Galerie

by Steven Greenberg

  “The vote,” Jonas yelled over the roar of traffic, “will likely come sometime next month.” They accelerated away from the intersection, racing one of Prague’s omnipresent red and white trams. “I’m in favor,” he yelled again, “even though the majority of citizens, at least according to the polls, are not.”

  The landscape was becoming more and more urban now, low-slung office buildings giving way to high-rise apartment buildings, until Jonas finally turned right off the parkway into a pleasant residential street. They drove for several more minutes before turning left onto U Laboratore Street.

  Vanesa started at the street name. She hadn’t realized where exactly Aunt Agata lived, and looked to Jonas with an inquisitiveness that bordered on alarm.

  He smiled ironically, wordlessly reassuring her, understanding completely the source of her angst.

  They both knew well the story of another young woman, only several years older than Vanesa was now when she arrived to this very street in Prague 53 years earlier, almost to the day. This young woman, too, had come at a time of great change in the city, a time of great promise for some, of great tragedy for others. She too had arrived with hopes and aspirations, expectations and dreams no less real than Vanesa’s.

  Round-faced and pretty, Veronika Eichmann, née Liebl—Vera to her friends and husband—must have been pleased with quiet U Laboratore Street, Vanesa thought, looking down the wide, shady lane. She must have been overjoyed at the lovely house her husband, SS-Obersturmfuhrer Adolf Eichmann, had procured at number 22 U Laboratore—the former residence of a wealthy Jewish family.

  She’d married him late, a slim twenty-six to his twenty-nine years, when he was an SS-Scharfuhrer, just a corporal. He’d just taken the first significant step in what was to be a meteoric career, when he transferred into the Jewish Department of the SD, the Security Service of the SS. Four years later, they lived in Berlin, and Adolf continued to climb the ladder. In short order, he earned the prestigious posting to Vienna, heading the Zentralstelle fur judische Auswanderung in Wien—‘the Central Agency for Jewish Emigration in Vienna’. This posting had proven a challenge for Eichmann, but he’d risen to it grandly, earning the respect of his superiors. Vanesa recalled that Eichmann had actually considered the posting to Prague a step back—fewer Jews, less capital involved.

  Vanesa wondered whether Veronika Eichmann ever thought, even in passing, of the family into whose home she moved. As Jonas parked the car on the street in front of number 18, Vanesa doubted she had. It would simply have been a given, something as unquestioned as tap water. After all, did one ponder the organisms that ceased to exist during the water purification process?

  As Vanesa climbed out of the car, the familiar pain from the now-healed wounds on her back came in a quick flash, as it always did when she’d been sedentary for too long. They left her luggage in the trunk, as she would be staying in Jonas’s spare bedroom, near the museum in the Josefov quarter.

  They stood in front of the large brick house, perhaps considered a mansion in its grander days, which were now long past. It had been crudely chopped up into apartments, each with a separate entrance. Jonas pressed the intercom button next to the door labelled Wolff, and waited for an answer. When none came, he pushed on the entryway door, and it swung open.

  “They often leave it unlocked,” he said over his shoulder, leading her inside the entranceway.

  They followed a narrow hall that had been built against the house’s external wall, and climbed a rickety metal-and plastic-enclosed staircase that hung precariously from the same wall. Their feet left deep impressions in the pile carpet that covered the stairs, each step detonating mushroom clouds of dust, clearly visible in the afternoon sunshine that slanted through the opaque roof.

  Vanesa smiled, basking in the sun’s warmth, which was magnified by the intimacy of the enclosed space. She watched the dust as it whirled in patterns that would bring a chaos theorist to orgasm, before it fell in graceful slow motion back to the carpet. She felt as light as the brightly-lit stairs, as carefree as the dust mites swimming in the air around her. Her euphoria was born of relief, as if she’d made it nearly across a dilapidated footbridge over a deep chasm, with terra firma just steps away.

  She hadn’t forgotten the deep sorrow of Marek’s injury, but she’d had months of late-night overseas calls with him, and these had truly tempered her sense of the tragedy. Marek had been surprisingly upbeat even from their very first call—probably putting on a stoic mask for her benefit, she thought at first. Yet their almost daily chats had revealed that Marek’s stolidity was not affected.

