Devil's Workshop

by Jáchym Topol

  In the murk of the back room I make out some human-size mannequins, standing and sitting, hunched on chairs.

  These aren’t brides like the girl with the shiny headband. There’s a stench of old age coming off them.

  One standing next to me moves, I almost scream. It opens its arms and I stare at the face in disbelief. A guy with leathery skin, shrivelled, nose like a beak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that old in all my life.

  I’m even more shocked when a voice issues from the ruins.

  Welcome, comrade, he says in Czech. And wraps me in a hug. He staggers, I struggle to hold him up. His long, nervous fingers, like toothpicks, tremble before he drops into a wicker chair deftly pushed underneath him by Alex.

  The most beautiful memories! he rasps. In Milovice everyone had a little house with a garden and flowers! he says, and his head drops to his chest, asleep, wheezing in and out of his nose.

  He doesn’t smell like the other mannequins, though. He smells normal.

  Alex tells me that Luis Tupanabi was his professor at the Institute in Milovice. Not far from Prague. Yep, the Soviets had a particularly large garrison there.

  He’s also a concentration-camp survivor, Alex says, adjusting a warm blanket around the professor’s slumped shoulders.

  The fascists forced him to make tsantsas, he goes on.

  Tsantsas? I ask, wondering whether Alex is slipping back into Belarusian.

  That’s right. I’ll show you later, Alex says. Luis has done tremendous work on behalf of our museum. But now he’s really old. I think he’s going to die soon.

  He wraps another blanket around Luis’s shoulders. Throws one over his legs. Luis has polka-dot slippers on his feet.

  You know, says Alex, I went to see Spielberg in Los Angeles. He’s got a Holocaust archive with thousands of survivors telling their story on thousands of screens. Not bad. But when people see something on TV they forget it right away. What they see in our museum they’ll never forget.

  Museum, I say, looking around. What museum? Besides the mannequins there’s nothing here but crates. Crates full of specimens.

  The museum we’re building in Khatyn, Alex says. It’s going to be the most famous memorial site in the world. The devil had his workshop here in Belarus. The deepest graves are in Belarus. But nobody knows about them. That’s why you’re here!

  Uh-huh, I say to say something.

  This Alex is different from the one I knew in Terezín. There he was learning. Here he’s in charge.

  I need all of Lebo’s databases immediately, he says. I need your help. I need cash, snaps Mr Hard-line. He’s getting fired up like Kagan at the burial site.

  Then we hear it and freeze. Bang! Like a battering ram against the walls of the house. Everything shakes. And again. Explosions. Firecrackers, not grenades. But powerful ones.

  We make our way back around the divider. Everyone’s running around. The explosions still ring in our ears. Somebody shouts, a girl. Or one of the children. And crack, into the wall again.

  Nobody needs to explain to me what’s going on. They’re back. The cops, they’ve been on my heels at every turn since I got here. Well, I was slightly mistaken. They weren’t cops.

  The message from the megaphone isn’t complicated. Come out with our hands over our heads. Somebody opens the door. It feels chilly out, but not actually cold. It’s early morning. The sun is coming up.

  I want to get out, in the air. I put my hands over my head, take a step. Alex pulls me back. And grinning at me from the other side is Kagan.

  Stick with me, Mr Hard-line repeats. I think I might be getting a tad allergic to him. People start walking out. The voice from the megaphone repeats its request.

  They walk out silently. No panic, no fuss. Did they prepare for this moment? They walk slowly past me, the girls from the pit sticking close to each other. I think I recognize the boy with the ponytail. Faces with burning eyes. I don’t actually notice it right away. But these seekers of the bunks don’t have their hands up.

  The guy walking past me now is swinging a lathe with nails sticking out of the bottom, another ragtag type in rubber boots has a pickaxe. They’re a regular army, these guys and girls in glasses with the gaunt appearance of mathematicians, deranged poets, computer geniuses. Youngsters in torn jeans, corduroy jackets, overalls and muddy trainers, marching out like they marched through the tunnel, quietly, one by one, but almost everyone’s carrying something they can whip or swing to defend themselves.

