stomach rumbles but he pretends to ignore it. A ration of bread and margarine with a ladle of watery soup must serve: the bread is currency, with bread one may buy and sell and trade, but not in futures. There are no futures here.
‘I was mistaken for Freud, once, you know,’ he tells Yenkl.
‘Do tell?’
Shomer shrugs. ‘It was at a literary party, I forget who for.’
‘Which means you remember exactly but resented their success?’
Shomer laughs. ‘I had been to the washroom and stood pissing next to a young boy not long out of cheder, a young poet who blushed when he saw me and addressed me as Herr Freud. Of course I set the little blighter straight. Did he not know who I was?’
‘Did he not?’
‘Do you think yeshiva boys do not read shund?’
Yenkl laughed. ‘I imagine they do, in secret.’
‘He apologised profusely when I told him who I was. Would have asked me to sign something if his pisser wasn’t in his hand. I told him to watch where he aimed and washed my hands and returned to the party. Half an hour later, I ran into Freud. ‘Hello!’ I said, civilly. ‘Someone just thought I was you, which is really stretching credibility to the limit!’’
‘You said that?’
‘Sure I did.’
‘And what did Freud say?’
‘He said, “He managed to insult both of us in the same sentence”!’
Yenkl laughed. The Russian, Mischek, popped his head in and told Shomer in broken Yiddish to hurry the fuck up or the kapos will punish both of them.
‘Did I tell you about the time I was mistaken for Freud?’ Shomer asks Mischek, but Mischek shakes his head miserably and says, ‘Freud? Who is this Freud.’
‘Some people can’t take a joke, can they,’ Shomer says to Yenkl but Yenkl is no longer there and the other prisoners look away from him as though he is mad: do they not know who he is?
He gets up and contemplates washing his hands in the foul water and at last does so, his belongings held tight between his thighs, rubbing his hands together to wash off, at least, the worst of the shit. Then back he goes across the camp with Mischek at his side, back to digging graves – ‘And what after all should we be digging for?’ he says to Yenkl, ‘turnips?’ and Yenkl laughs and so, with renewed spirit, Shomer returns to work, while his mind conjures up a different kind of cell and a different prisoner; one who, unlike Shomer, does not have a blue number tattooed on his arm.
* * *
Wolf woke from a deep dark sleep, and dreams in which he fled from booted Jewish hordes, ugly and screaming, with hooked noses and yellow stars, and looking like a caricature from Julius Streicher’s
Der Stürmer
. He, Wolf, was running, but run as he might the Jews like the living-dead were relentless, and they pursued him across a map of Europe, like in the pictures from America in which a dotted line grows across a map to symbolise flight. He sat up on the cot in the cell as the cell door swung open.
The fat policeman, Keech, was standing there, no longer grinning. ‘Rise and shine. The Inspector wants to see you.’
‘It’s about time.’
Wolf stood up. Outside it was growing dark. Once again he trod the corridor to the Inspector’s office. Morhaim was inside sitting behind his desk. ‘Sit down, Wolf.’
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘Keech?’
The big policeman grinned. Wolf sat down.
‘Did you find it?’ he said.
‘Find what?’
‘The club. The body in the basement.’
Morhaim rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, and mean. ‘My men and I have indeed visited the address you mentioned in Leather Lane,’ he said.
‘Full of them filthy foreigners,’ Keech said.
‘Quite,’ Morhaim said.
‘Them German refugees and whatnot.’
‘Indeed. Keech?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘So?’ Wolf said – demanded. ‘You know I was telling the truth!’
‘We found nothing.’
‘What did you say?’
Morhaim shrugged. ‘We found an empty house. There were scuffmarks on the
‘I was mistaken for Freud, once, you know,’ he tells Yenkl.
‘Do tell?’
Shomer shrugs. ‘It was at a literary party, I forget who for.’
‘Which means you remember exactly but resented their success?’
Shomer laughs. ‘I had been to the washroom and stood pissing next to a young boy not long out of cheder, a young poet who blushed when he saw me and addressed me as Herr Freud. Of course I set the little blighter straight. Did he not know who I was?’
‘Did he not?’
‘Do you think yeshiva boys do not read shund?’
Yenkl laughed. ‘I imagine they do, in secret.’
‘He apologised profusely when I told him who I was. Would have asked me to sign something if his pisser wasn’t in his hand. I told him to watch where he aimed and washed my hands and returned to the party. Half an hour later, I ran into Freud. ‘Hello!’ I said, civilly. ‘Someone just thought I was you, which is really stretching credibility to the limit!’’
‘You said that?’
‘Sure I did.’
‘And what did Freud say?’
‘He said, “He managed to insult both of us in the same sentence”!’
Yenkl laughed. The Russian, Mischek, popped his head in and told Shomer in broken Yiddish to hurry the fuck up or the kapos will punish both of them.
‘Did I tell you about the time I was mistaken for Freud?’ Shomer asks Mischek, but Mischek shakes his head miserably and says, ‘Freud? Who is this Freud.’
‘Some people can’t take a joke, can they,’ Shomer says to Yenkl but Yenkl is no longer there and the other prisoners look away from him as though he is mad: do they not know who he is?
He gets up and contemplates washing his hands in the foul water and at last does so, his belongings held tight between his thighs, rubbing his hands together to wash off, at least, the worst of the shit. Then back he goes across the camp with Mischek at his side, back to digging graves – ‘And what after all should we be digging for?’ he says to Yenkl, ‘turnips?’ and Yenkl laughs and so, with renewed spirit, Shomer returns to work, while his mind conjures up a different kind of cell and a different prisoner; one who, unlike Shomer, does not have a blue number tattooed on his arm.
* * *
Wolf woke from a deep dark sleep, and dreams in which he fled from booted Jewish hordes, ugly and screaming, with hooked noses and yellow stars, and looking like a caricature from Julius Streicher’s
Der Stürmer
. He, Wolf, was running, but run as he might the Jews like the living-dead were relentless, and they pursued him across a map of Europe, like in the pictures from America in which a dotted line grows across a map to symbolise flight. He sat up on the cot in the cell as the cell door swung open.
The fat policeman, Keech, was standing there, no longer grinning. ‘Rise and shine. The Inspector wants to see you.’
‘It’s about time.’
Wolf stood up. Outside it was growing dark. Once again he trod the corridor to the Inspector’s office. Morhaim was inside sitting behind his desk. ‘Sit down, Wolf.’
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘Keech?’
The big policeman grinned. Wolf sat down.
‘Did you find it?’ he said.
‘Find what?’
‘The club. The body in the basement.’
Morhaim rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, and mean. ‘My men and I have indeed visited the address you mentioned in Leather Lane,’ he said.
‘Full of them filthy foreigners,’ Keech said.
‘Quite,’ Morhaim said.
‘Them German refugees and whatnot.’
‘Indeed. Keech?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘So?’ Wolf said – demanded. ‘You know I was telling the truth!’
‘We found nothing.’
‘What did you say?’
Morhaim shrugged. ‘We found an empty house. There were scuffmarks on the
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