Hostias et preces tibi, Domine, laudis offerimus,
joined immediately by the basso, the soprano, the mezzo-soprano,
Faceas, Domine, de morte transire ad vitam.
Franz looked at the face of the girl playing the violin and silently asked her: Hanna, are these simple voices, humble, ordinary, naked, almost archaic, more powerful than the Brahms? Is this ancient, this dead litany more powerful than all of Brahms’s instruments and brilliance? Schachter closed his eyes and smiled. But the girl did not relax the tension that was sustaining her. Receive us as we pass into death. Receive us as we pass:
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Hosanna in excelsis.
Yes, he believed that she had seen him in the pause between the “Sanctus” and the “Agnus Dei.” Eichmann stirred in his chair. The Commandant remained rigid and glanced at his watch. Now the “Agnus,” placating, humble, humiliated, charitable, poor, merciful, fearful. The officers tried to smile. But Franz, looking around him, saw their eyes dampening as they listened to the purest part of the Requiem:
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona eis requiem.
“Forgive me, Isabel. You don’t know how sentimental we can be.”
“I know, Franz. I saw you drinking beer and singing today.”
Schachter hesitated, feeling the emotion in the hall at his back. The girl playing the violin stopped for an instant and Schachter looked toward her questioningly, and Franz, far back in the hall, was asking her to remember those long-ago evenings and their first meeting and their walk across the Karlsbrücke and the afternoons in Maher’s studio and the lonely summer when the city smelled of chestnuts and the banks of the river were alive with grass and flowers and the women who lived in her boarding house went walking in the country and they were left alone and ran up and down the stairs and halls and cooked their meal and told each other what had to be said, I love you, promise not to ask me for anything, when you come back from Germany I’ll be a great soloist and won’t even notice you, I don’t want to go away, it will only be for a few years, it won’t change anything, and I’ll come back, Hanna, wait for me, Hanna, no, Franz, no, wait, not yet, not this way, I swear I’ll wait and you will be the first, alone in the boarding house on a summer Sunday afternoon, the protruding bones of her face illuminated by the slanting light, her green eyes submissive, proud, her dark hair touched by the last sun as they sat beside the open window and ate their meal and looked out across the black stones of Prague’s Jewish cemetery.
They all sensed the change. It wasn’t in the music. It was physical, as if everyone on the improvised stage had stepped forward, Schachter, the soloists, the chorus, the orchestra, as if they had all moved forward one long stride. No longer was it Verdi’s Requiem, that sweet southern requiem from the cities of the sun. It was a circus act now. It was music-hall jazz: three short beats cracking with anger, then the long defiant beat. Bitter voices, agonized and infuriated at once, suddenly awakened, far from the patience of the “Agnus,” heedless of the music, challenging, all in unison shouting:
Libera me! Libera me!
The three violent short beats, then the long drawn one,
Li-be-ra meeeee!
Free me, Lord, from eternal death on the day of overwhelming wrath when heaven and earth shall be shaken! When You shall come to judge with fire! I tremble, fearing that moment of judgment and wrath. When heaven and earth will tremble also. The day of calamity and sorrow, a great and bitter day, the day of wrath. And grant them eternal rest, Lord, and may everlasting light shine upon them. They knocked over our chairs and drawing table, Isabel. They threw our books and drawings and tracings out the window and grabbed Ulrich and stomped on his glasses and kicked him in the kidneys and dragged him away down the stairs. For Ulrich had said no. No. I never saw him again. Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna.
The chorus and orchestra were silent. Schachter turned and faced his audience for the first time. He did not bow. Everyone waited for Eichmann to give the cue, to set the example. Presently the Oberscharführer began to clap, alone, the sound of his hands the only sound in the hall. He applauded with a dry, forced smile.
