The Inventory: A Novel

by Gila Lustiger

  “A model convoy of Jews,” said Vogt.

  I nodded, for he was right. The convoy, comprising only Jews, was divided up conventionally, children at the front, then women, some with small children in their arms, their husbands of all ages taking up the rear. Almost all the Jews were reasonably well dressed, had shoes and coats, and carried small suitcases or bundles.

  The convoy was supervised by SS men who walked in intervals of four, five, or perhaps six rows alongside the group. I can remember it distinctly, since there was undeniably a certain competence that would have saved me much work had it appeared in our unit

  At the rear of the convoy were four SS men who greeted us with a nod of the head, and Vogt shouted over a risque joke about the BDM,* whom he referred to as the “Baby Distract Me,” and they guffawed with laughter.

  That was just Vogt’s way. His big mouth had gotten him into trouble in the past and he would have long since been sent packing if he were not considered an excellent soldier in every other way.

  Out of curiosity, and to discover whether there was a camp in the vicinity — we had not heard of any but were aware that they were popping up like mushrooms all over the place — we followed them at a distance of thirty meters. After ten minutes they swung off the country road and turned left onto a small path.

  Before we had gone a full kilometer we reached a deciduous forest. Vogt said it could not have anything to do with a camp: the escape possibilities were too great in this terrain, where it was hard to see what was going on and therefore impossible to control.

  “You can’t go putting ideas in their heads.”

  This sort of terrain, Vogt continued, would be asking for trouble. That was why a camp should be set up only on even ground, and then only if the area had been cleared of trees.

  “If one of them rebels,” said Vogt, “you’ll soon have the whole rabble at your throat, and then you can kiss it all good-bye.”

  We came to a clearing, which resembled a building site. A companion from the SS standing over to one side and smoking a cigarette told us it was a petrol storage area that the Russians had built and kindly handed over. We laughed. He held out a package of cigarettes. We refused: we knew how difficult it was to get hold of cigarettes. The SS man told us not to be shy.

  “Like the ‘Baby Distract Me,’” he said to Vogt, and told us to help ourselves. He got a special ration for the job he was about to perform.

  Corporal Zink asked what was going on here.

  “Feel free to look around,” encouraged the SS man, which we immediately did.

  We crossed over the area. In the middle of the clearing a ditch had been dug. The convoy of Jews stood somewhat to the side of it. They had been ordered to drop their luggage and stand in groups of ten. The Jewish women and children were led into the forest. This resulted in some shouting from the families who were split up in this way — the men remained, as I said, standing in groups of ten.

  “If they don’t see it,” the SS man confided to us, “it all goes more smoothly.”

  He was referring to the women and children.

  Vogt, who had taken a camera with him, went to the edge of the hole and took a photograph looking into it at the corpses already there, and joining us again asked the SS man when they completed that lot.

  “We shot them just yesterday,” he said, adding that it had gone without a hitch and that he hoped today would continue without any unexpected incidents. He thought this was unlikely, however.

  “Today there are also children and women,” he said. “They turn wild as soon as they hear the first shot and start screaming. The mothers in particular,” he went on, “can turn quite aggressive.”

  That’s why, the SS man explained, having smoked his cigarette to the end, as he went to the ditch, they were led into the forest, so that they did not see it happening. The first ten men were led to the edge of the ditch. As they had tied their shirts around their heads and could not see anything, they advanced slowly. The first man held onto the truncheon held out to him by an SS man. The other nine — old ones were mixed in with younger ones — held on to the man in front of them.

  When the first one reached the edge, the chain stopped. The SS man pushed the second Jew next to the first one. And so it went until they were all lined up next to one another.

  Vogt said he thought this method was a time-waster — by the second line-up at the very latest the Jews would realize they were going to be bumped off, so they could forget that blindfolding business.

  “You may be right,” responded Corporal Zink, “but a glimmer of hope always remains. That’s human nature. They think it can’t happen to them, so the method is not unrefined.”

  I didn’t have an opinion on all this, and listened attentively.

  The first group of Jews was shot. The shots came in a volley of fire from ten SS men standing about twenty meters behind the row. The Jews fell into the pit. An SS man stepped forward, checked if there was anyone still moving in the pit, and in some cases gave an extra shot in the head.

  The second row was set up at the edge of the pit. Vogt took a photograph of them, taking a step backward so that he could fit in all ten Jews. Five minutes later that group was shot dead and the third row stepped forward.

  I was starting to get cold, and as I thought we had seen enough now, I asked if we shouldn’t be getting back. Vogt replied that I could go if I wanted to, Zink too, but that he wanted to watch the women and was thinking of photographing them. Since Zink wanted to stay too, I stayed with my companions and lit my cigarette.

  It must have the fourth or fifth group, when a man broke out of the line, tearing the shirt from his head, and ran toward us. It was an elderly Jew. He stood in front of us. In immaculate German, he rolled his r a little but that was it, he asked us what we wanted from them.

  “I am just a watchmaker,” said the Jew. He was trembling all over.