  He had truly and wholly accepted the radical change in his life, the upheaval of his personal and professional plans for the future. “I’ve always been a fan of Epictetus,” he’d told her simply one late night.

  She’d been sitting on the couch, her smooth legs curled under her nightgown, her hair still pillow-mussed, unable to sleep owing to the nagging pain in her back.

  “We have no real control over what happens to us,” he’d continued. “We can influence events, but overall, humans suffer far more from their pointless attempts to obtain the illusion of control, than from actual events themselves. So I accept what happened to me. What else can I do? Besides,” he finished with a chuckle, “I’m the portly son of a prominent Czech Nazi, who works in a Jewish Museum cataloging items stolen by the Nazis from the Jews. How else could this tragicomedy have possibly turned out?”

  Vanesa had laughed out loud at this, for in the face of such logic, was laughter not preferable to tears?

  She did not dwell on Marek’s physical condition as she alighted the stairs behind Jonas. Rather, she was wholly focused on what she’d heard from him about Marek’s discovery. It had always been about the symbol, she believed—the key to unlocking her father and grandfather’s wartime experiences. If he’d truly solved it, it would be more than just a revelation, it would be a victory over the secrets that had polluted her childhood, a victory over the silence that had contaminated her relationship with Michael, the silence that always lay just below the surface, a ravenous alligator waiting to drag unsuspecting prey down into its mute realm. She resented, had always resented, his silence, but now she was going to prevail.

  It had cost her, and it had certainly cost Marek, but she would prevail.

  Thus, it was with the triumph of conquerors and anticipation of ardent lovers that they let themselves into the small apartment, each calling “Agata!” or “Marek!” excitedly in turn. This sense of achievement made her discovery of Agata—slumped in the corner of the dining room, a small trickle of dried blood meandering from the single hole in her forehead to the bridge of her nose, flies silently crawling over her eyes and lips, sticky grey matter clinging to the wallpaper behind her—that much more terrifying and incongruous.

  Vanesa screamed and backed out of the room, tripping over one of the many objects she now noticed scattered on the floor. She looked around wildly at furniture overturned, contents hanging lifelessly from half-opened drawers, pictures askew on walls. Still retreating mindlessly from the horror in the dining room, she ran butt-first into Jonas. She turned and, upon seeing his own wide eyes, quickly understood that a similar terror awaited in Marek’s bedroom.

  She pushed past him and found Marek in his bed, face purple and eyes wide open, as if staring at the ceiling in wonder of God himself.

  Prague, July 1942

  The SS-Sturmbannfuhrer considered Irena Dodalova an undeniably attractive woman for her age. He stared at her in the seat next to him, his cold assessment that of a horse trader examining a mare, as his motorcade swept through the streets of Prague with the reckless speed afforded those for whom the police closed off streets. The rushing air from the partially-opened windows of the Grober Mercedes cooled the car somewhat, but the heat remained oppressive even at this hour.

  If only I could travel in the convertible, he thought. He shifted uncomfortably on the leather seat, adjusting his collar while try
ing to maintain dignity in front of the Jewess and mentally cursing the new security regulations, Reinhard Heydrich’s recklessness, Prague summers, and his superior officer, whose pedantic management style necessitated this trip. At least I—and history—stand to gain something measureable from it. And no great progress was ever achieved without some small sacrifice.

  He composed himself and resumed his assessment of the Jewess. Her eyes remained downcast in fear, respect, and perhaps a hint of… defiance? Most likely fear. He cared little. He had nothing to prove. He held her small life in his hands, but that power had ceased to excite him long ago. She was a lovely specimen, however, if a bit old for his tastes, and clearly underfed. They kept them lean in Thereisenstadt, he’d give them that, but she had those long lashes, those dark luscious eyes. Once she gets rid of the rash on her hands from the Mica processing, and those legs are fattened up a bit….

