On the train north from Gruendorf I learned of Stark’s death. One of my rivals approached and informed me. “No!” I cried out without thinking. He was a short Jew with a tired expression who turns up in certain villages after me. I have even seen him in the Graten Mountains. His presence always annoys me. More than once I have nearly warned him not to follow in my tracks, not to undermine me. Now he stood before me like a scolded brother.
“When did you hear?” I asked, and I immediately felt that my world had been destroyed.
“Regularly, year after year, I would visit him at the end of July,” he answered in slightly formal language, as if he were an attendant in a funeral parlor. From close up he looked frightening: the camp smell still clings to his clothes.
“He was like a father to me,” I said and rose to my feet. “I was with him just two and a half months ago.”
“He was forsaken.” The Jew made a strange gesture.
“We all loved him,” I said.
“Only a few came to him in recent years.” He didn’t stop reproaching.
“And who took part in the funeral?”
“Not one of us. The nuns discovered him and buried him in the convent cemetery.”
“Where are the books? Where are the manuscripts?”
“I arrived a few days after the burial. The house was open, and there was nothing inside. The Mother Superior told me that the local council had given them the building as a gift, and they were planning to renovate it.”
“And the manuscripts?”
“They fumigated the house and apparently burned everything.”
If the train had stopped, I would have gotten off.
Whenever the whip lands on my back, I get off, curl up in a buffet, and lick my wounds. The train raced now at full speed, and the man sitting before me took no pity on me. He answered all my questions to the point, though not without aggression, saying: “We are indeed weak creatures, frightened and self-involved. But there are times when a person must stand up for himself and confront the truth. Lies make us filthy. We abandoned him. The time has come to admit it.”
I looked into his eyes and saw that his travels had given him a steady gaze. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“I wasn’t referring to you,” he replied.
I always knew that one day my rivals would conspire against me, but I didn’t imagine that this was how they would do it. The train stopped, and I got off. It turned out to be one of those barren stations where the few passengers scatter quickly, and only the locals remain on the platform. A sign with all the usual warnings stands in place.
The owner of the buffet didn’t ask what I wanted to drink but served me, as he does the other customers, a mug of beer. Only then did the bitter news seep into me.
Stark, like my father, had risen through all the stages of the movement. He, too, lived underground for many years. What my father did in Bucovina, Stark did in Galicia. There, apparently, the work was more complex and dangerous. There were differences of opinion between them, I had heard, but Stark never mentioned them. Every time he recalled my father or mother he would say, “Souls with roots.” He knew many secrets and wouldn’t speak about certain things. In recent years he had spoken often about his father, a scion of the Hasidic dynasty of Rydzyna, who did not heed the advice of many and refused to become the Rebbe. Stark’s father lived in a remote village and made a living from a grocery store. He grew vegetables in the garden with his own hands. He insisted on cleanliness and simplicity, and he would begin the day by bathing in the river. After prayers he would go out to work in the garden. He greatly regretted that his only son had joined the Communists and was intimidating the landowners and factory owners, picking especially on the Jews.
In the past few years, whenever I showed Stark a manuscript or an old book, he would sit and read, and in the end he would say, “This book would have made my father very happy.” Recently it was as if the words he had used for so long had been wiped from his tongue. He now spoke in the way of his ancestors. During my last visit he reminded me of all the books I had shown him. Once I sat with him all night long, and we read The Path of the Righteous. When Kron, a veteran member of the party and a good friend of my father’s, told him that he was speaking the way people once spoke in Jewish homes, Stark answered, “My dear fellow, my forefathers, like your forefathers, were not thieves but hardworking people who scrutinized their own conduct and gave to the poor. In our youth we were ashamed of them and didn’t see the light in their lives, but now the time has come to admit the truth. What did we want from them, Kron? What did we want?”
During my last visit, Stark was very subdued, and when I showed him a copy of The Ethics of the Fathers that I had bought, he said, “That’s an important book, and it should be read with great attention and humility.”