  Vogt took a photograph of him.

  “Jew facing death,” he said, and took another photograph of the SS man beating him with his truncheon to the pit.

  The Jew fell headfirst into the pit. Vogt asked if he could take a photograph.

  “Yes,” someone told him. “If you are quick.”

  They were already behind time, and wanted to do the whole convoy, including women and children, before it got dark. They did not have any searchlights to keep watch or to aim.

  “Now I have him dead too,” said Vogt when he came back.

  Naturally things did not proceed as smoothly as the SS man had hoped. Some Jews had to be beaten up to get them to the pit. Others tried to escape and were shot on the spot. Lots of Jews hung white cloths around their shoulders and went praying to the pit. Those that were praying refused to blindfold themselves. The officer in charge permitted this, for they went without a peep to the edge of the pit. This was a sign of his ability to adapt to situations, invaluable in such an operation.

  A middle-aged Jew threw himself at an SS man who, after the Jew had been beaten back into his row by two other SS men with truncheons, shot him in the arms and legs that had touched the officer: when he collapsed he was shot in the stomach and thrown into the pit alive.

  “Now he will die a wretched death,” said Vogt.

  Corporal Zink agreed with him and added that he had been a fool, as he had to die anyway.

  “Surely it is smarter to die as quickly and as painlessly as possible, which can be the case only if the men have a chance to aim.”

  “Logic,” answered Vogt, who had also photographed this incident, “is not their strength.”

  We stayed at the place of execution for two hours in all. I could no longer say how many groups were led to the pit’s rim. In any case, the pit was filled almost to the top with piles of corpses.

  The children had their turn before the women. They were allowed to stay dressed and also did not have to be blindfolded.

  “There is no point,” said the SS man, who was taking a break and had joined them. “They are afra
id of the dark. We’ve tried it before, but it had the exact opposite of the desired effect. The children sank to the ground crying, and we had to polish them off there. A messy business.”

  Corporal Zink said that he felt sorry for the children. You could see the fear in their eyes as they cautiously stepped to the edge of the pit.

  “Jews’ children,” responded Vogt. He was renowned for his candid opinions.

  A boy around age eleven or twelve clung to a stamp album so tightly with both hands that it looked as though it was helping him stand up. He did not want to go and was prodded forward by an SS man holding a stick. The boy kept looking around him and shouting something I did not understand. Probably his special name for his mother, as the letter I was in it.

  Lots of small children between the ages of five and ten had dolls or cuddly animals with them that they pressed to their thin bodies.

  “They are simply allowed to take them with them?” asked Vogt.

  “You try getting them to let go," replied the SS man.

  “That is their obsession with possessions,” said Vogt, thereby earning a disapproving look from Corporal Zink and myself.

  The children really flew into the pit, the impact of the shot throwing their light bodies in the air. I had had enough and said I didn’t want to wait for the Jewish women. Corporal Zink joined me. Vogt would not have found his way back by himself, so he had to leave too.

  An hour later we reached the school. The way back had been longer, since we had lost our way several times. Night had fallen unexpectedly quickly.

  I took leave of my comrades and found a restaurant where I was served right away and sat myself next to four fellow soldiers, who were just back from home leave. They had lots to tell. I drank two glasses of a brown bitter-tasting beer that was brewed in the area. After three hours or thereabouts, I returned to my room and hung up the rest of my clothing in the steel cupboard that I had been allocated.

  * Bund Deutscher Mädel: League of German Girls.

  Costume Jewelry

  … for the criminal as well

  as for the best of men

  shine the moon and the stars.

  — Goethe

  “Run,” the soldier said.

  He looked at him incredulously.

  The soldier pushed the black barrel of his gun into his belly.

  “What are you waiting for? Go on, before I change my mind.”

  He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It was an unusually hot day. The air was shimmering restlessly and made the dark red roofs of the village between the pine trees and olive trees seem as if they had been painted by a shaky hand. The soldier took off his cap and held it as a sunscreen in front of his screwed-up eyes. He had hair the color of corn, cut short thus emphasizing the squareness of his skull, and pale freckly skin. His nose and the top curve of his protruding ears were glaring red.

  They had all been caught. Even the fat one, although he had run as far as the wood, where the hill began. He knew the paths on the hillside, for his grandfather and father had been shepherds.

  He shook his head. He did not consider making a run for it. He knew what would happen as soon as his back was turned.

  “You look in the eye of man when you …” He imitated the pulling of a trigger with his thumb and forefinger.

  They had fought until they ran out of ammunition. He had torn open the last boxful and distributed the bullets. They had lost because they were fishermen, a few farmers too, but not soldiers.

  They had held their position for barely half an hour, and had been forced back closer and closer to the village where, as they approached, the wooden shutters were pulled shut so that they did not have to see the terrified faces of their wives and children and their wives did not have to watch their defeat.

