by Jurek Becker
Father nudges me in the row. I look up and hear him say under his breath: “Twenty-five!” Though my mind is already on the coming night, my heart beats faster, now that I have a chance to show what I can do. The numbers come rushing along—the eyes of the German facing us always stay with the number. I’m scared; Father cannot know what kind of a moment he has chosen. I have to press my lips together not to call out too early, then I shout “Twenty-five!” It must have been exactly the right moment, after the woman ahead of me and before Father—the numbers roll away from me without a hitch. It’s a good feeling.
After inspection Father says: “You did that splendidly. Only next time don’t shout so loud.” I promise. He picks me up in his arms—that’s not nice in front of all those people.
We meet—Julian, myself, and Itzek—and wait for the coming night. Julian has noticed that at our chosen place there is no glass on the wall, which is very lucky. Itzek says he noticed that too.
Julian says: “I needn’t bother to go to our old room. I’m going somewhere else right away. Are you going to your rooms?” I consider whether our room is worthwhile: the cloth ball is still there, maybe the flashlight too—it hasn’t shown up yet in the camp.
Itzek says: “Honestly now, who’s scared?”
“Not me,” says Julian.
“Not me either,” says Itzek.
“Not me either,” I say. I ask Julian whether he wouldn’t like to visit his girlfriend when we’re outside.
He answers: “Not at night, silly.”
A cold wind drives us away; only Julian knows where to go. He knows of an empty hut; we run there. Though I don’t like to admit it, Julian is the leader among us. There is no door. We step into the dark room, which contains nothing; only some two-tiered bunks pushed against the walls such as I’ve never seen before. Itzek climbs around on them and jumps from one to the other, like a cat, and Julian looks at me as if everything here belonged to him. Then someone says: “Clear out, and I mean now!” Itzek is so terrified that he falls off a bunk, picks himself up, and runs outside. Julian has already disappeared. I am left standing alone in the middle of the room. The voice, which sounds both tired yet as if coming from a strong person, says: “What’s the matter with you?” I stand there out of sheer curiosity; besides, Julian will see which of us is a coward.
I say: “With me?” Then something white emerges slowly from a bunk, far back in the mountain of bunks. I’ve seen enough. I rush out into the open where Julian and Itzek stand at a safe distance, waiting and perhaps glad, perhaps disappointed, that I have emerged unscathed from the danger. I say: “Phew, you should’ve seen what I saw!” But they don’t want to hear my story. It’s barely raining now.
We decide to meet at our special place and then go over to the wall together. Julian asks, why not meet at the wall right away, and I have a reason: if one of us is late, it wouldn’t be such a good idea to wait for him at the wall.
After we have agreed, Julian says: “We’d better meet at the wall.”
Without giving it much thought I ask: “When are we going to meet anyway?”
We think about this for a bit, then Julian looks at me angrily as if with my question I had actually created the problem. He always needs to blame someone and says to Itzek: “If you weren’t so stupid and still had your watch, there’d be no problem.”
Not one of us can think of a sign in the night to tell the time by. Until Itzek says: “Lights Out is the same time everywhere, isn’t it?” That’s the best idea yet, even Julian can’t deny that, “Lights Out” could be the kind of sign we need. “Right after Lights Out,” says Itzek, “then one more hour, then everybody will be asleep, then we can meet.”
“And how long is an hour?” asks Julian, but he has no better suggestion. We agree on the length of an hour: it is the time that even the last person in the hut needs to fall asleep, and a bit longer. We place our hands one on top of the other and are sworn conspirators and separate until nighttime.
Then I am back with my parents sitting on the bed. My Mother gets up from her sewing and says that I am wet through. She takes off my shirt and dries my head. Many people are walking around in the hut, their hands clasped behind them: one of them is Father. Someone sings a song about the cherries a pretty lass is always eating, about the bright dresses she is always wearing, and about the little tune she is always singing.
For the first time in my life I can hardly wait for night. The fear has gone. That’s to say, it’s really still there but it is not as great as the anticipation I feel. If only I don’t oversleep, I think, if only I don’t oversleep again, I mustn’t oversleep.
