The Book of Dirt Page 9

  The teacher sat at his desk watching as the young dreamer surveyed the dawning of a new city. Was the boy recalcitrant, touched or, as he often suspected, blessed? Either way it amounted to the same thing. Arnošt Flusser was a nuisance. It was not within the teacher’s powers to instruct such a child. At most he could help the boy survive, making sure he was not the butt of the other children’s scorn. But there were limits. Every few days he would send Arnošt to stand in the corner because, the teacher would tell himself, examples must be made.

  ‘Master Flusser! To the back. Now!’

  Not that it seemed to bother the boy. On the contrary. The teacher suspected that he relished the opportunity to escape into his imagination, that he saw it as a reward. He could never tell. Best to leave him be. But today was different. Today the teacher wanted to storm to the corner and grab Arnošt by the ear, shake him and scream at him: ‘Can’t you see what you’re doing?’

  For everyone else in the room nothing had changed. Why then must this one child insist on reminding them that the streets were no longer their own? That the moment the bell rang, and the doors flung open, they would step out into purgatory—and Arnošt, the only Jew, into hell? And yet the teacher did not have the strength to stand up, to walk those few steps, to take hold of the boy. Slowly, he exhaled. He had not slept in days.

  At four-thirty that morning the teacher had rested the wireless on his lap, adjusting the frequency, hoping to hear the message without interference. It was from the State President and the Minister of Defence. ‘German Army infantry and aircraft are beginning the occupation of the territory of the Republic at zero six hundred. The slightest resistance will cause the most unforeseen consequences and lead to the intervention becoming utterly brutal. All commanders have to obey the orders of the occupying Army. The various units of the Czech Army are being disarmed. Military and civil aeroplanes must remain on their aerodromes and none must attempt to take to the air. Prague will be occupied at six-thirty.’ If only it were a hoax, a radio play, like last year’s Halloween broadcast that had caused panic in distant lands. How he had laughed when he heard. But not now.

  The teacher had already resigned himself to the occupation. He knew it was coming. First the Sudeten, then the Slovaks. Only yesterday there had been an attempt to start riots in the streets, to incite his countrymen to fight and make victims of the German minority, victims that the little madman’s army might swoop in and rescue. Of course it failed, the Czech people would not rise to petty provocations. But it did not matter. The rescue was already underway. And as he prepared for that chunk of earth that was Czech without Slovakia to be tacked once again onto its northern lands, all the teacher could think about was that six o’clock was a terribly inconvenient time. How was he supposed to get to school to instruct the children?

  The teacher made sure to leave home early. He did not want to be held up at roadblocks or, worse, crushed by some wayward tank. He gathered his books and stepped out the front door. Orbs of hazy light seeped from the street lamps, struggling against the unforgiving Prague night. The teacher could just make out others who had put forward their daily schedule by an hour or two.

  ‘Ahoj,’ someone called out.

  ‘Ahoj,’ he replied into the darkness.

  This is what it took to be normal, to ignore the occupation, to show that life went on. The teacher listened for signs, explosions, the thunder of gravel crunching under wheels. But all he could make out was a howling gale as jagged shards of tiny icicles smashed into the side of his head.

  And yet, on the wind there were whispers he could not hear. The conquering forces had been delayed. There was resistance. Their vehicles were breaking down. They were lost. The sun had begun to edge over the horizon and there were no tanks, no guns, no motorcycles, no planes. Prague was still free. The teacher made his way down Platéřska Street and turned into Křižovnická. He hurried, his collar pulled high. At the school’s entrance, he fumbled with his keys, then strode down the corridor to his classroom. All was as it should be. Soon the radiator would come on and the thaw would begin.

  The teacher jumbled the sticks of chalk, making sure that there was no discernible order because, he thought, chaos is freedom. He wiped the top of his desk, although it was not dirty. That is what a free man can do. And then he slumped into his chair and awaited the arrival of the sun, of children and tanks, wondering which would come first to snatch this precious freedom away.

