Yvette soothes me. ‘She’s dreaming again.’
Silver-buttons never walk alone. That sounds like a bloody song. But it’s true: a policeman alone, without a partner, can only look suspicious. Rest assured I’ve thought about it. What do I wear when it’s my turn to feed the Jew? Civvies or uniform? Lode was wearing his while waiting for me. In the end I decide to do the same, hoping I won’t bump into any field arseholes along the way who might ask me what I’ve got in the sack. If you really want to know: two sausages, three potatoes and a bit of horsebread. If you have to go into hiding, you’re best off choosing a butcher or a farmer as your protector. Lode left the sack and the keys behind the gate next to the butcher’s shop. That makes me nervous too, as it’s somewhere I could easily be spotted. We couldn’t think of an alternative. While fruitlessly searching for one, whispering in the dark on the way back from Lizke’s hiding place, I was overcome by the folly of it all. The set-up wasn’t good enough; it needed improving, I just didn’t know how. Picture me in the meantime rapping out that code on the door concealing Lizke: a Keystone conspirator, a babe in the woods, a bungler. What’s worse: knowing you’re an amateur or thinking you can do better but not knowing how? Knock-knock, the door opens and I am welcomed by the enigma Chaim Lizke. He looks at what I’ve brought for him and asks if he could have some eggs next time. I shrug and mumble something. This time the place smells of brilliantine. Is this man really a diamond cutter, a craftsman? I can’t believe it. He sniffs the bread, gently squeezes the sausages, strokes the potatoes, smiles and turns to me.
‘Bitte, please sit…’
‘Leider keine Zeit,’ I answer.
‘Aber natürlich…’
Again I think that he might very well be a paying guest, kept here by father and son like some kind of monster from one of the Grimms’ dark fairy tales. But who is in whose power? What happens when his reserve of money or diamonds or jewellery is exhausted? Did they agree a daily amount or was it a lump sum? Will Lode’s father kick him out if his budget proves insufficient?… But no, that’s impossible, the risks are insane. In circumstances like this neither can afford to offend the other. If they told Lizke to piss off because he’d run out of money and he got picked up, it would come as no surprise if he talked them all onto the gallows. Am I the first one to think of this or have father and son considered it too? Can the father still think clearly without being distracted by greed and profit? Because the cards are on the table. If this is just about the money, it’s the stowaway who’s in charge of the boat.
I ask for the sack, nod politely and already have my hand on the doorknob.
‘Sie scheinen mir ein Intellektueller…’
I stop for a moment, wondering why he thinks I look like an intellectual and not sure how to reply.
‘Haben Sie Bücher?’
I ask what kind of books.
He shrugs. Anything, but preferably in German.
I nod and say I might be able to arrange something. There’s only one person I know who has German books in large numbers and the thought of borrowing them from him puts a smile on my face for the first time today.
That was how, soon afterwards, I came to appear before the enigma Chaim Lizke with a linen bag full of books, all German. Meanbeard didn’t know what to make of my sudden enthusiasm for German literature. Somewhat perplexed, he bundled up a few volumes: some Schiller, Hesse and Jünger. Not all books are attuned to the new national consciousness, he told me. However, as long as his ex libris was in the front with his name and some kind of Latin motto, I was welcome to take them all.
Lizke pulls them out of the bag one at a time, arranges them on the slightly rickety dining table and winks. His wide mouth forms a smile. Nodding, as if recognizing old friends, he picks one out after some hesitation and sits down in one of the two worn armchairs. Without giving me as much as another glance, he opens the chosen book and starts to read. Now and then he lets out a sigh of contentment. I am dismissed, it seems. He licks his index finger before turning a page, glances in my direction for a moment, then reads on.
I stay sitting at the table and roll a cigarette. While smoking, I study Lizke. His calm or his capacity to immerse himself in a book from one moment to the next confuses me. It’s as if this hiding place no longer exists and any danger he might be in no longer matters. Should I admire his cool-headedness or is this expression of a craving for normality more an affectation? Whatever I may or may not think, it leaves him completely cold. I could sit here blowing smoke rings, yawn ostentatiously or fart, he’s not going to look up a second time. Again he licks a finger and turns the page. The silence between us clears the way for other sounds. The ticking of an old clock slows your heartbeat, as if getting you ready to snore loudly in an armchair, like an old cat by a stove. The previously almost inaudible conversations outside now murmur like anxious voices from another world, still too far away to be of any import, too pathetically minute to make any kind of impression. The armchair creaks. Chaim Lizke moves on his seat. He scratches the back of his head and sniffs loudly. He reaches for a hankie and coughs into it. Another page further. A subdued ‘Heh-heh…’ Is he finding the first pages of Der Steppenwolf such a