Franz left the hall and went down the maze of stone stairs and waited in the street. He concealed himself behind an arch when the guards and officers came out in silence. His comrades. Then the others, the Jewish artists. She was leaning on the arm of the chimney-sweep basso. Schachter went to her and said something Franz could not hear. She took Schachter’s arm and went with him, walking as if walking were difficult, her feet dragging over the stones of the narrow street. At a gate where the paint had faded they stopped and Schachter kissed her hand and said goodbye and she went in. As soon as Schachter was out of sight, Franz followed her. He heard her heavy step moving up the dark stairs. He heard her stop, panting, to rest. Heard her go on. The creaking of hinges. He ran up and saw her pass through the door. For a moment he waited. Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna. He stood on the rotted topmost stair with his hand on the worn banister, his head down, his eyes staring into unanswering darkness. Everything will pass. Be reconciled, be consoled. For man will remain. Will labor. Will love. We will be again what we were before. As always. What we have been, not what we have wanted to be. We will toil. We will raise again the burned and fallen walls. We will sing again rapping our mugs on the table. We will weep, thinking of our sorrows and the sorrows of others. We will love our parents, our wives, our children. And we will wait. Yes, we will wait. We deserve to be pitied.
He moved to the door and opened it. The hinges creaked but she did not turn to look at him. A small room naked of all furniture except a two-deck wooden bunk. Other women, sleeping. She stood in front of a walled-up window that looked out on nothing. She was nude and was humming softly. She touched her enormous belly and sang in a low voice. She touched her short hair and then again her pregnant abdomen. Her flesh was colorless, young still but not as it used to be. On her breasts and her belly and the bones of her cheeks lay luminous light, and her eyes were half closed.
Franz left the room and did not look back. He closed the door. He walked down to the street loosening his black tie. It was summer and hot. In the street he took off his jacket.
No trouble, Herr Architekt, no trouble at all, I assure you, sir. Go right ahead and examine whatever documents you care to see, the archive is at your service. Though of course we don’t have much time left now. I’m afraid you may find it quite difficult to locate the file on the person you mention. We have handled so many prisoners here at Terezin. And you don’t give me much information to go on. But I shall try, sir, heh-heh, that’s all you can ask of me, I think. Now, when did that group take their leave? You know, I’m sure, that we use only their numbers here. No names. Oh, heavens no, no names. Let’s see now. Spring. Summer. Ah! it was in October, Herr Architekt, October of 1944. The trees in the square of Theresienstadt were bare, and dead leaves floated along the banks of the river. Heh, to be a bit fanciful, eh? Well, why not? Sticking to plain facts, sir, they departed in a rail convoy of cattle cars, packed in like so many sardines, their arms locked together, heh, scarcely room enough to breathe, I should imagine. But you, I’m sure, have seen those miserable convoy trains, we all have. Maestro Schachter and the musicians and performers who provided Verdi’s Requiem the day Oberscharführer Eichmann visited us. Their destination was Auschwitz. Yes, Herr Architekt, you’re quite right, one of the women musicians was with child. She gave birth shortly before they departed. Now, let’s see, let’s see. Child a boy. Himself dispatched to Treblinka later. In the arms of a nurse, I suppose, heh-heh. Further details? The hospital authorities, perhaps, sir, if they are still here. Now, the man you mention. The spring register. Summer. Herr Architekt, I really must have more details. Young, blond? Pah, hundreds were young and blond. An apostate Jew? There were many of those, too, sir. But we smelled them out. Heh, yes, we ran them to ground. Pale? They were all pale, my dear young Herr Architekt, if not when they arrived, then soon after. Heh!