Every time the whip lands on my back, my schedule breaks down. I lose my sense of direction and forget the people I am supposed to meet. Now I sat in the empty, neglected station, and my world darkened around me. The bright end of summer glimmered on the trees, and the light was soft. But the season meant nothing to me. I felt the sweat of my body and a weariness spreading across my back. I hated the valise and everything it contained. My body pulled me toward sleep.
Just as I was about to close my eyes, a woman approached me and whispered in my ear, “I have a room not far from here, a clean room with a bath. For fifty dollars I’ll spend the whole night with you. You won’t be sorry, believe me.” Without desire I rose and followed her.
CHAPTER
15
The next day I thought of returning to Upper Salzstein, to prostrate myself on Stark’s tomb, and to discover the fate of the books and manuscripts. But I was weary, confused, and without the strength to go so far. I handed the woman a few more banknotes and slept in her place till noon. In the afternoon I boarded a local train and set out on my way.
A night with a woman always leaves me a bit bleary. When I was young, a night like that would merely intoxicate me, and I would immediately fall into the arms of another woman. Today one woman, even one who is not demanding, is enough for me, plunging me into a very deep sleep.
I reached the station square at two o’clock. The woman, whose name I instantly forgot, wanted to accompany me. I obliged her. She was taller than I and fat. On the platform she gave me a theatrical kiss, like someone with nothing to lose.
Toward evening I returned to Rondhof. The north is kinder to me than the south. My business here is extensive. The people are close to me and help me. They make me feel that my life is not flowing without purpose. True, years ago everything was more intense, but now, too, more than a few people work in my service.
The owner of the buffet, Mr. Drutschik, originally from Czechoslovakia, confirmed the information that Mrs. Braun had given me: that Nachtigel had bought a house in Weinberg, and it was being readied for him. I was glad. Whenever my comrades get on his trail, I feel that my life is not a waste. Mr. Drutschik is a friendly man. He likes Jews and has always longed for his homeland. I revealed my secret to him a few years ago. Since then he’s been working in my service. Of course I pay him but not very much. Once he apologized to me and said that if his financial situation improved, he wouldn’t take a penny from me. I believe him. Meanwhile, his buffet is meager, and the customers are few. Once his young wife breathed life into the place, but since her sudden death he has aged. He neglects the buffet and sits by the window most of the day, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee.
I am pleased that, like Mrs. Braun, he, too, has discovered, though apparently from a different source, that Nachtigel had bought a house in Weinberg and was planning to live there. I ordered a drink to celebrate the news. Drutschik told me that in the winter he happened to be in Weinberg, and had seen the house with his own eyes: a two-story structure surrounded by grass and trees. To make it easier for me he drew a map: the route from the Weinberg station to the murderer’s house. When he handed me the paper, my hands trembled. I knew that th
e delay was coming to an end. The time of testing was approaching.
Meanwhile, there were a few pressing matters: to leave the valise in Miss Hahn’s house, to shower, and to see what they were showing at the fair. The Rondhof fair is the largest one in the region and lasts six days. I have found treasures there, and to tell the truth, it was there that my life began to reveal itself. Years ago I still groped in darkness. Now I know every hiding place, though the main thing is to keep a sharp eye. Today I know what every drawn sack contains, and what’s in every overflowing basin. Once I surprised a peasant by asking him, “What do you have in the wagon? Why don’t you show the things you have there on your stand?” His answer: “They’re worthless, and not mine. They belong to my mother-in-law.” Thus I found an ancient Haggadah, carefully illustrated by a Jewish artist.