  He thought in passing that if things were different, he’d have the driver pull over and sample the merchandise right now. But there were plenty of local girls that were all too willing, so why bother? And it was too damn hot. To top it off, he reminded himself, one did not become the head of the Central Office for Jewish Emigration by acting crassly and impulsively. Leave that to the troops.

  He mentally closed the subject. He would appreciate that she was a striking Semitic morsel, and leave it at that. He smiled inwardly, for most importantly, she was a talented Semitic morsel, which is why he was bringing her to his boss this morning.

  The four-vehicle motorcade stopped smoothly on the empty street in front of the imposing cream-colored mansion perched at the corner of U Laboratore and Delostrelecka Street. Built close to the street, the house loomed as clean-cut and unencumbered as a freshly-shaven cheek, dominating anyone approaching by car or foot. Two armed guards flanked the low gates of the property entrance.

  SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Hans Guenther waited for the head of his security detail to open the car door, the sign that he could safely exit the stifling armored vehicle. Security had been tightened since Reinhard Heydrich’s assassination two months previous—riding in an open car with no escort, the stupid schwachkopf. In fact, travel had become so tedious that he tried to avoid leaving the office unless absolutely necessary. He motioned impatiently for the Jewess to exit the automobile first, just in case of a sniper, and then instructed the driver to keep her in the entrance hall until he was ready for her.

  They entered the house’s cool interior, and Guenther turned to Irena briefly, addressing her directly for the first time since she’d been brought to him that morning. “Short answers, be positive, no requests whatsoever, agree with whatever he says. He is to be addressed as Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer. Are we clear?”

  She nodded. Thankfully, her German was excellent. More importantly, she seemed to understand what would serve her own best interests.

  The servant showed him in, and Veronika Eichmann met him with a bright smile, looking like the oversized subject of an Adolf Wissel image in her peasant-styled circus tent of a maternity dress. She was enormously pregnant, moving with difficulty but still convivial and chatty.

  Guenther greeted her with a smile. She turned to lead him to the west side of the house, where her husband awaited, and he shuddered inwardly at the sight of her swollen calves and prodigious backside. Revolting. It’s no wonder Eichmann comes to Prague as infrequently as possible.

  She announced his presence to Karl—she always called him Karl—and excused herself to go look in on her sister, gesturing that he should go ahead and enter the airy porch where SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Karl Adolf Eichmann was sitting in a padded wrought iron chair in front of a glass-topped table, sipping his coffee.

  The porch windows were thrown wide, and the shrill chirps of a group of Blue Tits added to the pastoral ambience of the breezy, pleasantly apportioned room. Either Frau Eichmann or the previous residents of this home had a reasonable eye for décor, Guenther thought, standing at attention and waiting for Eichmann to acknowledge his existence.

  “So, what have you and Siedl come up with that couldn’t wait until I got back from Berlin?” Eichmann finally looked up briefly from the previous afternoon’s edition of Der Angriff, which he had flown in daily.

  That permanent squint in his left eye makes the Austrian shit look far shrewder than he actually is, Guenther thought. Still standing at attention, Guenther smiled obsequiously—a gesture Eichmann did not notice as his gaze had returned to the newspaper—and cleared his throat.

  “Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, I have identified a talented Jewish film director who was recently sent to Theresienstadt. At my request, Obersturmfuhrer Siedl, the commandant of Theresienstadt, transported her to Prague. I have brought her here for your inspection this morning.” That ought to get the squinty bastard’s attention.

  And so it did. Eichmann folded the paper neatly and laid it aside. His coffee cup clattered lightly as he replaced it in its saucer. “So, you have brought me a Jewess for breakfast? And what am I to do with her? Is she to film my morning culinary habits?”

  Guenther forced a self-deprecating smile at the inane joke, and continued. “Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, I would like to task the Jewess with making a film about Theresienstadt. I believe that such a film, properly made, could be a most effective tool to assist Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler in showing Germany and the world the excellent conditions we have provided the Jews there.”