I tell my Mother: “I’m tired.” It is still afternoon. She lays her hand on my forehead, then she calls Father. “Strange—he’s tired and wants to sleep.”
Father says: “Are you surprised if someone runs around all day and gets tired?” My Mother gives him an exasperated look. He says: “Let him lie down and sleep, if he wants to and can,” then he starts walking around again.
I lie down. My Mother covers me up. She asks whether anything hurts—she presses a few places. I say impatiently: “Nothing hurts.”
She says: “Don’t be cheeky.” She leaves her hand on my body under the coverlet. I don’t mind—it feels quite pleasant. As time goes by I really do feel sleepy, what with the rain beating on the roof, the people walking around in slow circles, and her hand on my stomach. I think about what I would like to find in the empty houses in the night—it mustn’t be too heavy as I will have to carry it, nor too big; I keep an open mind—just that the word “marvelous” keeps going through my head. I’m sure I shall find something to make people stare and ask: Where in the world did you get that? Then I shall smile and keep my secret to myself, and they will all rack their brains and be envious. I feel I’ll soon be asleep—there’s always a humming in one’s ears just before sleep. There’s no chance of my oversleeping, I think, no matter how tired I may be: every night someone shouts “Lights out!” loud enough to wake a bear. I am quite clever.
I sleep, then I’m awake again. It’s almost time to go to bed. I am given my piece of bread and half an onion. I am a bit surprised that no one seems to notice what remarkable things are going on. Only my Mother insists that something’s wrong with me; her hands keep fluttering over my forehead, and she reminds Father about my coughing. I am about to jump up and show her how well I am, but I remember just in time what a mistake that would be. I mustn’t be well yet—I must go on coughing—otherwise they’ll put me back between them for the night.
“There you see?” says my Mother.
She wants to fetch Professor Engländer, the famous doctor from the next hut, but Father says: “Go ahead, fetch him. He’ll come and examine him, and if next time it’s something really serious he won’t come again.”
A voice calls: “Lights out!” One more hour, I think in alarm. Itzek is lying there now, Julian’s lying there now. I think, for each of them, one more hour. I’m afraid my parents may be able to feel how I’m trembling inside, but they are already at their kissing and whispering again. I never felt so wide awake in my life. Over and beyond the disturbance beside me I am aware of every single thing happening in the hut: the whispering in the next bed, the first snore, a groan issuing not from sleep but from misery, the second snore, the concert of snores, through a gap in the wall a light from the sky. I notice the rain has stopped—somewhere drops are still falling onto the ground, but no longer onto the roof. Two beds further along there’s a very old woman who talks in her sleep. Sometimes it has woken me up. I am waiting for her to start again. Father says one can be a different person in one’s sleep. She is silent. Instead someone is crying—that’s not so bad—crying makes a person tired and soon drop off to sleep. Then I hear a snore that delights me because it is my Mother’s. The sound is very soft and irregular, with little hesitations as if there were an obstacle in its path. None of the elves has put in an appearance yet. Perhaps the rain is keeping them away to
night. A good part of the hour has passed. I don’t want to be the first at our meeting place. The hour will be over, I decide, when Father is asleep too. I sit up and dangle my legs over the side of the bed. If he asks me what’s the matter it means he’s not asleep. But he doesn’t. Itzek is also sitting on his bed, that’s a help. Julian’s heart is also beating fast now. The crying has stopped, and for a long time there have been no more whisperings. So my hour must be up.