Miss Hahn always greets me cordially, but this time she outdid herself, rushing toward me, hugging me, and kissing me. “You’re late this time, my dear,” she said. Miss Hahn is a convert to Christianity. Her parents, unlike other parents, were pleased by her decision and took part in the baptism. She was going to marry the Prince of Hohensalz. A week before the wedding, it turned out that the prince, who had spent many years in Paris, was infected with syphilis and near death. The wedding never took place, but Miss Hahn clung to Christianity. She never married and lived in seclusion like a nun. Her fondness for Jews, the rock from which she was hewn, was not concealed from me. The first time she saw me she gave me a penetrating look and said, “A Jew, if I’m not mistaken.” Since then we’ve been friends. For breakfast she prepares toast, a soft-boiled egg, homemade cheese, and a cup of coffee. Whenever she gives me breakfast, she says, “Jews don’t eat meat in the morning, I know that.” When I come in late at night, she scolds me and says, “Jewish men, in the privacy of their hearts, love shiksas—and you, are you like all the Jews?” She remembers many words from her parents’ home. When she’s in a good mood, she stands in the living room and recites them one by one.
This afternoon she sits at the table and pours a glass of brandy for herself and one for me, saying, “How’s my Jew? He looks sad today.”
“The Jew didn’t find anything at the fair. For three hours he looked and came away emptyhanded.”
“Jews are never pleased with themselves, and others aren’t pleased with them either.”
“At least you understand them.”
“Because I’m one of them.”
“Because of that, do people pick on you?”
“I pick on them,” she says and winks. “I remind them that Jesus was a Jew, that he was circumcised and prayed in a synagogue.”
“And what do they say?”
“They grit their teeth.”
In the evening Miss Hahn makes vegetable soup with cheese dumplings. She tells me about her childhood and her poor parents, who saw no way out except through the conversion of their children to Christianity. Her young brother also converted. His conversion was more successful. He married a rich woman and lives in the Tyrolean mountains. Her contact with him is slight, greeting cards once or twice a year. But the hidden wound, the wound that refuses to heal, is her beloved parents. At the age of eighty-five they were sent to Auschwitz. None of the neighbors shouted in protest. When she tells me about her parents, her face changes, and old age envelops it. Once, in an instant of great concentration, she told me: “I should have left this accursed land. A land that sends old parents to the crematoria is a criminal land. It should be wiped from the face of the earth, like Sodom and Gomorrah.” To distract her, I tell her about the people I have met on my way. Strange words, words I don’t normally use, rise to my lips.
The next day I surveyed the fair again. Some of my rivals got there first. They, too, it seems, have learned to do the job over the years. Now it’s very hard to discover an object of any value even in this neglected place. I entered Drutschik’s buffet. Drutschik was as drunk as a lord and muttered in Czech. When he saw me he hugged me and called out, “Here’s my man. They’re all greedy scoundrels here. Only Erwin asks me for nothing. He only gives. Let everybody know that not only is the Jew smarter, he’s also better. Come, let’s drink to the Jews. They’re worthy of great respect. They’re noble people, book-loving people. They’ve produced distinguished doctors, writers, and publishers. I take off my hat and announce to the world that I have high regard for the Jews. I’m not afraid to express the feelings of my heart. The time has come to speak openly.”
He spoke enthusiastically but looked miserable. His face was flushed and he was drooling.
“Let’s sit down, Mr. Drutschik,” I said.
“I won’t sit down,” he said. “I’ll stand on my feet as long as my soul is within me.”
His last words filled me with dread. I felt the place seething with an arid hostility. Outside the square was empty. A dark chill clung to the bare concrete pillars that supported the roof of the station.
“What am I doing here?” I said, and my eyes darkened. Melancholy had already attacked me here more than once, my limbs shriveling, black waves sweeping over me. I took two pills and dragged myself to my room, where I curled up in a blanket and wrapped my head in a towel. For a whole day I didn’t get out of bed.
The next day Miss Hahn knocked on the door. “I brought you something to eat. You mustn’t sleep without eating anything.” She knows my weaknesses. When melancholy is about to drown me, she appears, reaches her hand out to me, and draws me out of the depths. She says to me, “You shouldn’t be here. This place has a bad influence on you. It must be the smell of autumn, or maybe the chemical fertilizers. Go in peace and forget me.” That’s what she always says, but this time there was a tremor in her voice that frightened me.