  The one I’m looking for isn’t with them. Either that or she was one of the first ones out.

  I’ve got Kagan on one side of me, Alex on the other, holding my elbow. We walk out. Alex kicks the door shut behind us.

  Frosted bushes stand out against the white of the snow. I see prefab blocks of flats off in the distance. A scattering of stunted birch trees, shrubs, a heap of bricks here and there, rusty sheet metal on the ground. Looks like a construction site.

  We hear a roar, screeching metal, coming closer. Then we see it, crushing trees, bushes, in its path, stones shooting out of its treads. An armoured personnel carrier, red stars painted on its green and sandy-yellow sides. A tall man in fatigues stands next to the driver, holding on with one hand, megaphone in the other. A flank of men advances through the bushes, also dressed in fatigues, helmets on, weapons in hand.

  Should I jump into the bushes, crawl back in the house, scream that I’m an inostranyets? I guess Alex can sense my confusion. He says, absolutely calmly: Follow my lead, got it?

  The vehicle and the soldiers pass the piles of bricks, the phalanx quickly cutting a path through the shrubs. Our crew is surrounded in front of the house.

  Now we see them, straggling in behind the soldiers, in ones and twos at first, but as the phalanx comes to a stop they fuse into a mob. There are people in the trees everywhere, shaking their fists, some clenching sticks, chunks of brick. A stone zips through the air, then another. A boy in front of me collapses, bleeding from the head. A shriek of hate erupts from the crowd. Women scream at the soldiers’ backs. The men facing us are wearing quilted coats and overalls, some of them are in track jackets. I know these overfed jailer types, I can spot them a mile off. The commander in the personnel carrier lifts the megaphone to his mouth, shouts a command, and the soldiers turn and point their guns above the rabble-rousers’ heads. They’re protecting us from the mob.

  Then the commander points at us.

  The patience of the Belarusian people is at an end! he thunders.

  The boy’s knuckles next to me are white from his tight grip on the lathe, but his hand is shaking.

  The big man in the APC lifts a sack in his hand. An ordinary grey sack.

  Our investigation of the Jewish scum has led us here! the commander says into the megaphone. He points to the house.

  From here the opposition and Jewish organizations are poisoning our city!

  The mob roars, another stone flies, somebody cries out in pain. The soldiers raise their weapons. Suddenly it’s silent.

  The commander shows the sack to the mob, holds it up over the heads of the soldiers, turns toward us.

  The Jews and oppositionists feed the rats with their faeces, he says into the megaphone. That’s why they shit in the gutters. They want to destroy Sun City. Are we going to let them? he shouts. The people start screaming in hatred again.

  The commander raises his hand. He’s doing a real ballet up there.

  The president is watching! he shouts, and he hurls the sack to the ground. It sits a moment, bulging and thrashing, then everyone gasps as a ball of giant rats scrabble out, hairless, toothy, filthy things, feverishly gnawing each other, and suddenly, Bang! Bang! Bang! The commander empties his magazine, shooting the rats to bloody bits, and somebody in the crowd cries out with glee.

  What shall we do with this nest of traitors? Spare them? Or punish them? the commander says through the megaphone.

  It’s quiet for a moment. Then there’s a roar as the peopl
e hurl themselves at the soldiers. The soldiers lower their guns. And the attackers run right through them, rushing us in bunches, clubs and sticks coming down on heads, backs, all around me. I take a nasty blow. Somebody throws something over me, grips my head, drags me away. I hear gurgling, clomping feet, my forehead slams into something. The crowd is crushing me up against the APC. The commander offers me his hand, I grab hold, push off something soft with my feet, roll into a seat. The commander hauls someone else up: Alex. We start to move, cutting slowly through the crowd. I see some of our crew fighting. A few of them are standing backed against the wall of the house, swinging their sticks, there’s the flash of a pickaxe or two, it’s the last time I’ll see the grim, hard faces of these seekers of the bunks. We leave the battlefield, crossing a stretch of snow on to an asphalt road. The commander sits in front of me, driving now, Kagan squats beside him. And peeking out of the blankets next to him is Whistling Beak, Professor Luis. I turn around and see Maruška on the seat behind me. I close my eyes to give myself time to believe she’s really there. This part of town’s quiet and deserted, must be the outskirts of Sun City. We pass the hunched box of a prefab housing block.

