LITMIR.BIZ

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troops due to pass through the town. One by one they emerged through the wrought iron gates of the Palace of Culture, their heads bowed, their best clothes torn and dusty, humiliated and exhausted. The first to emerge was Rahmil-Melamed, the teacher to small children, his Sabbath caftan, so beautifully patched by the hand of his wife Sara, now in tatters. All the people from the dark side streets rushed up to him, asking what had been going on and what had happened to the others. Then Yehiel Pasternak appeared, the grocer whose hair and beard were as yellow as straw, and he was bent in two at the hips. Then came Mr Iosef Birnberg, the proprietor of Forestiera Ltd., his clothes and dignity as a former officer of a Kaiserliche und Königliche Infantry Regiment now completely rumpled. Next to slip through the palace gates were Zainvel, who worked as a porter in the fruit and vegetable market, and the cheder boy with his curly side whiskers, sucking his bleeding finger, and Natan Eisenguss, who owned a shop for ladies’ modes, and Simon Meirovici, the poor tailor and patcher. They slipped through the gates without a word of complaint, they hurried away, without looking back, heading for their homes, along with those who had been waiting for them outside, all of them breathing sighs of relief and thanking the Lord Above that they had got off so lightly.

      At the time, they thought they had got off lightly…

      3

      But only twenty-nine of the thirty Jews emerged from the gates of the palace, heads bowed, humiliated and exhausted, and went home. One alone, Ernst, remained inside much longer. His father, mother, elder brothers and sisters-in-law waited despairingly on a dark side street, from where the wrought iron gate of the Palace of Culture and festively lit windows were visible. That light, which in days gone by used to be accompanied by orchestra music, the sounds of balls, parties, merriment, clinking glasses, the rhythms of the dance, now seemed cold and ironic. It poured from the building to the accompaniment of opaque silence and spread over the street in long swaths. Why didn’t Ernst come out already? Why didn’t they let him go? Might he have defied them? He was so disobedient. And irascible. And reckless. Being the youngest son, he had always been the most spoiled. Might he have believed that he could do what he liked there too? Or that he could refuse to do what he was ordered? What could they be doing to him in there, now that he was alone with them? His old father, with his white hair and side whiskers à la Franz Josef, trembling with annoyance, and next to him his tall mother, as thin as a plank, and behind them the two elder brothers and two docile daughters-in-law, stood in the dark alley, gazing fixedly at the illuminated building. It was as if they had turned to stone. They felt neither weariness nor the passing time.

      Ernst’s parents’ concern was not unfounded. After the men had finished arranging the iron bedsteads and straw mattresses, and twenty-nine of them had been released, the SS officer, who from the very start had singled him out, perhaps because of his clenched jaw and the scowl of his green eyes as he worked, asked Ernst, without any reason, but from a certain intuition: ‘What is your name?’

      The young officer, with his immaculate black uniform, had not asked anybody else that question, and his interest did not bode well.

      ‘Ernst… Ernst Blumenthal is my name.’

      It was plain that the officer was unpleasantly surprised.

      ‘Ernst? Ernst?’ he muttered. Such first names when applied to ‘that lot’ quite simply infuriated him. Abraham, Isaak, Yakov, yes! Chaim, Shmil, even better! Israel, highly appropriate! But Ernst? Completely out of line! Barefaced cheek! And what was more, his surname was Blumenthal… Which is to say, ‘Flower Vale.’ Beautiful German surnames like that being used by Ost-Juden, by those non-Aryan Orientals, offended his aesthetic sense, nothing less. It was the same as calling a mangy, bearded billy-goat a thoroughbred stallion… The blood rose to his head, but he controlled himself and asked, almost politely:

      ‘What is your occupation?’

      ‘I’m a student.’

      Quite simply exasperating. An Ernst. And a Blumenthal. And a student to boot.

      ‘What are you studying?’

      ‘Architecture.’

      The officer in the black uniform was seething. His small green eyes were giving off sparks. His chiselled features looked even sharper.

      ‘Where are you a student?’

      ‘In Vienna. I have broken off my studies temporarily, because of the… the situation.’

      He had been about to say ‘because of the Anschluss between Austria and the German Reich,’ but stopped himself in time.

      The officer’s face turned red. This was the very limit! An Ernst, and a Blumenthal, and an architectural student, in Vienna no less. He felt like shooting him on the spot with his revolver. But he controlled himself and after a few moments said in an ironically urbane voice:

      ‘It means we are colleagues. I am a student too, of art history, in Berlin. I too have broken off my studies, temporarily, because of the situation… And since you, colleague, are so terribly knowledgeable about architecture, I shall give you the opportunity to do something for this secession style palace, à la Franz Josef, which Zarathustra alone knows why the Austro-Hungarian Emperor had built in this stinking little town! You will clean all the dirt and straw you have left on these stairs.’

      The lobby of the palace was magnificent. Broad white steps of marbled stone led to the two upper floors. The steps were edged with strips of bronze. It was true: the steps were strewn with bits of straw that had fallen out of the mattresses.

      ‘What are you looking for, colleague?’ the officer asked, sarcastically.

      ‘A broom.’

      ‘Oh, no! That would be blasphemy! This is a delicate task. It must be done by hand.’

      Ernst gazed at him for a long moment. He could not believe his ears. What? Why was he suggesting such a thing? To collect that straw, bit by bit, with his bare hands. The means had no connection with the end… Cleanliness and order… The only object was to humiliate him. He stood where he was for a few moments. The officer made a gesture with his hand. Ernst looked in amazement at that delicate white hand, with its long fingers, like a pianist’s, which quivered tensely next to the handle of the revolver. He stooped and clenching his jaws, he began to collect the straw from the steps.

      The officer left. He returned about an hour later.

      ‘I have finished,’ Ernst said. ‘Can I go now?’

      ‘You have not finished!’ replied the officer with restrained fury, scrutinising the steps. He pointed to an inch-long bit of straw wedged in a crack between two steps.

      Ernst picked up the bit of straw and set about examining the steps from top to bottom. The officer went away again. He returned about two hours later.

      ‘I’ve finished!’ said Ernst.

      ‘I will tell you when you have finished and if you have finished, colleague!’ All of a sudden he switched to a disdainful plural: ‘You lot should learn once and for all how to work properly! And you should stop being liars, the lot of you!’

      The officer inspected the steps of the palace once again, all the way up to the second floor, and pointed to an almost invisible bit of straw, lodged in an indentation of the wrought iron bannister.

      The officer left. Ernst went on searching. He felt as if his shame and impotent rage would suffocate him. Maybe he would keep him there all night. Maybe he would keep him there for days, weeks. He would always be able to find a bit of straw hidden somewhere. And even without finding any more straw, he could keep him there as long as he liked. He was completely in his hands. In those delicate white hands, with their long fingers, like a pianist’s, the hands of that student of art history from Berlin…

      It was almost midnight when the young officer in the black uniform came back, his face puffy, his eyes glistening with drink. Ernst sensed his presence, but did not look at him and did not say a word.

      ‘Well, now you can leave!’ shouted the officer, sarcastically. ‘But don’t think you have finished, colleague! We shall meet

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