by Jáchym Topol
But then I’m gnawed by doubt. Actually why shouldn’t he? He wants the eyes of the world to turn here, and this’ll do the trick.
There are six of them in this room, six old heads on six wrinkly necks, mechanically opening and closing their mouths, and always telling the same story – soldiers come into the village and kill, houses and people burn – repeating it over and over, and it will just go on like that, the soldiers will keep coming back, as long as Alex holds the wires that carry the electricity that runs the stories stuffed inside the people’s innards.
Hey, Madonna donated to Terezín, didn’t she? What if we had Marilyn Manson shoot a video here?
Bad idea, I say.
How come?
I don’t know.
You could be in charge of the whole thing and live like a king. But if you don’t have the stomach for it, well then, fuck off. Hand over the Spider. It’s in your stomach? OK, I’ll open you up. People are expendable.
I suddenly remember Aunt Fridrich. They would rob her of her death and put her on display. Uh-uh. I couldn’t bear it.
Look, Alex says, just think it over. I’ll give you time.
No, I say.
Trust me, you get used to it. It’s an eastern tradition. Lenin, Stalin, all the big chiefs. Did you know the Soviet Union was going to have a mausoleum of Communist saints in every district?
I nod. It’s a fact.
And you know Gottwald, your first Communist president? Guess who embalmed him? Luis!
Alex pushes open an iron door. The infirmary. Every bunker like this has one.
Luis lies in a bathtub on his back. Pants, jacket, miniature socks, slippers, all bunched up in a jumble on the floor. All that’s left of him is a tiny little body. His head is propped against a wooden support, gripped in a vice. His beak of a nose juts up towards the strong light bulb on the ceiling. There’s a stink from the tub, that chemical smell again. And Rolf is there. Sitting on the edge of the tub.
Yep, the Czech comrades wanted their man embalmed too, just like the Soviets. But put a Czech on display for eternity, like Lenin? Be serious! The KGB ordered Luis to pretend he messed up, so your president would rot. Luis! Are you kidding? He wouldn’t mess up. He taught taxidermy and embalming in Milovice – I told you. And he was a damn good teacher!
Alex nudges Luis’s clothes out of the way with his foot, then kneels down and snaps Luis’s hand into a clamp on the edge of the tub. He goes around and snaps the hand in on the other side. I don’t know which arm Maruška stuck with the injection.
We recorded the tapes with Luis ages ago, didn’t we? Alex turns to Rolf. He came as a stowaway on a ship from South America and, get this, he lands in Hamburg during a Nazi parade – an Indian chief with feathers on his head! He wanted to see the world. They put him in a camp, right here in Belarus. It was a cannibal camp. Luis made it through. And the Nazis heard about his expertise. Now we’ll do him. He was the first one to make the tapes. He built this museum, he knew he’d be an exhibit. A lot older than Lebo, huh?
Snap. He fastens Luis’s leg in a clamp, above the ankle.
The ancient, emaciated body is stretched pretty tight now. Still soaking in all the fluids. Snap, now the second leg’s in place too.
Alex puts on rubber gloves.
Oh, wait, he turns to me. I promised you those tsantsas, right?
He takes a box down from the shelf and opens it for me to see. Human heads, little ones, their pursed lips sewn shut with string, or is it coarse thread?
Naranjitos, they call them, says Alex. I guess because they’re like oranges.
He yanks the box away and puts it back on the shelf.
A tsantsa like this takes finesse. Crushing the skull so the face stays intact, pulling all the little bones out through the nose, now that’s what I call a masterpiece. Everyone was blown away when they found them in the camp. Yevgeni Khaldei took pictures for the Nuremberg Trials. As proof of Nazi perversion. Luis was supposed to be sentenced but the Biochemical Institute in Moscow requested him as an expert. Like the Yanks with Wernher von Braun. And from Moscow to Milovice, it was only a step.
Let’s open him up, Alex says, nodding to Rolf. Rolf gets up from the tub and just stands there, shaking his head, glasses glinting in the gloom. Alex wrenches something out of his hands, the dish I saw him with in the tent.
