Jakob the Liar Read Free Page B

that insignificant, trembling little Jacob Heym with the tears in his eyes, be the first Jew to describe what the inside of the military office looks like? It would take another six days of the Creation, as the saying goes; the world has grown even more chaotic than it was then.
    “Come on now, beat it!” says the duty officer.
    The corridor is empty again, which was almost to be expected; it’s one of the minor sources of danger. But then the door to the outside: had it made any noise when he opened it before, did it open without a sound, or did it squeak or creak or grate? Go ahead, just try to take in every detail, quite impossible — if only he’d known in advance that it would really matter! Matter? In practical terms it makes absolutely no difference whether it can be moved quietly or not. If it doesn’t squeak, Jacob will open it; and if it does squeak, is Jacob supposed to stay where he is? At ten minutes to eight?
    Gently he presses down the latch. Too bad there’s no other word for gently — maybe
very gently
or
infinitely gently
, all equally far from what is meant. One might say, Open the door quietly; if he hears you, it could cost you your life, the life that has suddenly acquired meaning. So he opens the door. And then Jacob is standing outside: how cold it has suddenly become. The wide square lies before him, a joy to step into it. The searchlight has grown tired of waiting; it’s having fun somewhere else, it’s at a standstill, perhaps it’s resting up for new adventures. Keep close to the wall, Jacob, that’s it; once you’ve reached the corner of the building, grit your teeth for the twenty yards across the square. If he does notice anything, he’ll first have to swing the beam around and search, but here’s the corner already, only a measly twenty yards to go.
    It is almost exactly twenty yards, I’ve measured the distance: to be precise, fifty-nine feet six and a half inches. I’ve been there, the building is still standing, completely undamaged, only the watchtower is gone. But I had someone show me the exact spot, right in the middle of the Kurländischer Damm, and then I paced off the distance — I have a pretty good feeling for a yard. But it wasn’t accurate enough for me so I bought a tape measure, then went back and measured it again. The children looked on and took me for an important person, and the grown-ups watched in amazement and took me for a madman. Even a policeman turned up, asked me for my identity card, and wanted to know what I was measuring. In any case it’s exactly fifty-nine feet six and a half inches, no doubt about that.
    The building has come to an end; Jacob gets ready to take off. Almost twenty yards have to be covered a few minutes before eight; it’s a safe bet, and yet. A mouse is what one ought to be. A mouse is so insignificant, so small and quiet. And you? Officially you are a louse, a bedbug, we are all bedbugs, by a whim of our Creator absurdly overgrown bedbugs, and when was the last time a bedbug wanted to trade places with a mouse? Jacob decides not to run, he’d rather creep, it’s easier to control the sounds that way. If the searchlight starts moving, he can still speed up. Halfway across he hears the sentry’s voice — don’t panic, it’s not directed at him — the sentry says, “Yessir!” Again he says, “Yessir,” and again. There’s only one explanation: he’s on the phone. Maybe it’s a call from another sentry who is also bored. But he wouldn’t keep saying, “Yessir,” to him, of course he wouldn’t. So it’s the sentry’s superior giving him some sort of orders? Actually quite irrelevant, but, assuming the best, it’s the duty officer on the line: What the hell are you thinking of? Have you gone crazy, giving poor innocent Jews a scare like that? (“Yessir.”) Couldn’t you see the man was half out of his mind — his legs were trembling with fear! Don’t ever let me catch you at it again, is that clear?