  Maruška has tears in her eyes.

  I lean towards her, into her breath, and she smacks me in the face.

  I thought you’d be glad we were back together again. I wrench the words out, slowly, to keep from biting my tongue as we jolt along the road.

  You better fucking believe I am! You’re my assignment. But I had to leave my kids back there. Thanks to you.

  We didn’t talk after that.

  11

  The sun climbs through the mist above the trees. The APC rolls onward, the forest around us thick as night. We climb a slope, and when we come to a bend in the road I do it, before I can change my mind. I slide down the side of the carrier into a snowdrift, and once the APC has rumbled out of sight, I take a breath, stand up, and scramble into the woods. Along the way I tear off the bandages Maruška put on, no need for them any more. Everywhere I’ve been I’ve run away, as soon as I had the chance. I think of Maruška’s children, her relationship with Alex, nothing I can do about that. I take another couple of steps and Kagan’s standing right there. He walks up and gives me a slap.

  I’m not his apprentice, though, or some wimpy little student. I look around the woods. I could bury you right here, Kagan, after I get through with you. He laughs in my face.

  What about those students of yours, you shithead? I say. He just snickers, doesn’t even get mad.

  The best of every generation are sacrificed, Francysk Skaryna said that, and he was a true humanist, not like us, Kagan says, grinning at me. He turns and walks away and I follow him – what else can I do?

  Alex helps me up and says, Don’t try anything stupid or we’ll tie you up. Besides, where would you go? You’ll freeze to death!

  We drive off. A tap on the shoulder. Maruška opens the satchel with the red cross on it, offers me a pill, a sweet. I take it. She pops one too.

  A big man stands by a spruce tree, its branches sagging with snow. Fur hat, rifle across his chest, dark glasses. He waves. We turn down an inconspicuous path into a forest so dense it takes a moment before I can even breathe.

  A wooden cottage, a fence, a table with a roof over it, surrounded by wooden benches, a fire pit of glowing logs, some bearded guys in fatigues. One of them, in a red ski cap, clicks his heels and salutes. The commander leaps down from the APC. The men gently carry the professor, wrapped in blankets, his long thin legs dangling in slippers. Alex is giving them orders. Some other guys with beards are carrying plates and bottles to the table under the roof. I’m hungry and all of a sudden I realize that maybe I should hide the Spider someplace else, since who knows what’s going to happen to me? Out here in the wilderness. After I’ve given it to Alex.

  The commander shakes my hand and says, I’m Arthur. Welcome to our partisan brigade, brother!

  The burning wood is warm and tangy. We sit down at the table under the roof: Kagan, Arthur, Alex, and me. Maruška stands behind the commander like a new recruit waiting to report. Alex hands her a plate. She nibbles daintily while we wolf down our food. Then Arthur pours vodka all round. Kagan unbuttons his coat, plants a cigar in his mouth. We sit like that a while.

  Forgive me the drama, brothers, Arthur says, hanging his head.

  I think it’s just for show, he’s actually enjoying himself.

  Nobody says a word.

  I had to satisfy the mob, you understand, don’t you, brothers? He drops his head again.

  We’re all still waiting.

  I have my orders, I’m a soldier! Arthur cries. You know my only access to the president is as a soldier serving my homeland, he says.

  Right, that’s why you’re the one who always leads the clean-up actions, Kagan says icily.

  Oh, come now, brother! Don’t you believe me? Arthur lays one hand on his heart and grabs Kagan’s hand with the other.

  No, says Kagan, and Alex laughs. Alex sits, legs stretched out, also puffing away.

  I get results, Arthur says sternly. I saw the president and the president agrees.

  Kagan and Alex act like it’s nothing, but they prick up their ears.

  The president has an interest in utilizing burial sites and developing tourism. As do the opposition leaders. So it’s been decided. This entire zone – he waves his hand around the trees – will be off limits to both sides. Khatyn will be home to the Devil’s Workshop, a museum for Europe, for the world. And this partisan unit – he points to some of the bearded guys staggering around – will be neutral, and answer to no one but the Ministry of Tourism. Not bad, right? What do you say?