He wipes the mucus and vomit on Rolf’s shoulder and shoves the dish in his face.
You see? Na pamyat o Minske, he reads aloud. That’s Russian! Na pamyats pra Minsk, it should say, this is Belarus, damn it! And besides, it should be ‘Mensk’! He flings the dish to the floor. The pieces go flying.
Alex sighs, sits down on the tub.
The Russians are our big brothers. Too big, actually. They want to swallow everything up. Now they’re even muscling in on our tourist industry. It isn’t right.
I notice something in his hand, some kind of doctor’s saw.
What’s wrong with him? I say. Rolf is blubbering quietly.
Our idiot president even spoke Russian when he declared martial law!
What’s wrong with him?
He’s soft, not like you. He was supposed to do the publicity – photos, interviews – then send it out to the world. But he went over the edge. Couldn’t handle it.
Handle?
Journalists, you know, living in the magazine world, cranking out articles, and then this! A little museum in the woods. You can handle it, though, can’t you?
Handle what?
He caved in when it came to signing. When the old-timers signed the agreement with us to put them on display.
You said they asked to do it.
Most of them, yeah. Some.
Uh-huh.
We must become great in enduring the suffering of others, Alex says jokingly. He’s grinning like a schoolboy. That’s right, sometimes we just have to tolerate other people’s suffering. The Nazis really thought it through. Jean Améry, ever read him?
I shake my head. I never read anything except those stupid textbooks, which I forgot as soon as I read them, and the emails for the Comenium, which wouldn’t mean shit to him.
You should. Alex laughed. Seeing as you’re the expert.
Here I am getting schooled again. Hm. I slide my eyes around the room. Infirmary. There must be an operating room next door. There are some boxes stacked along the wall. Canisters, metal and plastic. Some instruments arranged on the shelves. A pair of large pliers attached to the wall above my head.
I turn as the saw in Alex’s hand starts to spin, a whirring sound slices into my ears, it must run on batteries.
Go ahead and take a look around, Alex shouts over the noise. You can help me later!
He turns his back to me and bends down towards Luis.
Keeping an eye on Alex, I reach out my arm and snatch the pliers. Slip them under my jacket. Rolf won’t give me away. He’s too out of it. He tugs on my sleeve, like a child, dragging me behind him. Pattering along like some scared little pet. He used to film people dancing under the ramparts. Now he’s in a bunker where they make people into mummies.
Rolf, I shout, the red grass, remember that? It’s no use. The basement is filled with the whirring sound of the saw.
We enter the little room next door and the pliers nearly fall out of my hand.
He’s sitting there, in a black suit, bent slightly forward, just like I knew him my whole life. All those evenings he spoke to the students of the Comenium, the ones he healed, he looked like this. He’s even sitting on a bunk bed made of slats. Alex is all about authenticity.
I think this is what he wanted.
For me to see Lebo like this.
So I would shit my pants. So I’d know who’s holding all the cards.
It almost worked. I almost said hello.
I realize I don’t hear the saw any more.
I look at Lebo. But I’m waiting for Alex.
So I’m not surprised when I hear his voice. Plus I’ve got the pliers under my jacket.
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We’re the last ones who know the witnesses personally, he says. And when they die, the museum will be here, so their stories will live on forever. That’s what Lebo wanted, wasn’t it?
He’s between Rolf and me, feeling around for the light switch. Lebo looks even better in the light. Yeah, he looks good. But he’s dead.
You think it was easy getting the old man on a plane? Alex says. We took him from Terezín by ambulance. All bandaged up. To fool the cops, you see?
Uh-huh.
He wanted to leave Terezín and continue his work here. In the Devil’s Workshop. You have to believe me.
They kidnapped him and made him into a puppet. I’m waiting for Alex to turn his back. I don’t want to see his face when I strike.
So did you kill him here?
Here in our museum Lebo will be for everyone, Alex says, bending down to fiddle with the wires. Not just for some spoiled brats from the West, like in Terezín.
Did you kill him?