I stand beside the bed and nothing happens. Twice that morning I found my way to the door with my eyes shut—to make up for the lack of rehearsal during the night—and I didn’t bump into anything. All I did was step on the toes of an old man who was in my way, and he gave me a piece of his mind. I pick up my shoes. The hour is over. I take one step, then another. The floor creaks a little. During the day you don’t hear that. The darkness is so black that it makes no difference whether your eyes are open or shut. My steps quicken, but suddenly everything stops. I almost fall over with shock because someone screams. It’s that awful old woman. I don’t budge till she is quiet again; what will happen if she wakes my parents, and then: “Where’s our child?” But they go on sleeping because the woman’s screams are part of the night. My legs find the corner by themselves, then I see a gray shimmer from the door—light from the night. The last steps are recklessly fast because it suddenly occurs to me: what if the doors are locked at night! But the door opens with wonderful ease and closes quickly—at last, I’m outside in the camp! I sit down, put on my shoes, and could kick myself: I’ve forgotten my trousers. When I go to bed I always keep my shirt on, taking off only my trousers—that’s my Mother’s system here: the trousers are folded up as a pillow on the bed so no one will steal them. Now I have to climb over the wall in my shirt and underpants. Itzek and Julian will make fun of me.
I can’t find the moon. Yesterday I asked Julian: “What’ll they do to us if they catch us?”
He replied: “They won’t catch us.” I found that very reassuring.
On the ground are puddles. In one of them I find the moon. Of course I stop at every corner and take no risks. I think: even if Father wakes up now, it won’t do him any good.
Beyond the last corner I find Julian crouching by the wall. Of course he laughs and points at me. I sit down beside him on the ground. He is still enjoying the joke.
I ask: “Isn’t Itzek here yet?”
He says: “Look around for yourself, stupid.”
The bottom strut is so low that I can hold it as I sit there; it wobbles a bit. “Maybe he fell asleep,” I say. Julian says nothing—he seems very serious now that he’s stopped laughing. Never before have I been so aware of his superiority. I ask: “How long are we going to wait?”
He says: “Shut up.” I imagine Itzek’s horror when he wakes up in the morning and it’s all over. But now there’s no time for pity. I’m waiting for Julian’s orders and begin to be afraid of the wall. It is much higher than during the day. It grows with every passing moment. When a crow caws overhead, Julian stands up; perhaps the bird’s call was the signal he was waiting for.
He says: “Your Itzek is a coward.”
Later, after we have returned with our booty, I shall be just as great a hero as Julian. It’ll make no difference then who gives the orders now and who obeys. But Julian is silent for so long that I am afraid something may have gone wrong.
I ask: “D’you want to postpone it?”
He says: “Rubbish.” I admit there was also a bit of hope in my question, but now I know we’re going to leave the camp tonight.
“What are we waiting for?”
He says: “Nothing.” He pushes me aside because I am in his way. He tests the first strut, the second, and the third. He can’t reach the fourth from the ground. He steps onto the first strut and is now high enough to touch the fourth. Then jumps down again on the ground. He says: “You go first.”
I ask: “Why me?”
He says: “Because I say so,” and I feel how right he is.
Even so I ask: “Can’t we draw lots?”
“No,” he says impatiently, “get on with it, or I’ll go alone.”
That’s the highest proof that Julian isn’t scared like me; he gives me a little shove, to help me pull myself together. True, I can still think of a few questions I’d like to ask him; but if Julian means it and goes without me I’ll look like a fool. I step up to the wall. He says: “You must grab the third one and step onto the first.”
He pushes from below to make it look as if I couldn’t have managed without his help. I stand on the bottom strut and no longer feel scared of the wall, only of the height. It is a consoling thought that I shall have conquered the wall when Julian still has to face it. It’s like a ladder for giants. First take a big step, then grab hold of a higher strut—not much effort needed for that. On my right is the cool wall, on my left down below Julian stays farther and farther behind. He has turned his face up to the sky and is watching me.
He asks: “How’s it going?”
For the first time in my life I despise him, and from my height I say: “Don’t make so much noise.” I won’t let him know how easy it is; it was only fear that made him send me first. Suddenly, the top of the wall is level with my eyes.
I see a street. I see dark houses, the damp cobblestones on the square. Nothing moves. The Germans really are asleep.
Softly, he calls: “What can you see?”
I call back excitedly: “Way down there is a cart drawn by horses. I think they’re white.”
He calls out in surprise: “You’re lying!”