So, so. His mother had believed he would be safer here than at the front? Well, now! Heh … I suppose she may well have felt so … heh … but we don’t have records on the thoughts of the prisoners’ mothers, you know. Only their bloodlines, sir, only their bloodlines. Still … and by the way, Herr Architekt, speaking of safety, I trust you have a suit of civilian wear laid handily by? Not yet? Ach, sir, you must take care of that quickly, quickly. They say that we’re surrounded now. But I suspect that an agile young person like yourself might make his way west and south toward the Americans. I’m told that the roads are packed, a multitude of refugees. But not in uniform, sir. We in the archives plan to burn our documents in a few hours now. With them our uniforms. As for the buildings, the prison and the crematorium, I understand that they shall be left standing. Good solid construction, Herr Architekt, you have every reason to feel proud of them. Of course, if we’re shelled … But doubtless it won’t come to that, so long as there are prisoners left. Yes, yes, to return to your pale blond young man with the oversolicitous mother, heh. Now really, I must have some concrete detail. One eye blue, the other brown? Hah, Herr Architekt! Splendid! Such a curiosity is sure to have caught someone’s notice. Our doctors would have been most interested. Hmmm, one eye blue, the other brown. Heh, if the prisoner is still among the quick rather than the dead, Herr Architekt, I will wager that now he has neither a blue, nor a brown eye! Oh, no, no, just empty sockets, for eyes of two colors are contrary to nature, and our doctors, you know … heh, heh. Of course, they may have limited themselves to corneal transplantation. But such an opportunity would not have been wasted. Oh, never. One eye blue, the other gray. Ach, yes, brown, brown. No, sir, Herr Architekt, I cannot locate the file. We need his number. Without a number … Still, you yourself saw him arrive. I find no death report, and I’m sure the eyes would have been noted. There is just a chance, sir, a very slim chance, in view of the epidemics these last months, that he is still here. I doubt it very much, sir. Most improbable. Still … shall we go to the cells and have a look? Perhaps, perhaps … I trust your immunizations are up to date? Of course … And a handkerchief, sir, one needs a handkerchief, preferably, heh-heh, a scented one, the stench in the cells is … ach! No, not many are left. A very few. The hardiest of the vermin, the most stubborn and resistant. This way, sir. Once outside, I shall follow you. You know your way through this maze far better than I. Yes, Herr Architekt, the buildings will remain standing. Perhaps, heh, they may be used again, after a few years have gone by. For everything passes, as they say. Victory. Defeat also. Really, sir, you must provide yourself with civilian wear. It’s essential. Now, allow me, this is a master key. The Archivist must go everywhere at one time or another, you know. Data must always be confirmed. Down this corridor? Listen to the cannon. Ach, it won’t be long now. And the dogs, how they’re howling! I think no one has fed those dogs in quite a long time. Ah, well, with such confusion. Herr Architekt, may I wonder why you wish to find this prisoner? Is my suspicion correct, sir, that you wish to take him along with you today as a kind of safe-conduct? Heh, it’s an idea that has occurred to me also. But you shall have to carry him on your shoulders, sir, none of these prisoners is able to walk now. And I am too old, not strong enough for such exertion. No, I shall have to take my chances. Dressed as a priest, Herr Architekt, I have the garments all ready. But you, perhaps it may work. You’ll have to have documents, of course. The bearer, Herr Architekt Franz Jellinek, is certified by Number so-and-so … ach, perhaps we had best forego the number and use his name … has assisted me to escape … The wording must be precise. And once we have his number, I can give you his file, too, if that will help. An idea, sir, certainly a very possible idea. Any port in a storm, as they say. Here, here we are. Just allow me to open this door. If you will use my flashlight now … not too close to them, Herr Architekt, they’re pestilence itself … Vermin! Scum! On your feet, on your feet, swine! There, heaped in the corner. Up, up! No, they can’t stand. They will be dead very soon now. They will never be rescued by any one, I believe. Pigs, open your eyes! Your eyes, we want to see your eyes! One brown, one blue. No … I don’t … Just a moment, there, dragging himself along the wall. But not too near him, Herr Architekt. Ach, the stench! Is it he? Yes, yes, I really believe … Open your eyes wider, pig! What, Herr Architekt? A knife? As it happens, sir, I do have one. A keepsake of the old days. Heh-heh. You push the button, the blade appears. Very sharp, too. I use it for erasures. Occasionally, you know, even the most meticulous of clerks commits an error, and a little scraping is required to … Herr Architekt, what are you about there, sir! Herr Architekt! No, sir, no, I protest! I am in no position to give you orders, but operations are the function of the doctors, sir, they’re … Herr Architekt! My God, Herr Architekt, what have you done? I shall have to report this to your superiors! Why, the man is almost dead! No, no! Into the handkerchief with it, man, quick now. Then I suggest you throw the handkerchief into the river. Good God, sir, if I had known … Still, you have your reasons, I’m sure, you must have your reasons. At least no one has seen us. Quickly, now, Herr Architekt. I shall make my report … But to whom? No, I shall make no report after all. And the pig will doubtless be dead in a matter of hours. He may well bleed to death now. But my God … To the river, sir. I confess I’m afraid. If it should ever be suspected that I participated … at least, witnessed … And my disguise as a priest may not serve well enough … I’m not a young man, I shall have to walk slowly, I shall tire quickly. So many years among documents. The Archivist. And now, now … Blood is dripping on your trousers, Herr Architekt, hold the handkerchief farther out. Directly to the river, sir, I say, directly, directly … No witness except myself. But if times were … your superiors … if the swine should live, he will never pass along his bi-colored eyes, at least … but still, Herr Architekt, still … and they say that last night a wolf was prowling near the fence … The cannon seem closer now. Perhaps after all they will shell us. We must hurry, hurry, we don’t have time to waste, sir. I go to burn the archive. You, to the river, to throw that … that …
* * *
Δ You jumped out of bed, Pussycat, humming. Franz arched an eyebrow.