  ‘Children, please,’ the teacher said. They had stopped listening, and turned instead to watch Arnošt Flusser and revel in his mute rebellion. How could the teacher hope to impart knowledge anyway, today of all days? The bell had sounded, and he had tried to call them to order, but it was too late. The storm was finally upon them. Peace in our time.

  Groups gathered in the street: student fascists from Vlajka in dark, starched uniforms, like-minded Germans and fräuleins, clutching bouquets of forget-me-nots to their sparsely covered breasts, flowers to throw upon the advancing soldiers on the off chance that their bodies failed to attract the desired attention.

  The Vlajka students marched onwards to meet the approaching army, drunken fire still raging in their bellies from a night spent fighting with police outside the Deutsche Haus on Na Příkopě Street. There was no satisfaction to be had in that fracas. It was not like September, those few glorious months after Munich, when they had stormed the streets with impunity and given the Jewish parasites a taste of what was to come. It now seemed a lifetime since their nostrils had filled with the sweet smell of smoke from Jewish shops and synagogues. Five months. Yes, a lifetime.

  Now, in the presence of their saviours, they would be born again.

  And so they marched on, these fledgling fascists, brushing clumps of snow from their shoulders, gazing at the columns of motorcycles, each with three soldiers, that were riding towards the centre of the Reich’s newest city. They marched in anger, in shame, that the whole city had not come out to welcome their new masters. Only one of them stopped and turned around, catching sight of something that filled him with hope, with happiness. There in the window, three floors up, was a little boy, an honourable citizen, holding his hand high in salute.

  Heil Hitler.

  2

  ‘To Anděl Richter and his festering cesspool of the inferior race!’

  A chorus of cheers erupted from around the room as glasses were thrust into the air, waves of beer spilling onto the floor. Anděl Richter shook his head, made a bow and turned back towards the kitchen. To those crowded inside he was a hero, a joker and quite possibly the shrewdest businessman in all of Prague. Across the city, at Café Manes and the Hanau Pavillion, on Slavic Island and at national clubs as far out as Smíchov and Strašnice, signs were popping up forbidding entry to Jews or quarantining them to sections away from the general view. But not at Café Palivek. Richter had refused to put up a sign, kept it all intentionally vague. Within days of Reichsprotektor von Neurath’s August expansion, Café Palivek was seen as an escape from the occupation, a place where patrons of all kinds could mingle unmolested. No doubt things would have continued as such had an off-duty German soldier not wandered in one evening and taken offence when asked by a tipsy Jewish man for a cigarette. A shouting match ensued and was about to turn violent when four quick-thinking patrons surrounded the soldier and bustled him out. As the man slunk into the dark streets, Richter was still at the door, waving his cleaver and shouting obscenities.

  The following morning he was visited by the Gestapo. ‘If you wish to permit Jews inside,’ said the larger one, ‘you will put up a sign restricting them to a particular area. Don’t test us, Herr Richter. The rules are very clear. Any further breaches will result in the immediate transferral of this business to somebody more amenable. Good day.’ Richter obeyed, but in a way that was very much his own. He drew up a large sign and placed it near the entrance so that only two booths in the café were not ‘For Use By Jewish Patrons’. Then he sent his waiters, his chefs, his cooks,
his friends, everyone he could possibly muster, out on the streets to spread the legend of Anděl Richter and his minor rebellion. As some told it, he had kicked out Reichsprotektor von Neurath himself and lived to tell the tale. Business began to boom, so much so that Richter was forced to employ new wait staff. He genuinely came to like these Jews. He liked the air they brought to his establishment. They smelled like money.

  Jiří Langer dug in his pockets and pulled out a wad of notes. ‘Richter will swing one day,’ he said. ‘Old Konstantin will come down personally and drag him by the ear to Hradčany Castle. You’ll see him hanging from the tallest turret, flapping in the wind like a white flag.’ He slapped the cash onto the beer-soaked table. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Help a man into poverty.’

  Georg Glanzberg reached across and grabbed the money. ‘Another round? Dr Jakobovits? Jakub?’

  Jakub R sipped at the cloud of bitter white froth that floated across the rim of his glass. Georg shook his head and laughed. Tobias Jakobovits downed what was left of his drink. ‘Something smaller then,’ Georg said. ‘A tumbler. Maybe a thimble. Try to keep up.’ Jakub watched his friend disappear into the crowd.

