The Cremator (Modern Czech Classics), page 12
‘Ever since I came back from that good Dr. Bettelheim of ours, I’ve been constantly asking myself the question why on earth does that Hitler persecute the Jews so much in Germany?’ said Mr. Kopfrkingl to himself in the bathroom, glancing at the beautiful white bath, at the white glossy ventilator where the cord was hanging on the hook, and at the yellow butterfly on the wall. ‘Why does he persecute them so much? After all, they’re such nice, kind and selfless people. Well, now I know why. Willi explained it to me. He’s persecuting them because they’re against him. Because they’re against the German nation. Because they are a wretched, erring people who don’t understand . . .’ Mr. Kopfrkingl hung his head sadly and untied the parcel.
The trousers were mouldy and threadbare; the jumper dark, ugly and full of holes. The shirt was hideously dirty at the neckline. ‘Willi warned me against washing,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl gave a smile. ‘He said that beggars never wash their clothes. They walk around wie eine Schlampe.’ The greyish overcoat was narrow and shiny with broken buttons dangling from it. ‘Willi recommended,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl gave a smile, ‘that I don’t button it up. Beggars leave it unbuttoned so that others can see what they have on underneath. A jumper full of holes and a dirty shirt . . . Willi didn’t give me anything for my head to set off this wig . . .’ He took out a wig made of tousled grey hair. It was bald on the crown, with yellowish overlapping shocks of hair round the ears. ‘No combing,’ smiled Mr. Kopfrkingl, ‘the beggars walk around, Willi said, den ganzen Tag wie sie vormittags aus dem Nest kriechen.’ Then he took a pair of bushy eyebrows out of the parcel and two pale yellow strips of disgusting stubble, the kind that can be stuck on the face from the hairline, alongside the ears, towards the cheekbone. They were in a celluloid case with a ‘Made in Germany’ label. Then he took out a jar containing three different kinds of greasepaint. . . ‘Ah, this is the greyish white one, the dirty one, as Willi said,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl gave a smile. ‘Here’s the rosy one, for the complexion, and this is the bluish one, or the consumptive, cold one. It’s supposed to be the most difficult thing of all to put grease-paint on your skin. Once it’s on I’m supposed to dry it as women do theirs with powder-puffs. Mit einem Puderzeug. . . Here are the specs,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl carefully took out the specs. ‘It’s a miserable pair of half lenses, half a dioptre each, on twisted wire frames. Willi doesn’t recommend plain glass for false spectacles. And here’s some miraculous stuff. Eine Wundermaterie. Willi said to warm it up a little like wax, like wax . . .,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl gave a smile and passed his hand, on which something flashed, over his forehead . . ., ‘to make a bump for my nose. It’ll change it beyond recognition. It’s a grey-white-ochre colour, the dirty complexion one. It hasn’t got any violet in it which one usually sees in drunkards. Willi said that alcoholic beggars arouse disgust rather than pity, and I mustn’t do that. A professor allegedly established that in a survey in Berlin . . . But that’s good,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl gave a smile. ‘After all, I don’t actually drink, myself. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I’m abstemious,’ he smiled into the mirror. ‘Poor Mr. Prachař from the third floor. . . And, then last of all, there’s this pair of lace-up shoes with the loose soles.’
