Jáchym Topol - Devil's Workshop

Handle what?

He caved in when it came to signing. When the old-timers signed the agreement with us to put them on display.

You said they asked to do it.

Most of them, yeah. Some.

Uh-huh.

We must become great in enduring the suffering of others, Alex says jokingly. He’s grinning like a schoolboy. That’s right, sometimes we just have to tolerate other people’s suffering. The Nazis really thought it through. Jean Améry, ever read him?

I shake my head. I never read anything except those stupid textbooks, which I forgot as soon as I read them, and the emails for the Comenium, which wouldn’t mean shit to him.

You should. Alex laughed. Seeing as you’re the expert.

Here I am getting schooled again. Hm. I slide my eyes around the room. Infirmary. There must be an operating room next door. There are some boxes stacked along the wall. Canisters, metal and plastic. Some instruments arranged on the shelves. A pair of large pliers attached to the wall above my head.

I turn as the saw in Alex’s hand starts to spin, a whirring sound slices into my ears, it must run on batteries.

Go ahead and take a look around, Alex shouts over the noise. You can help me later!

He turns his back to me and bends down towards Luis.

Keeping an eye on Alex, I reach out my arm and snatch the pliers. Slip them under my jacket. Rolf won’t give me away. He’s too out of it. He tugs on my sleeve, like a child, dragging me behind him. Pattering along like some scared little pet. He used to film people dancing under the ramparts. Now he’s in a bunker where they make people into mummies.

Rolf, I shout, the red grass, remember that? It’s no use. The basement is filled with the whirring sound of the saw.

We enter the little room next door and the pliers nearly fall out of my hand.

He’s sitting there, in a black suit, bent slightly forward, just like I knew him my whole life. All those evenings he spoke to the students of the Comenium, the ones he healed, he looked like this. He’s even sitting on a bunk bed made of slats. Alex is all about authenticity.

I think this is what he wanted.

For me to see Lebo like this.

So I would shit my pants. So I’d know who’s holding all the cards.

It almost worked. I almost said hello.

I realize I don’t hear the saw any more.

I look at Lebo. But I’m waiting for Alex.

So I’m not surprised when I hear his voice. Plus I’ve got the pliers under my jacket.

We’re the last ones who know the witnesses personally, he says. And when they die, the museum will be here, so their stories will live on forever. That’s what Lebo wanted, wasn’t it?

He’s between Rolf and me, feeling around for the light switch. Lebo looks even better in the light. Yeah, he looks good. But he’s dead.

You think it was easy getting the old man on a plane? Alex says. We took him from Terezín by ambulance. All bandaged up. To fool the cops, you see?

Uh-huh.

He wanted to leave Terezín and continue his work here. In the Devil’s Workshop. You have to believe me.

They kidnapped him and made him into a puppet. I’m waiting for Alex to turn his back. I don’t want to see his face when I strike.

So did you kill him here?

Here in our museum Lebo will be for everyone, Alex says, bending down to fiddle with the wires. Not just for some spoiled brats from the West, like in Terezín.

Did you kill him?

Kill? Just the opposite! From now on he shall live in eternity, as our conscience, our strength, our weapon, Alex declaims, tugging on the wires poking out from Lebo’s jacket. Do you know it? Song of Lenin. Did you even go to school?

There aren’t any other mummies in the room. Alex’s way of showing Lebo respect, I guess. But I don’t want to hear him. I don’t want to hear his voice coming out of a corpse.

He wouldn’t want you stuffing people, I say. He wouldn’t want you using all those atrocities as a reason to kill more people.

Not even old ones? Alex’s fingers are fiddling with the wires. He still has on the rubber gloves. They don’t even slow him down.

Suddenly it dawns on me that they must have sawed Lebo up in the hotel room where I stayed. Those stains everywhere. They killed him there.

Maruška, hm, I say to myself. I know you’re with Alex. But sorry, I have no choice.

So you don’t believe me that Lebo signed an agreement? Mr Hard-line says. His voice is totally calm. He’s testing the connections.

That he gave us all the cash? That he went to the bank with us completely voluntarily? None of that ‘Your money or your life’ stuff! Don’t you believe me?

Lebo moves. Tips his head — the current has kicked in. It’s Lebo and it’s not.

I was born on a bunk in the camp, it says. It’s his voice — that was how he used to begin his story, in the evening. A soldier pulled my mother out of a typhus pit, says the old man on the chair … a young drummer boy, son of the regiment. They got married and had a son. But my mother … was afraid of open space … I brought her bouquets … ahem, ahem, ahem … The chin of the puppet in the black hat starts to quiver, like the words are getting stuck. It goes silent. His face is yellow, from the light. Lebo’s head nods up and down, something’s jammed.

I can’t help also moving my head a little as I stare at him.

Alex tuts angrily. Tugs on the wires. Crawling around Lebo on all fours, idiot. He doesn’t have a clue that I’m boiling over inside.

So you really don’t think he wanted to be here? Alex says, still showing me his back.

I can sense the movement next to me. It’s Rolf. Shaking his head. Shaking his head: no.

Go fuck yourself, I tell Alex. Really loud. He turns around. Looks at me. Sees the pliers. I’m holding them over my head. I can see his eyes and the terror in them. Now he knows. I have to tolerate it. And I do: I swing my arm and he gets the pliers smack in the face. Teeth crack. He topples over, skull slamming against the concrete. And bang, with the second swing I take out the bulb. I don’t want to see Lebo like this. Humiliated, helpless. More defenceless than when he was a baby. Now he’s just a black lump in the black darkness.

The two of us move. Down the passageway, bits of glass crunch under our feet. We come to an intersection. Stuffed people on every side. In the recesses. Mummies in chairs along the walls. A light bulb or two flickering. But some of the candles have burned out. Never mind, I know my way by heart. Rolf sits down on the ground. Hands me a key. I take it and stick it in my pocket.

Get up, man! We’ve got to run for it!

He shakes his head. I tell him to get up, in both our languages. He shakes his head. I smack him in the face. Hard. And again. He doesn’t even blink. Maybe they’ve been beating him.

You want to stay here with the mummies? You’ll go right off your rocker! Come with me!

He shakes his head.

I put my ear to his lips.

It’s great here, he whispers.

Bullshit!

I’m staying with them. I like it. It’s the closest you can get.

To what?

To horror.

I feel sick. From breathing the air. And Alex might come to. I didn’t finish him off, didn’t have it in me. Thought I did, but I don’t. I’m not going to wait around.

So you’re not getting up?

Go fuck yourself, Rolf says to me.

You too, I tell him, marching off.

Arms stretched in front of me, I run straight into the soft belly of an old woman, dead eyes beneath her scarf, rocking back and forth in a creaky chair. The gloom and darkness don’t bother me, I know how these tunnels work. But Terezín’s were empty. I run, dropping the pliers. Trip over a tool on the ground, bump into the tub, liquid splashes out. I’m bumping into mannequins too, chopping bodies down as I run. Knocking over candles too, the puddles turn blue with flame, drops fly through the dark with a hiss, but now I’m sprinting up the steps. I couldn’t finish Alex off, but the fire isn’t my fault, is it? Yes, no, yes, no, I don’t know. At last I see the massive plate covering the door: the exit.