  ‘I’ve had another letter,’ said Langer. ‘Max has finally settled in Tel Aviv. A nice apartment, he says, for a fledgling city. Elsa still berates him that he chose to take a suitcase of papers. Every day she rattles off the list of what they left behind. Of course, he couldn’t have taken anything valuable but she won’t hear it. She has banished him and his suitcase to the smallest room in the apartment. Meanwhile, he busies himself with the theatre. It’s the only art form he still abides.’

  Langer dabbed at his lips with a napkin. His weary eyes lent him a distant air, as if his presence in Prague was now only physical. His announcement that he intended to leave for Palestine came as little surprise. He had long been a spiritual nomad: a committed Jew who could not decide which of the various images of Gods was His true face, and who was willing to walk to the ends of the earth to find out. As a young man he had ventured to Belz and immersed himself in that community’s strange interpretation of Hasidism. It was, if Jakub had read Langer’s account correctly, more akin to the mysticism practised in the Far East, complete with transcendental meditation and levitation. In other words, utter nonsense. When Langer returned to Prague, his own brothers hardly recognised him, and within months he journeyed back to Belz to finish his apprenticeship. It passed through him like a fever, and while he still professed a strong interest in Hasidic ideals, he returned once again to the city, shaved his beard and nestled up to a new god, Zionism. He now proposed to follow his old friend Max Brod to Palestine, not to escape any potential threat—Langer still had faith in the essential decency of the Czech people and was sure they would protect the Jews from harm—but to sow the seeds, quite literally, of an eternal homeland. He would not wait for the coming of the Messiah or the construction of the new holy temple, because Palestine was itself the Messiah, and fertile fields would be temple enough.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Otto Muneles eased his portly frame into the booth beside Jakub. ‘Duty called.’ Short and ruddy-faced, Muneles spoke with a voice more accustomed to conversing with the dead: soft, low and without any discernible inflection. It was something he had honed while travelling with Langer among the Hasidim, when he was expected to exude no aura, make no mark, speak with no one. Back in Prague, he all but disappeared from communal life, unable to relate to those around him. When the head of Prague’s Chevra Kadisha—the Jewish Burial Society—died, Muneles was named his successor. Now his days were spent sitting and watching over the bodies of the recently deceased, patting them clean with a white cloth, and preparing them for their return to the earth. Only the news of Langer’s imminent departure had lured him from his kingdom of boxed pine. He was not even aware of the curfew that was to begin the following day. It was of no consequence; his life was already spent casting shadows.

  ‘So we heard,’ said Langer. ‘Bad news travels.’

  ‘Fuchs?’

  ‘Poor fellow,’ said Jakobovits. ‘He left a note?’

  ‘Only one line: We have no homeland.’

  Jakobovits leaned in to the group. ‘See what becomes of a soul without stimulation?’ he said. ‘They took away his country. They took away his business. And he loved both of those more than he loved life itself. Give a man time with his idle thoughts and soon enough he’ll conjure a noose.’

  ‘He jumped,’ said Muneles.

  ‘A cleaner end, for sure. And more certain. Perhaps he left it to God. Here, you choose.’

  ‘A dilemma for our dear rabbi, I suppose,’ said Langer. ‘Where to put all these suicides? The corner must be full by now.’

  Muneles’s eyes narrowed, and he pushed his glasses to the bridge of his pug nose. ‘Fuchs was buried like any other man. In these times we need not make excuses. To jump from a window is a natural death. The widow cried, but only because he hadn’t dragged her out with him.’

  ‘Natural, indeed,’ said Jakobovits. ‘If the Community Council hadn’t found me something at the school when they closed the library, heaven knows what I might have done. This city is my life.’

  ‘And Palestine?’ said Muneles.

  ‘Is suicide of a more protracted kind, where you die clinging to an idea. Isn’t that right, Jiří?’