CHAPTER
16
From Rondhof I continue north to Upper Rondhof. Here the leaves are already falling, and one feels the frost. The frost, I must admit, suits my body better than a moderate temperature. In the frost a somnolent part of my being comes to life. Wrapped in a coat and wearing boots, I feel more grounded.
In Upper Rondhof a Jew named Max Rauch opened a haberdashery right after the war. It has flourished and grown over the years, and now it includes six large stores, a coffee house, a restaurant, and a fine hotel. We’ve been friends for thirty years now. Max buys a considerable portion of my acquisitions from me. I’m glad to sell to him, because he pays a decent price and preserves the treasures with great care. Like me, he is fond of Hebrew letters, and he is proud to show me, whenever I happen to arrive, that everything he bought from me remains in good condition. Years ago I brought him a valise full of Yiddish books that I had found in a cellar in remote Schaumwasser. God knows how they made their way into that cellar. He was pleased with them, and since then I have also collected Yiddish books.
The moment I entered the region of Upper Rondhof, I knew I had sinned: Stark’s many books, the books and pamphlets he had bought with hard work and devotion, many of which I had purchased for him, had all been burned by the nuns, I had done nothing to bring them here for safekeeping in Max’s large home. Now I remembered: during our last meeting, Stark had looked at his library and said with a bit of sarcasm, “I feel bad about these books, but I’m not worried. You’ll find a way to circulate them.” That remark wounded me deeply. I’m not a book pimp, I wanted to cry out. I drag my feet from place to place to save what can be saved. It’s true I make my living from that, but it’s not dishonest. The words were about to burst from my throat, but, seeing his face, the face of an abandoned man, I held my tongue. Now Stark, too, is no more.
Upper Rondhof lies on a barren, remote plateau. But since Max established the center, the place has been buzzing with peasants and tourists. People stream here from all the villages. Starting in early evening, they drink and dance in the coffee house until late at night. Soon Max will also open a movie house to attract more tourists.
With Max I feel safe and calm. Maybe it’s because of the large, well-protected room on the ground floor. The roo
m has two exits, one of them secret. All of his rooms have secret exits, he once told me. Our people must not sleep in a room without a secret exit, he said. I agree with him with all my heart. Hotel rooms make me uneasy. In them I wake up at three in the morning and struggle with insomnia until dawn. One of our kind has to sleep in a large room, with more than one door, so that he will know, even in a nightmare, that there’s an escape exit.
As soon as I enter my room, I close the shutters and sink into deep sleep. Max lets me sleep as my soul desires. Sleep in his fortress is a quiet sleep, without threats, and I lose myself in it.
The next day I sit with him in the coffee house and tell him about my journeys. About the war, and about recent years, he doesn’t speak much with me or anyone else. I respect his silence, show him the books and objects, and name their price. Max is pleased with everything I bring him. Last year I brought him an antique menorah from Alsace. He was very moved. That’s how Max is: practical wisdom and honesty mingled within him. Only he can truly appreciate my efforts. In his spacious home he has housed all the treasures I brought him over the years. There’s a room for menorahs and sabbath spice boxes, a room for Hebrew books, a room for Yiddish books, and a room for other ritual objects. He bought most of these things from me.
Sometimes it seems that my life is interred in Max’s rooms. Every year he adds a shelf. If it wasn’t for Max, it’s doubtful that I would have persisted in this collecting. The thought that someone is expecting you, and that when you arrive he’ll settle you in a large, comfortable room and arrange for the restaurant manager to serve you a good meal, that thought makes my wandering easier to bear. This time I arrive in Rondhof exhausted. The next day I recover, sit in the coffee house, and my body fills once again with the will to live.
Later Max leads me from room to room, showing me the latest changes and innovations. Again I find that everything is in its place, arranged for a long stay. But last year an unexplained dread fell over me. For some reason the collection seemed in danger. Max sensed my anxiety and reassured me that everything was well guarded and insured, and that when the time came, he would transfer all the treasures, in iron chests, to Jerusalem.
The Iron Tracks Page 7