Mr. Kopfrkingl made sure that he had locked the bathroom door properly and began changing his clothes and disguising himself. ‘Oh yes, where am I going and why,’ he smiled into the mirror once he had put on the mouldy trousers and shirt, and the thought flashed through his mind why he was going and where, what Willi had told him . . . ‘Nothing strange,’ Willi had laughed in the dining-room last February when he had brought the parcel along. Neither Lakmé nor the children were at home then. ‘There’s a disguise in this parcel. A beggar’s disguise. You’ll put it on on the sixth of March and go to our Casino in Růžová Street first; you know, to that white marble-covered entrance with the three steps. I’ll meet you there at half past four, stop you, give you a twenty-heller coin and tell you quietly whether you’re changed beyond recognition. From the Casino you’ll go slowly to Maislova Street, to the Jewish Town Hall, and stay there for a while. Why?’ Willi had given a laugh, ‘Nothing strange about it. On the sixth of March the Jews are holding a celebration in the Town Hall in Maislova Street at six o’clock in the evening. You’ll stay there in front of the entrance for a while, vor dem Ausgang, vor dem Tor. You could read the glass plate that’s by the entrance while you’re there; you know, there’s a sort of glass plate hanging beside the entrance to the Town Hall . . . as it happens, there’s a street lamp nearby, so you can easily pretend to be reading it at six o’clock in the evening. Well, then you’ll go home again. You’ll open the door as carefully as when you went out, and change back into your usual skin; Mr. Kopfrkingl, employee of the Prague crematorium. That’s all. It’ll be a kind of test of your strength and courage, so eine vortreffliche Exerzierung, or to put it more clearly, it’ll be a way of helping these poor, lost, erring Jews, who oppose the well-being and happiness of our people. How can this help them? I’ll tell you later, when we meet in Růžová Street in front of the Casino on the sixth of March . . . I hope you’re interested in it,’ Willi added. ‘You’ve always been against violence and war, against exploitation, poverty and suffering. Besides, you are, after all, employing two Jews as agents, a Mr. Strauss and a Mr. Rubinstein, two decent, good, orderly people. Why shouldn’t you help them? Does the meaning of your life consist of forever regulating the flow of coffins into the furnaces?’ And then, after a moment of silence, Willi dived into his pocket and handed his friend Kopfrkingl a piece of paper. ‘This is an application form for membership of the SdP,’ and he gave him the form. ‘There’s still time, join the party. It’s high time you did. Look here,’ he said as he was on the point of leaving, glancing at the picture of the Nicaraguan president above the door, ‘that clown’s still hanging up here . . . a perfect print of a perfect gentleman would be just right here. The portrait of the Führer and Reich Chancellor, not this clown . . .’ And Willi took his leave and went. That was in February, Lakmé and the children had not been at home then, and it was now the sixth of March. Mr. Kopfrkingl stood in the locked bathroom. He already had the mouldy trousers and the shirt on. He completed his diguise and then . . . he looked into the mirror and nearly shuddered at what he saw.
It was not he, Mr. Roman Kopfrkingl, the husband of his heavenly one and the father of his two beautiful ones, standing here in the bathroom. It was a completely different person who stood there, a real beggar, eine menschliche Ruine . . .
‘An old beggar whom I’ve never seen or known in my life,’ said Mr. Kopfrkingl to himself. ‘How completely one can change, be transformed . . . and with what? With Willi’s disguise . . .’ Then he said to himself: ‘My lovely ones are standing by the window in the dining-room and waiting, waiting for me . . . while I . . . when I open the door and go in . . . in fact, I won’t go in at all! It’ll be this one . . .,’ he pointed to himself in the mirror, ‘this one . . .’ Then he said to himself: ‘I hope they won’t get too big a fright. I hope I won’t shock them too much. I mustn’t shock them too much, I mustn’t,’ he said to himself in front of the mirror, glancing at the ventilator with the cord on the hook and at the yellow butterfly underneath. ‘They’re much too dear to me to get a big fright . . .’ Then he finally tore himself away from the mirror, and raised his eyes to the ventilator as if begging heaven for strength, when a thought occurred to him: ‘If that Mr. Fenek of ours could see me now, poor thing. Or Mr. Dvořák . . .’ Then he went to the door, put his hand on the door handle but, at the last moment, remembered that, in order to enhance the disguise, Willi had recommended that he drag his left leg behind him a little, den Fuss ein wenig nachschleppen . . . and to bend forward slightly . . . He bent his trunk slightly, got his leg ready for dragging and went out. . .
He first glimpsed but a fraction of the scene in the dining-room: – Lakmé’s fingers on her slightly opened lips by the standard lamp, Zina’s astonishment and Mili’s stare, the cat’s as well. He stood for a while on the threshold, with his leg behind him and his body bent forward, under the picture of the Nicaraguan which was still hanging there. Then he took two steps towards them, towards Lakmé, Zina and Mili, and the cat. And then, lowering his voice and extending his hand with the palm up, he bleated:
‘Good people. Have you got a little piece of bread? I haven’t eaten all day. Have you no mercy?’
It was terrible.
Zina was the first to rouse herself. She exclaimed:
‘Father, you’ve forgotten to take your ring off.’
Indeed. Mr. Kopfrkingl’s wedding ring sparkled on his left hand.