“Up, man, up!” you grinned at him. “Get dressed!”
“Why?”
“We’re going to explore the pyramid!”
“It’s after midnight,” he protested, looking at his wristwatch.
“All the better. The witches and goblins will be out. Get dressed, Franz, and I’ll go after Javier and Betty.”
You put on a record, just for a change, Anytime atall, and wriggled into your yellow shantung dress, naked beneath it. Holding your golden slippers in your hand, you went out into the hall. You closed the door and stopped beside me. For I was waiting for you.
“Is everything ready?” you asked.
3
VISIT OUR CELLARS
That same September night the Narrator is led by Fatality to the Place. The only Reading he takes along with him is a poem by Octavio Paz which at this time has yet to be published:
Water above
Below, the forest
Wind along the paths
The well is motionless
The bucket black The water solid
Water goes down to the trees
Sky rises up to our lips
The Narrator decides to ponder over this poem. Feeling ashamed, he asks himself why poets can say everything in so few lines and Baudelaire replies, he believes, that only poetry is intelligent. The Narrator, Xipe Totec, Our Lord of the Flayed Hide, changes his skin.
Δ You stopped at the base of the enormous hill-like pyramid, in front of the entrance to the tunnel. There were iron rails for the wheels of the mine carts used to move out the excavated earth. The tunnel stretched in a straight line, illuminated by hanging naked light bulbs, as far as the eye could see. Javier stepped aside and Franz went in first, then Elizabeth, then Javier, and finally you, Isabel. The tunnel was low and the men had to stoop to dodge the el
ectric cable overhead. Franz stopped for a moment with his fingers touching the smooth black wall. Elizabeth rested her hand on his shoulder and felt his sweat. But the air was not hot here, a cold current of air swept in from the entrance. Shafts led off to right and left. Franz moved forward again and Elizabeth kept her hand on his shoulder.
“Straight ahead,” Javier said quietly. His voice was muffled, yet seemed to echo. The four of you walked on slowly. As you approached one of the hanging bulbs, your shadows stretched behind you; as you walked on beyond it, they moved out in front of you, your shoulders magnified to spread all the way across the narrow tunnel. Franz reached a low dark arch and stopped. Javier felt until he found the light switch on the wall. Illuminated stairs climbed out of sight, almost vertically, to the foundations of the chapel, a dizzying ascent. Javier turned the light off.
“Franz?” a voice said. “Franz?” The voice was neither near nor far. It was penetrating without being loud. It lost itself in echoes and all of you stopped. Elizabeth thought that the voice had been Javier. She turned to him angrily: “Javier, shut up!”
“Franz, where have you been hiding?”
“Shut up, I said! Don’t pay any attention to him, Franz. He’s spent his entire life playing let’s-pretend games. They’re not worth worrying about.”
But Javier and you, Isabel, both knew that the voice had not been Javier’s. You said nothing. Javier, confused, did not know what to do, what attitude to adopt, whether to be ironic or amused. He spoke, still quietly,