  ‘There is no limit to what an idea might sow,’ said Langer. ‘From some grow beautiful crops. Herzl was an idealist. There can’t be much more labour in building a state than in tearing one down. Look at us here. In our own lifetimes we have lived in four different countries. And we didn’t have to move an inch.’

  ‘Masaryk would be turning in his grave.’ Tobias Jakobovits sat up and tugged at his lapel. ‘While we are being legislated out of existence, he is in heaven crying. Every time it rains I lick my coat cuffs expecting to taste salt.’

  ‘Here.’ Georg returned to the group cradling four glasses of beer. ‘Oh.’ He looked at Muneles. ‘I didn’t see you come in. I can—’

  ‘Thanks, no,’ said the other with a dismissive wave.

  ‘So which dune in the stinking desert will you call home?’ continued Jakobovits.

  ‘I’d always picked you for the Jerusalem kind,’ Jakub said.

  ‘I go where the wind takes me,’ said Langer. ‘The city, a kibbutz…I’ll find my feet. Max says he has a few leads for my book. I’d like to be published there. It’s a fine way of putting down roots in a new homeland.’

  Jakobovits shook his head. ‘Until the dirt shifts,’ he said.

  ‘Who knows what will be?’ Langer turned to Jakub. ‘You of all people should understand. A teacher? Who’d have thought it? One week you graduate law school and the next…Here you are. Taking my place. Come on, Tobias. Admit it. You’re happy to have him.’

  ‘Of course I am. But, Jiří, it’s a poisoned chalice you pass on.’

  ‘Rather his poison than theirs,’ said Georg.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Langer. ‘Theirs is a crooked jurisprudence. Even the simplest act of conveyancing is theft. How would Jakub spend his days? Transferring Jewish factories to Aryan hands? No, don’t pity him. He’s been spared. You should pity his poor classmates instead, having to submit to the dictates of our new rulers. He should teach.’

  ‘And stay to fight,’ said Jakobovits.

  ‘Jáchymova is hardly the resistance,’ said Langer.

  ‘But you’re wrong,’ said Jakobovits. ‘Staying in Prague is an act of resistance. This entire city simmers with rebellion. This is not Poland. And meanwhile you abandon ship and we gather here to smash a bottle of our finest wine on the hull of your lifeboat.’

  ‘I wish I shared your faith,’ said Muneles.

  ‘You do, Otto. You’re staying. Look, this is not the time for petty tribalism. Zionism is a golden calf, weakening us in the face of a terrible threat. We divide, they conquer. Where does your loyalty lie, Jiří? To the people who continue to stand by us even while their own freedoms are compromised, or to so
me idea that seeks to place our entire people in a sandy ghetto? I will not leave Prague. None of us will. This is the seat of Jewish life, with or without their laws.’

  ‘Please, Tobias,’ said Muneles. ‘Jiří is an ideologue, a poet. He is not a deserter.’

  ‘No,’ said Langer. ‘I’m a realist. Reichsprotektor von Neurath has gelded us with his decrees. I do not intend on spending this war in quarantine.’

  ‘You’d prefer to wilt in a faraway desert,’ said Jakobovits, ‘digging ditches and being accosted by camels.’

  Jakub laughed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘L’chaim,’ said Georg, raising his glass. ‘To our friend Jiří Langer and his ever-shifting ideals. To the last great wandering Jew. I think what Dr Jakobovits means to say is that we’ll miss you.’

  ‘Why?’ Jakobovits would not let go. ‘He’ll be back soon enough. In the meantime you and Jakub will keep his seat warm. That’s why you worked like dogs, right? Earning your fancy doctorates in disciplines now forbidden to us just to be stuck at Jáchymova?’

  ‘It may not be their first choice of profession,’ said Langer, ‘but in times like these it will do.’

  ‘Does that make it easier?’ Jakobovits interrupted. ‘Will you sleep better on your journey knowing that you sail on the winds of their broken dreams?’

  Jiří Langer reached across and put his hand on Jakub’s arm. ‘Forgive him, Jakub. The Rebbe of Belz once told me that sometimes learning is an end in itself. I know you’d hoped for more and, to be frank, I don’t know what I’d do in your position, if all I’d worked for came to nothing.’