‘Such a little thing, and how it could betray me,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl gave a smile and straightened up. ‘I must say how very pleased I am with you, Zina, my little one. I must take my ring off. It’ll be the first time in my life, as you know, my dear,’ he turned to Lakmé standing by the standard lamp. ‘I haven’t taken it off for one single moment in the nineteen years of our marriage . . .’ And he gently slipped the ring off his finger, went up to the anxious Lakmé by the standard lamp, took her hand and tenderly put his ring into it. ‘Watch over it, my dear, and look after it like the apple of your eye, like my own heart, so that I’ll be able to take it from your pure hand and put it on again, this symbol of our faithfulness and love, when I come back from my errand . . . May I kiss you, even as a wretched beggar?’
Lakmé embraced him and wanted to kiss him but he held back a little at the last moment.
‘Just a token, my dear, a little kiss,’ he gave a smile, ‘so as not to disturb the grease-paint or upset the bump on my nose. When I come back I’ll make it all up to you . . .’
Lakmé stepped back, she was still rather anxious, and said at last:
‘Why are you doing it, Roman? Walking out onto the street like that. What is it for? And where are you supposed to go?’
‘To the German Casino, my dear,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl gave a smile, and also smiled at Zina, Mili and the cat. ‘Willi’s going to meet me there by the entrance at half past four, and then I’ll go to Maislova Street in the Old Town. It’s something to do with the Jews, my dear,’ he smiled tenderly. ‘I’m sure you’d understand that . . . but it would be a longish explanation . . .’ he gestured slightly and then said: ‘The question is, how to help them in some way. They’re an unhappy, erring people. They fight against Hitler, the German nation. They don’t know what they’re doing . . . This is a kind of test of my strength and courage, a kind of exercise. Anyway, I’m going to tell you everything when I come back, don’t worry . . . Zina, dear,’ blinking behind the miserable specs, Mr. Kopfrkingl involuntarily touched his shock of hair. ‘But Zina, dear, you were supposed to go out. It’ll be four o’clock now. When were you supposed to meet?’
‘At half-past three,’ said Zina.
‘At half-past three, my God,’ exclaimed Mr. Kopfrkingl, ‘the good Míla must be gone by now . . .’ but Zina shook her head.
‘What trust in people,’ blinked Mr. Kopfrkingl and again involuntarily felt his shock of hair. ‘He’s a wonderful boy, that Míla. Well, run along and give him our kind regards. I’ll leave the flat in five minutes.’
‘Youth, oh youth,’ Mr. Kopfrkingl smiled into the little mirror hanging in the dining-room after Zina had left. ‘We weren’t any different, Lakmé. It’s already nineteen years since we met in the zoo in front of the leopard,’ he smiled into the little mirror. ‘The leopard has been called to meet his Maker long ago . . . But now I’ll be going. Time flies, and I mustn’t forget my duties. We must take care that nobody sees me leaving the flat. When I come back, my heavenly one, I’ll make it all up to you, like God . . .’ Mr. Kopfrkingl stroked Lakmé, who was still anxious and bewildered, and smiled at the cat and Mili, who was standing in the corner gaping. Then he bent forward, turned his leg aside, blinked at the picture of the Nicaraguan president above the door and went out into the hall. He blinked at Maryborough above the shelves for shoes, then listened for a while at the door and peered through the peephole. Then he turned round and said to Lakmé and Mili, who were trembling behind him, that there was nobody there, that everything in the house was quiet. He opened the door quietly and stepped outside.
As he went down the stairs, bent forward and holding the banisters, he wondered what would happen if somebody had seen him come out of his door after all. Perhaps they would think that Mrs. Kopfrkingl welcomed beggars in her flat. ‘If the good Dr. Bettelheim should see me, for example, whom I visit in secret to check I’m not infected,’ he thought, going down the stairs, bent forward and holding the banisters. ‘What if it had been him of all people who’d seen this disgusting beggar leaving Kopfrkingl’s flat? Or his beautiful elderly wife, or their nephew, Jan, or their housekeeper, Anežka, in her red apron, the loyal good soul . . .’ Then he found himself almost on the ground floor . . . and his heart nearly stopped. Mrs. Prachař, whom he hadn’t seen in the house for such a long time, had just come in, Vojta beside her. Respectfully, he made way for them, stepping back against the wall . . . they passed him with an astonished glance and may have even turned round to look at him . . . he dragged himself to the front door. ‘They haven’t recognized me,’ he said to himself at the door. ‘Of course, how could they? The disguise is excellent, how perfectly it can change one, transform one . . . poor Mrs. Prachař, poor Vojta, let’s hope he won’t inherit it from his father.’ He stepped out onto the street and mingled with the people who were passing the apartment house. But still he turned to look round a little, and it seemed to him that Zina was hanging about in the distance, on the opposite pavement, watching. Further off a little terrier was answering the call of nature.