  If only he had not listened to Luca, who had called him a coward and who was now standing alongside the others in the country lane. He turned his head to the side and looked over at the small group. He recognized the old man by his limp. Ludvig held his arm tight. He was the eldest son and had not married. A few months ago he had taken over the bar. He had had the place whitewashed and taken his father’s place in front of the gleaming yellow and bronze bottles, for his father, known to all simply as “the old man,” suffered from backache.

  He had hoped to turn the bar into a restaurant, where the better families of the village would come to dine on Sundays, and as time went on families from the neighboring villages would come and, who knows, perhaps even townfolk. But the locals simply ignored the menu and the other novelties, and even the walls disobeyed his dreams — a few months later the fatty smell of cooking and tobacco smoke had turned them gray again.

  The soldier followed his gaze. “They will be shot.”

  Anton shrugged his shoulders. Now we need him back here, he thought, remembering Ludvig’s brother, his childhood friend, who had taught him how to read when the priest wanted to throw him out of school. He had escaped from the village, for he neither wanted to be a fisherman nor run a bar or restaurant, and the village was too small for him. He had married a city girl, and they now lived with her parents.

  “You are probably afraid that I am going to sink that little black fellow in your back?” asked the soldier. “Or are you hoping to put down roots here?”

  It was one and the same thing. He turned around. In front of him the deep blue sea was shimmering. If only I had not listened to Luca, he thought, then I would be waiting for evening in the shade of the boats, passing around the bottle. No, he considered, the bottle would be for me alone, because everyone is here. And he reflected upon how strange fate could be, that they were now to die in this dusty country lane.

  He knew the way inside out, they had been here countless times, it being the quickest route to the sea. But he had never taken much notice of the lane, his eyes had always been fixed on the sea, which from this elevation lay there in all its glory. He had never had any reason to. In this country lane, then, not like the unfortunate victims of the waves out at sea.

  This is not a nice death for a fisherman, he thought, but then found this ridiculous, for no form of death was nice.

  Oh, why not, then, he thought. He waited. Any second now he will aim at my head. He tried to listen for the pulling of the trigger, but could hear only the crickets rubbing their front wings together. He slowly made his way toward the hill and stared at the sea.

  He wanted to be in the water and submerge his hot head and hot body, which seemed too bulky to him, too large a mass to target, in the salt waves, to swim so far out that everything around him was dark blue and cool, and the coast, the beach, the country lane, and the village were merely thin ocher-colored strips in the distance.

  He took another step and passed the tree that the old women in the village believed was cursed, for hardly any leaves ever grew on it. If he lets me get as far as the scrub then I’m free. Then he would have to search for me. Three more steps and then I’m free.

  “Holy, holy mother Mary.”

  He broke into a run. Thorns ripped his hands and legs. He thrashed his way through the thicket and tripped.

  He lay motionless on the ground, for how long he could not say, and listened to his ragged breathing. Then he crawled farther on all fours and sat crouched. The yellow grass was high. It cast long, thin shadows, that looked like the silhouette of a virgin. His thoughts turned to the women in the village, who would be staring petrified at the doors through which their men should return.

  By now they would be starting to realize that their men were not coming back. But nonetheless they would prepare the meal, set the table, put a glass and a bottle of wine next to the plate. He licked his wounds, they tasted salty. He had not heard any shots, just isolated screams. Perhaps they were asking each person individually, to be able to get others too, or they were letting them go free. No, that was unlikely.

  He would have liked to have stood up, to stretch his legs, but instead he went on his hands and knees to the slope an
d carefully climbed down. Although he offered an easy target, he stood at the foot for a moment and looked out to sea, a deep luminosity. Then he raced to the boat and scrambled beneath the nets.

  He had had to mend the nets for three whole years before he was allowed to sail out and throw the nets out and pull them in. It was only after that first night alone at sea that he understood what they were talking about as they sat at the old man’s, and why they called the sea the origin of everything and the boundary to beyond.

  What good did it do him? Did not even have his own boat, and those others who did have a boat of their own, what good was it to them? He pushed the net from his face because it was difficult to breathe, and although he did not want to, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

  He woke up with a fright, because he thought he had forgotten to cast the net, looked around him, saw the black sea, and the deep dusky sky, and remembered where he was.

  They had forgotten about him. The young soldier, who had followed him. had let him run free, and the others, who had told him to catch the escaping prisoner, had forgotten him. His body ached all over. The soldier had randomly let him go. Why him and not one of the others, the little one with three children, or his brother, who was also married, or Alex, who was to be engaged in a month’s time?

  “One, two, three, four …”

  He started to count. After the tenth shot he stopped. You swine, he thought, you accursed murderers are killing all the men in our goddamned village. He ran up to the hill and tried to scale it in one leap, but slipped and listened to the peculiar rhythm of volleys of firing. They came erratically, like the angry heartbeat of a fish thrashing in the net.

  “You goddamned, goddamned …”

  He raised his hand to the hill that had seemed so enormous to him as a child, let it drop again. Then he turned round, went to the surf and sat down in the wet sand. The salt water was pleasantly warm, and stung his grazed skin.