I say: “Now it’s turned a corner.” I lean my arms on top of the wall. There is a bit of broken glass lying there. They are small pieces—you can’t see each one. I grope along the wall with my hands. The largest piece can be broken off, and I use it to scrape away the other splinters.
“What are you doing?” Julian asks from below.
I carefully brush off the glass with my sleeve and blow. Then I roll over onto the wall. The fear starts up again—most of all I’m afraid of the fear. I have to get my knees under my stomach, that’s the hardest part. For a moment I put my knee on glass. Of course I mustn’t scream. I find a better place for my knee. It must be bleeding now; and Julian, the idiot, calls out: “What’s keeping you?”
I have to turn myself around. I’m desperately afraid of losing my balance. If Julian says one more thing I’ll spit on his head. Then, after turning around, I see him standing down there and for the first time realize how high up I am. Once again I lie down on my stomach. My legs are already outside. I can’t worry about little pains. I let myself down as far as my arms will stretch. My feet find no support because there are no struts here. I hang there and can’t pull myself up again.
I hear Julian calling: “What’s going on? Say something!”
I close my eyes and picture the wall from below, how small it seems when you walk around in the camp. So what can happen? I’ll fall down and hurt myself a bit. I’ve fallen down thousands of times. I’ll get up again and wipe my hands, while Julian will still have to face the climb. What happens if he doesn’t come? I get cold shivers at the thought—I’m hanging here and Julian disappears and goes to bed. I can’t very well go alone into the houses; after all it was Julian’s idea from the beginning. I call: “Julian, are you there?” Then I fly through the air: though nothing has been decided yet, the edge of the wall has detached itself from my hands. The ground is a long time coming. I fall slowly—the wall scraping along my stomach the whole steep way down—finally landing on my head too. I lie there comfortably on my back, keeping my eyes shut for a bit before calmly looking at the sky, which is exactly above me. Then I see Julian’s face on the top of the wall. He’s a good fellow, and he’s got guts too.
He calls: “Where are you?”
Now I must move. I have two pains to cope with, one on my right hip, the other in my head. I say: “Here, Julian.” I feel giddy too. I must move to one side so he doesn’t make
matters worse by landing on my head. I think: But I’ve made it.
Julian has a different method. He sits on the wall. He slides forward; he seems to be hurrying; he supports himself left and right; his arms soon look like wings on him. No, he’s not a coward. He flies to the ground, landing beside me on his back. He gets up much faster than I did. Since I am behind him I walk around him, but he turns so that I can’t see his face and he moves off a few steps. I want to see him and grasp his shoulder, but he pushes me away because he’s crying. Even so he’s got guts.
My headache is sometimes a little one, sometimes a big one. My hip hurts at every step. I ask: “Are your hands bleeding too?” As if this possibility had occurred to him for the first time, Julian looks at his hands, turns them toward the moon. They aren’t bleeding. To comfort him I show him mine.
He says: “What on earth did you do, you donkey?”
I say: “The glass.”
He says: “The whole idea is not to touch that.”
I am shivering—how many jackets does a thief need at night? We are now people in a story, Julian walking ahead; he asks: “Are you still there?” That means he can’t hear me—I slink along as stealthily as any expert. With each step I get more used to my hip, whereas my headache gets worse. Everything is fine as long as I don’t turn my head. Somewhere a dog barks; it is a long way away and has nothing to do with us.
I say: “Why don’t we go into this house?”
We go up to the next house, but the front door is locked. We try every door, but it’s the same with all of them. I cry a little, from my headache and the cold too; Julian doesn’t laugh. He tugs at my sleeve and says: “Come.” That makes me feel better. He says: “D’you know what I think?” And when I shake my head and so cause myself new pain, he says: “I think there are people still living here. That’s why the houses are locked up. Only our street is empty.” I stop outside a window and want to find out whether Julian is right. I stand on tiptoe to see if there are people sleeping in the room. A devil’s face looks out at me—only the pane of glass is between us. I run away, hip and all, so that Julian doesn’t catch up with me until the next street corner.