The German Casino in Růžová Street, to which Mr. Kopfrkingl had dragged himself with his leg behind him and his body bent forward, had a white marble-covered entrance with three steps. ‘I love white marble-covered entrances with three steps,’ thought Mr. Kopfrkingl and slowly crossed the street to the pavement opposite. ‘They look like the entrance to some rich man’s villa. They could even be the entrance to some grand ceremonial hall. Willi’s inside,’ he thought. ‘Willi’s in there. I’ve never been inside, but I know it from his description. The carpets, mirrors, pictures . . . lavatories, bathrooms . . . first-class Prague German society, deputies, factory-owners, professors from the German University, not all of them of course . . . Mr. Boehrmann, who frequently goes to Berlin to consult with ministers, and first-class waitresses, barmaids and hostesses . . .’ Mr. Kopfrkingl reached the pavement opposite and involuntarily leaned against the wall of a building . . . Then he peered through his specs, shifted his leg slightly and bent his body so that Willi would find him in the correct posture when he came out of that white entrance with the three steps. As he stood in this manner against the wall of the building opposite and gazed at the white entrance, several people passed by without him noticing them at all. Except for one woman. She was slim and had biggish breasts. She was a complete stranger, he had never seen her before in his life. She dived into her handbag, and before Mr. Kopfrkingl could recover himself, he found a twenty-heller coin in his hand. He did not even realize that a split second before he had extended his hand with the palm turned upwards as he had done when he came out of the bathroom at home. His heart nearly stopped at this gift. ‘What a beautiful, good woman,’ he thought when he roused himself from his astonishment. ‘What proof that my disguise is perfect . . .’ At that very moment he saw his friend Willi walking energetically towards him from the Casino’s entrance.
‘Fantastic,’ Willi laughed, glancing after the woman, who was already far away. ‘Fantastisch, tadellos. Why, you’re completely changed. You’re acting it just like Chaplin. Come, let’s walk together a little bit,’ he gave a laugh, ‘nebeneinander . . .’
With his leg behind him and his body bent forward, Mr. Kopfrkingl walks slowly beside Willi and says with a glance at Willi’s elegant coat:
‘Won’t it attract attention – you walking with me?’
‘Why?’ says Willi. ‘Why shouldn’t a citizen of this republic walk with a beggar for a little bit? After all, this is a free, democratic country, isn’t it? Ausgezeichnet,’ he laughed with a glance at the feet, ‘du schleichst wie ein echter Bettler.’ Then Willi put his hands into the pockets of his elegant coat, lowered his head and said quietly:
‘You want to live up to your honour. You were born for big tasks,’ he smiled at the bluish face, shocks of hair and stubble beside him. ‘You’re getting along fine. You’re doing it brilliantly. You’re no weakling, you’re a one hundred-percent man, with a pure German soul. Just crawl along the streets for a while to reinforce your inner resolve, and then off to Maislova Street. If you shuffle along there before six, it’ll be the right time. Hang about the entrance, stick your hand out too. Gape at the plate by the gate. I told you, there’s a kind of little glass plate hanging by the entrance, you can read it, there’s a street lamp nearby . . . And then . . . try to catch . . . a few words. Einige Worte auffangen. A few words, the kind people usually say when going inside. Nämlich,‘ Willi gave a laugh, ‘what Jews say when they enter the Jewish Town Hall on 6 March 1939, on Chevra sude, which is a festival. . . I’ll ask tomorrow.’ Then he said:
‘You know that they’re a wretched people who don’t understand anything. They’re so ancient, they’re senile . . . But you can help them,’ he said, ‘help them when we find out what they’re talking about, what their views are. Besides, this is nothing but a sort of little test for you, a training of sorts, as I told you at your place. Considering that you’ve been a member of the SdP since last month it’s necessary to undergo a little such training. The whole German nation has undergone training, much more difficult training, in uniforms, in the field, in sacrifices . . . the young people in the Hitler Youth in boxing. What’s all this crawling . . .?’ Willi jerked his head at his friend Kopfrkingl creeping along beside him. ‘Why, it’s just plain tomfoolery compared to that. Well, and you’ll also have to come to the Casino soon . . .’
