Perhaps they should have made an exception for them? Perhaps there are good Jews? How do you know? At this point in my thinking, I admit that I’m lost, even though I’ve gone a few steps further towards the door.