Kill? Just the opposite! From now on he shall live in eternity, as our conscience, our strength, our weapon, Alex declaims, tugging on the wires poking out from Lebo’s jacket. Do you know it? Song of Lenin. Did you even go to school?
There aren’t any other mummies in the room. Alex’s way of showing Lebo respect, I guess. But I don’t want to hear him. I don’t want to hear his voice coming out of a corpse.
He wouldn’t want you stuffing people, I say. He wouldn’t want you using all those atrocities as a reason to kill more people.
Not even old ones? Alex’s fingers are fiddling with the wires. He still has on the rubber gloves. They don’t even slow him down.
Suddenly it dawns on me that they must have sawed Lebo up in the hotel room where I stayed. Those stains everywhere. They killed him there.
Maruška, hm, I say to myself. I know you’re with Alex. But sorry, I have no choice.
So you don’t believe me that Lebo signed an agreement? Mr Hard-line says. His voice is totally calm. He’s testing the connections.
That he gave us all the cash? That he went to the bank with us completely voluntarily? None of that ‘Your money or your life’ stuff! Don’t you believe me?
Lebo moves. Tips his head – the current has kicked in. It’s Lebo and it’s not.
I was born on a bunk in the camp, it says. It’s his voice – that was how he used to begin his story, in the evening. A soldier pulled my mother out of a typhus pit, says the old man on the chair … a young drummer boy, son of the regiment. They got married and had a son. But my mother … was afraid of open space … I brought her bouquets … ahem, ahem, ahem … The chin of the puppet in the black hat starts to quiver, like the words are getting stuck. It goes silent. His face is yellow, from the light. Lebo’s head nods up and down, something’s jammed.
I can’t help also moving my head a little as I stare at him.
Alex tuts angrily. Tugs on the wires. Crawling around Lebo on all fours, idiot. He doesn’t have a clue that I’m boiling over inside.
So you really don’t think he wanted to be here? Alex says, still showing me his back.
I can sense the movement next to me. It’s Rolf. Shaking his head. Shaking his head: no.
Go fuck yourself, I tell Alex. Really loud. He turns around. Looks at me. Sees the pliers. I’m holding them over my head. I can see his eyes and the terror in them. Now he knows. I have to tolerate it. And I do: I swing my arm and he gets the pliers smack in the face. Teeth crack. He topples over, skull slamming against the concrete. And bang, with the second swing I take out the bulb. I don’t want to see Lebo like this. Humiliated, helpless. More defenceless than when he was a baby. Now he’s just a black lump in the black darkness.
The two of us move. Down the passageway, bits of glass crunch under our feet. We come to an intersection. Stuffed people on every side. In the recesses. Mummies in chairs along the walls. A light bulb or two flickering. But some of the candles have burned out. Never mind, I know my way by heart. Rolf sits down on the ground. Hands me a key. I take it and stick it in my pocket.
Get up, man! We’ve got to run for it!
He shakes his head. I tell him to get up, in both our languages. He shakes his head. I smack him in the face. Hard. And again. He doesn’t even blink. Maybe they’ve been beating him.
You want to stay here with the mummies? You’ll go right off your rocker! Come with me!
He shakes his head.
I put my ear to his lips.
It’s great here, he whispers.
Bullshit!
I’m staying with them. I like it. It’s the closest you can get.
To what?
To horror.
I feel sick. From breathing the air. And Alex might come to. I didn’t finish him off, didn’t have it in me. Thought I did, but I don’t. I’m not going to wait around.
So you’re not getting up?
Go fuck yourself, Rolf says to me.
You too, I tell him, marching off.
Arms stretched in front of me, I run straight into the soft belly of an old woman, dead eyes beneath her scarf, rocking back and forth in a creaky chair. The gloom and darkness don’t bother me, I know how these tunnels work. But Terezín’s were empty. I run, dropping the pliers. Trip over a tool on the ground, bump into the tub, liquid splashes out. I’m bumping into mannequins too, chopping bodies down as I run. Knocking over candles too, the puddles turn blue with flame, drops fly through the dark with a hiss, but now I’m sprinting up the steps. I couldn’t finish Alex off, but the fire isn’t my fault, is it? Yes, no, yes, no, I don’t know. At last I see the massive plate covering the door: the exit.