  Arthur leans back and stretches his massive body, cracks his knuckles, folds his arms on his chest.

  Excellent, Alex says finally. Smiling.

  Let’s have a toast, then, Arthur says, rising to his feet. To the Devil’s Workshop!

  We stand and drink. Alex gives Maruška a glass as well.

  Arthur loosens his belt, lights a smoke.

  We’ll remain neutral, whoever wins, the opposition or the president. One day this little civil war of ours will end. And the country will open up. With or without the president. We need to have something to offer the world. Something no one else has got.

  Arthur steps behind me and throws his arm around my shoulder like we’re long-lost friends.

  My Czech brother, he says, crushing my arm. Syabro! You’ve done a fine job! You captured the attention of the world. You turned – what is it called? He snaps his fingers at Maruška.

  Terezín! she blurts out. In the middle of eating a plum. Nearly chokes. She puts down her plate.

  You turned Terezín into a real cause célèbre. You had contributions from politicians, governments, arms dealers, pacifists, nationalists, Madonna, and all within a short time, eh?

  Five months, Maruška peeps.

  And how much was it? Arthur asks.

  Maruška says a number that takes my breath away. I feel for the Spider. Still there. In my sock. I had nothing to do with the money. The board members and the eggheads from the Monument probably gobbled it up.

  Brother – Arthur leans towards me, breathing in my face – you know how many tourists a year come to Belarus?

  Three thousand five hundred and something, Maruška answers for me. I have no idea.

  It’s high time that changed, Arthur says. Guess who had the most casualties during the war? We did! Guess who had the most people murdered under communism? We did. And guess who still has people disappearing, eh? We do! That’s the division of labour in the globalized world of today, dammit! Thailand: sex. Italy: paintings and seaside. Holland: clogs and cheese. Right? And Belarus? Horror trip, right? Don’t look so serious, for fuck’s sake! Arthur bellowed. You could tell he was used to giving orders.

  Visit the Devil’s Workshop, the European monument to genocide! Arthur declared in a booming voice, pouring everyone another round of vodka.


  Do we have the sea, the mountains, historic buildings? No, all our historic buildings were burned. So we’ll build a Jurassic Park of horror, a museum of totalitarianism. Belarus will get on the map thanks to our bags of bones, our bundles of blood and pus. Good, right? Catchy, right? What do you say?

  I think Arthur would’ve been happier giving his speech from on top of the APC.

  We drink a toast. And another. Arthur gets his breath back.

  It’s a disgrace! he says, slamming his fist down on the table. They’ve got burial sites from the war in Western Europe. The concentration camps were all cleaned up ages ago. In Dachau you can eat off the floor. I know, I had experts look into it. Do you realise the cleaning ladies in Drancy – those black bitches – earn higher salaries than our teachers? Look at Auschwitz! Those whores the Poles, they know how to do it. A nice little hotel, bus ride from Krakow, tour of Auschwitz, lunch included: fifty-two euros, please. That’s how it works! And our burial sites? We’ve still got ravens pecking skulls, and the devil only knows who’s in those pits. It tears at a man’s soul. Arthur grips my elbow and I see tears have suddenly sprung to his eyes.

  This is about the souls of our ancestors, he whispers.

  I keep quiet.

  Syabro, friend. Do you know what is written in The Song of Igor’s Campaign?

  I still keep quiet.

  Until the dead find peace, the living will live in shame.

  Mm-hm.

  Will you help us? Arthur cries, tears streaming down his face. He’s only talking to me now.

  Sure! What else can I say?

  All right, Arthur says. Give your contacts to Alex. You’ll be project secretary. Just like you worked for Terezín, now you’ll work for the Devil’s Workshop. Tomorrow you leave. He nods his chin at Alex.

  Arthur lays a hand on Kagan’s shoulder.

  There is one thing, though, that our president strongly insists on, Arthur says, using his free hand to wipe his tears with a napkin.

  What’s that? Kagan says.