Jáchym Topol - Devil's Workshop

I duck my head and follow Kagan down a long tunnel, till we come to a train. It looks like one of those rides for kids.

We sit down, Kagan, Maruška and me, some big guy squeezes in with us, plus two girls, panting for breath, smeared with dirt. People are coming out of the tunnel one by one and climbing on board. The carriage next to us, a little thing, is filled with wooden crates, sealed shut. Kagan chuckles softly.

I bet you didn’t know there are still countries where an archaeologist can feel like Indiana Jones. Eh, my friend? Ho ho ho!

And we’re off. The ride is bumpy in places, and slow, but we move right along. I can’t believe we didn’t think of this in Terezín! A little train like this — it’d be great for older tourists! From the Monument to the cemetery and the ramparts. And the kids! Then they wouldn’t be so worn out from walking.

Where’re we going? I ask Kagan.

Headquarters. Of our opposition party. Whatever we find, we store there, he says.

Is it safe? I ask. I have my doubts.

The government and the opposition both support our plan. So there’s no threat to your mission, he says, leaning in towards me. I can’t see his face, but I can smell the strong stink of his rubber coat.

Where’s your headquarters?

Minsk.

Oh no. And here I was hoping we were on our way somewhere else. But if I’d had any idea where I was going to end up, I would’ve stayed nailed to my seat in that train.

The last faint light disappears around the bend. Now it’s really dark and cold. I want to hold Maruška’s hand, but it’s too cramped to move. Still, I bless the darkness, at least now I can take care of the clot in my nose. I’d be embarrassed in front of them.

I reach into my pocket, take out the Spider, and stick it in one of my fabulous boots. Wiggle my fingers, feeling it through my sock. Slowly we wind our way through the dark, blacker than black, nobody talks. Why bother. It’s obvious they’re after us.

Finally the light appears and the train jerks to a stop. We get out and walk. Another narrow tunnel, another set of wooden stairs. We walk up, Kagan first, somebody up there is holding open the cover. We’re in a house. Bare wooden walls, high ceiling. No furniture, just crates. They’re everywhere, some new and smelling of wood, others ancient and warped, stinking of dried mud. All of them are shut. Kagan is greeted by a crowd of men and women. They exchange strong hugs, happy to see each other. I want to wait for Maruška, but then all of a sudden I see him. He splits off from the others, walks over to me.

You got the Spider? Alex asks.

Way back when, I had told him what I named it.

Better give me it now. I don’t know how much time we have, he says.

You mean martial law? I ask.

Whatever happens, stick with me. You got it or not? Alex asks again. Mr Hard-line. It actually hasn’t been that long since we saw each other in Terezín. Now he’s got a screwdriver in his hand, wires draped around his neck. Overalls with big pockets. Pliers, tape measure, a few other tools poking out. I haven’t seen him like this before. He looks like a handyman.

The people who were working under the museum come crawling out one by one. Next thing you know the wooden floor’s covered with footprints. Young girls, boys. We could’ve used them at the Comenium. They would’ve liked it there. I follow Alex as we walk towards the back of the room, working our way through the crush. These seekers of the bunks are a tougher bunch than our sensitive students. There’s anger on their faces. I bet they’re pretty pissed off they had to make a run for it. Everything’s tougher and crazier here. In our country the girls would be selling souvenirs instead of digging with shovels. Listening to Lebo’s talks instead of Kagan’s fiery speeches. At night they’d be smoking red grass, drinking and dancing. They wouldn’t be so pale. Ah, well! Wouldn’t that be nice? And then I see Maruška.

She’s cradling a little boy in her arms, with another one hanging on her skirt. Both of their faces are glowing as she whispers something into the down on the little one’s head.

In the corner of the room there are more kids, women, older ones too.

There’s something I want to show you, says Alex. You didn’t have this in Terezín.

We go behind a divider. Again I’m blinking in the dark. I can feel the Spider in my boot. Now what? After I give it to Alex, then what’ll happen to me? Where will I go? These are the questions I want to discuss with Mr Hard-line. The sooner the better. He takes me by the elbow, we keep walking.

In the murk of the back room I make out some human-size mannequins, standing and sitting, hunched on chairs.

These aren’t brides like the girl with the shiny headband. There’s a stench of old age coming off them.

One standing next to me moves, I almost scream. It opens its arms and I stare at the face in disbelief. A guy with leathery skin, shrivelled, nose like a beak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that old in all my life.

I’m even more shocked when a voice issues from the ruins.

Welcome, comrade, he says in Czech. And wraps me in a hug. He staggers, I struggle to hold him up. His long, nervous fingers, like toothpicks, tremble before he drops into a wicker chair deftly pushed underneath him by Alex.

The most beautiful memories! he rasps. In Milovice everyone had a little house with a garden and flowers! he says, and his head drops to his chest, asleep, wheezing in and out of his nose.

He doesn’t smell like the other mannequins, though. He smells normal.

Alex tells me that Luis Tupanabi was his professor at the Institute in Milovice. Not far from Prague. Yep, the Soviets had a particularly large garrison there.

He’s also a concentration-camp survivor, Alex says, adjusting a warm blanket around the professor’s slumped shoulders.

The fascists forced him to make tsantsas , he goes on.

Tsantsas ? I ask, wondering whether Alex is slipping back into Belarusian.

That’s right. I’ll show you later, Alex says. Luis has done tremendous work on behalf of our museum. But now he’s really old. I think he’s going to die soon.

He wraps another blanket around Luis’s shoulders. Throws one over his legs. Luis has polka-dot slippers on his feet.

You know, says Alex, I went to see Spielberg in Los Angeles. He’s got a Holocaust archive with thousands of survivors telling their story on thousands of screens. Not bad. But when people see something on TV they forget it right away. What they see in our museum they’ll never forget.

Museum, I say, looking around. What museum? Besides the mannequins there’s nothing here but crates. Crates full of specimens.

The museum we’re building in Khatyn, Alex says. It’s going to be the most famous memorial site in the world. The devil had his workshop here in Belarus. The deepest graves are in Belarus. But nobody knows about them. That’s why you’re here!

Uh-huh, I say to say something.

This Alex is different from the one I knew in Terezín. There he was learning. Here he’s in charge.

I need all of Lebo’s databases immediately, he says. I need your help. I need cash, snaps Mr Hard-line. He’s getting fired up like Kagan at the burial site.

Then we hear it and freeze. Bang! Like a battering ram against the walls of the house. Everything shakes. And again. Explosions. Firecrackers, not grenades. But powerful ones.

We make our way back around the divider. Everyone’s running around. The explosions still ring in our ears. Somebody shouts, a girl. Or one of the children. And crack, into the wall again.

Nobody needs to explain to me what’s going on. They’re back. The cops, they’ve been on my heels at every turn since I got here. Well, I was slightly mistaken. They weren’t cops.