I run out. Slam the door shut behind me. Take a deep breath. And another. Drink in the air, relief. Suddenly the noose pulls tight around my neck, and I slip, fall on my back, I can’t feel a thing.
So the two of you worked it out? says a voice as I come out of my fog. My head is in Maruška’s lap. We’re in the tent.
Does it hurt? You had a rope around your neck. I just tugged it for fun. Sorry!
Ice, I say with some effort. My head feels like it has axes floating around inside it.
She drops two pills in my mouth. Hands me a glass. Takes one herself.
Alex was on my case pretty bad, what with you running away all the time. So I snagged you. Just for practice, though!
I sit up. Look around.
So you finally wised up and decided to give us those records of yours.
How do you know? Everything’s better after those pills. As usual. But my neck is going to be one giant bruise.
Alex would never have let you leave otherwise. From the museum. I would’ve been upset if he’d gutted you.
Upset? You mean it?
You swallowed it, didn’t you?
I nod.
So go shit it out.
She didn’t have to be so vulgar about it. If Alex was going to gut me, she’d have given me an injection. But nobody’s going to take out my guts. I lie on my back. It’s nice here. Stove glowing. Rain beating down on the tent.
At least with the rain it’ll take a while for the fire to make its way out of the basement and reach the wood of the cabin. At least I think there’s a fire. There were flammables all over the place. But maybe it went out. And Alex’ll be back any moment. We need to get out of here.
Maruška, I’m embarrassed! I can’t do that in front of you.
Oh, please! You’re like a little kid!
Why don’t we go for a walk so I can loosen up my bowels? Just for a couple minutes, OK?
I don’t know!
I’m frozen solid. You’re a nurse. You should understand.
I could give you something to make you vomit.
Come on, please!
OK, but if that doesn’t work, I’m giving you a laxative.
In the end she agrees to go for a walk. I set off, leading the way. Up the hill towards Khatyn, the dead village. That way we’ll have the hill between us and the museum, in case there’s smoke �
�� she won’t see it. I don’t know what I’ll do if Alex turns up.
The first chimney rises up from the mist ahead of us. And Khatyn’s first demolished house. What’s left of it. We walk side by side. She’s got her satchel. Just like when we were walking in Minsk, Sun City.
Hey, I say to her, getting my courage up. What about your boys, your kids?
What about them?
Who are they with now? Their grandma?
No.
So where are they?
They stayed in the house. With the other kids. The older ones. They’ll figure it out, they’ll either run away or hide. Those people won’t hurt them.
You don’t sound too sure.
Nothing’s for sure. But it’s part of the plan, part of the teaching technique.
What plan?
The plan to survive.
Huh?
My boys are faced with situations. Like all of our children. Different situations, so they learn how to cope from early on.
I remember the crazy mob, the screaming, the stones, the sticks, the way the house shook from the explosions.
That’s pretty harsh.
They have to learn how to cope. Nobody knows what’ll happen.
That’s true. Who are the other kids you were talking about?
Our friends’ kids. Mark Kagan was the one who came up with the teaching technique. But the boys are probably safe by now. They’re probably with their dad.
Huh? I thought your husband was Alex.
He’s my brother.
I grabbed her hand and squeezed so hard she gave a little squeal. There was no way she could’ve known that a boulder had just been lifted from my heart. Depriving someone of their brother is awful, I admit. But if I had made orphans of Maruška’s boys, I don’t think I could ever have forgiven myself.
We keep walking uphill. Then along the black stones, past the other ruins. A bell tower or two. Made of stone, not wood. The bells don’t move an inch, even in the wind.
Normally you hear the death knell all the time here, Maruška says, pointing to the belfries.
Yeah?
In memoriam. The bells run on electricity, but we need it for the museum now. Some say it’ll bring us bad luck. What do you think?