  As Guenther had expected, Eichmann was intrigued. Himmler, the head of SS, was itching to show Goebbels at the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda that the SS could face the world without outside assistance. Eichmann, who thought the posting to Prague a step down from Vienna, needed to demonstrate initiative and vision, rather than simply languishing here once he’d gotten rid of the Jews. Guenther had proposed a win-win situation: Himmler would get the prestige of an independently produced SS film, Eichmann would show proactivity and his grasp of the bigger picture, and Guenther… well, he had something to ask of Eichmann in return.

  “Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, the Jewess and her husband, who we believe was a spy for the United States and now resides there, owned a small studio in Prague. She has been widely recognized in her field, and is quite capable of creating the script, directing, and overseeing the production of our film. Perhaps the Obersturmbannfuhrer would like to meet her? Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer?”

  Eichmann started. He had been lost in thought, no doubt already preparing his triumphant introductory speech at the film’s first showing—perhaps in Prague’s grand Rudolfinium hall, perhaps with the attendance of the Fuehrer himself.

  Guenther again donned his best subservient smile and waited patiently for Eichmann’s answer.

  The interview went well. The Jewess had answered Eichmann’s questions succinctly and professionally. She would produce a fine film, Guenther believed. It would complement his own documentary efforts in the museum, which were much farther-reaching, of course.

  Since June that year, his assistant Karl Rahm had been ordered to have all libraries and objects of historical importance that were “collected” from the Jewish communities of Bohemia and Moravia shipped directly to Prague. There, his staff of Jews, headed by the former museum director—Jakobovits was his last name, but he could never recall the Jew’s given name—was cataloging and organizing the mountains of objects no longer needed by their former owners. Tens of thousands of intricately embroidered tablecloths, prayer shawls, Torah covers, velvet phylactery bags, and Torah ark curtains were arriving by train and truck from the far corners of the Protectorate. They were stored in piles, along with heaps of silver Torah pointers, filigreed kiddush cups, spice boxes, menorahs, etrog dishes, seder plates, mezuzot, alms boxes, ritual tahara nail files and combs for preparing the dead, and thousands of other fascinating and curious items that had apparently facilitated the ritual life of the Protectorate’s former Jewish residents.

  His great idea had been born, as so many great ideas were, while drinking beer. Fort
unately, these particular beers had been consumed with Reinhard Heydrich, who had just been appointed as acting Reich Protector of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, replacing in practice, if not in name, the incompetent Konstantin von Neurath. He was the most powerful man in Prague, arguably in the whole of Europe.

  “Herr Reichsprotektor,” he said, speaking boldly, warmed by the informal camaraderie born of several rounds of excellent Bohemian Pilsner. “Do you agree that it is the responsibility of the destroyer, the master, to preserve a taste of what he has destroyed? To leave a legacy that is a record of his triumph, so that future generations will realize that the utopia in which they live came at a price, and will never take it for granted?”

  Heydrich looked surprised at the young officer’s brashness, but nodded his encouragement for Guenther to continue.

  And so he did, for some time. He spoke of destiny, legacy, mastery and rightful places in the order of human society, and he spoke of the wonders he’d seen in New York.

  Heydrich agreed.

  With Heydrich’s support, Guenther brought his vision to fruition. The first exhibit of his museum—this Museum of an Extinct Race, as he thought of it to himself—was set to open in just months.

  But Heydrich was dead now, and the unsentimental Eichmann could either take or leave the museum. He lacked the vision to grasp its significance and importance.

  Thus, Guenther had brought Eichmann a present, a chance to shine in front of the Reich’s crème de la crème. This is how the game was played. The museum, he had no doubts, would continue to grow, but he wanted more, for his vision stretched far beyond Jewish objets d’art.

  A dull ache had begun in his lower back from standing at attention for so long, but this type of opportunity did not present itself every day.

  “Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer,” he began, and Eichmann again looked up, as if surprised to find his junior officer still standing in front of him. “I am happy you are pleased with the film project, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer. I believe it will be of great benefit to the Reich, and to the SS. If I may, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, I would like to suggest another idea. It is a small addition to the late Reichsprotektor Heydrich’s ongoing museum project, but one that I’m sure you’ll agree will add both depth and a powerful realism to this monument to your—that is, the Reich’s—efforts in the resolution of the Jewish Problem in Europe….”