When I picked this book up – from the guy who sells books every weekend in Swiss Cottage outside Hampstead Theatre – I didn’t know the first thing about Jiri Weil. A flip to the back – an account of surviving the Holocaust in wartime Prague – and my interest was confirmed. This stuff was right up my alley. But the slim size of the book is deceptive; it took me a lot longer to finish it than I had initially expected.
Part of it because of the nature of the story, the texture of Weil’s prose. Some people might find the book repetitive and enervating – heaven knows I found the last 50 pages to be exceptionally heavy going. But I think, in the final analysis, this circular dreariness is to Weil’s credit – nothing I have read before comes so close to the lived experience of the Nazi occupation, as it was felt by countless Jews in the cities of east Europe. The death of hope, the gnawing fear, the petty abuses and humiliations, the endless waiting, the Kafkaesque nightmares in the Community building and other bureaucratic limbos, the boredom and cold and hunger of daily life – above all, fear and resignation as the twin conditions of existence – all this comes across with the fidelity that only first-hand experience can bring. So what if it is leaden and lugubrious in places? Life itself was leaden and lugubrious if you were a Jew in wartime Prague under the Nazis, and Weil renders it in true colours.
*
Our narrator is Josef Roubicek, an ordinary bank clerk. When we first meet him, it is still the early days of the war, probably not long since the fall of Prague. But life is hard all the same – Roubicek no longer has a job, he lives alone in a battered, abandoned and utterly empty house in the remote suburbs of the city, cold and hunger are his daily companions. Getting the stove going to heat up the room is a struggle, an even bigger battle is to find food to eat. When Josef has a few coins to spare, the local butcher Halaburda will occasionally condescend to sell him some blood – or a few bones if he is really lucky. Meat does not enter the picture. Boarding the streetcar to go anywhere is a serious problem; wearing the Jewish star on your chest marks you out for cruel and hostile treatment even from your fellow Czechs, let alone the Nazis. As much as he can help it, Josef spends his days at home, in a trance, reading the same old books, watching the wet patch on the ceiling grow, writing his feverish notes. At night, he looks out the window at the stars, the whole city blacked out around him.
In his mind, he constantly thinks of Ruzena, his lover before the war, the wife of another man. In these his memories, Josef finds his only escape from reality – memories of walking the streets of the old city hand in hand with Ruzena, lying together on a sunny riverbank, or snuggled up in bed in a ski chalet, warm and close and loving, while all around them the Eastern European winter closes down. As for Josef, so for the readers – these interludes provide the only relief, the only reminder of the ordinariness of life in the city before the Nazis arrived. In retrospect, it was prelapsarian bliss. Before the apocalypse, Ruzena had pleaded with Josef to go abroad, together, but he failed to respond. Thus ended their relationship, and thus begins his reminiscences.
His only friend in the world is Tomas the cat, a neighbourhood stray which has found refuge and company with Josef. Together, they share the scraps of stale bread, the meagre warmth of the stove, the indifferent stars in the sky.
*
As time passes, the Holocaust gets organized, gets properly underway. The bloodless bureaucratic business of registering Jews, assigning numbers to Jews, sending summons to Jews for transportation to Terezin or Auschwitz, emptying out Jewish homes, looting Jews of all their earthly possessions. Roubicek, lower down the alphabetical order and physically weak to boot, gets assigned to work in a graveyard – the caretaker/gardener detail. By a singular chance, his name does NOT get called up with the rest of the city’s Roubiceks when their turn comes around, and from that unlikely reprieve flows the rest of the story.
Along the way, we meet the people in his life – the crotchety old aunt and uncle who raised the orphan Josef and whose lives will likely end in the gas chamber; an old friend Pavel whose wealth and breeding will bring no succour against the inhuman force of the Nazis; the namesake Robitschek who is determined at all costs not to be taken alive; Josef’s gentile neighbour Materna who talks and plots endlessly with his friends and who provides the one genuinely decent example of the ordinary Praguer. The cycle the of seasons turns inexorably, years pass, the ranks of the city’s Jews, of Josef’s colleagues thin out. Macabre stories make the rounds among his workmates – a man shot dead for refusing a haircut, the well-to-do family found sitting at their lavish dining table, frozen in rigor mortis, their poisoned wine-cups before them. Suicides by cyanide.
In every line, this pervasive sense of unreality, as if one had stepped through a portal into a parallel universe. Such must have been life under the Nazis. In the end, through strange and bitter pathways, Josef finds his redemption, his liberation from fear and from spiritual slavery.
*
Roubicek’s Prague no longer exists, what is there instead is a UNESCO-listed toytown, a fairytale in stone with little trace of either the city’s Jews or the Nazis who liquefied them. To know what happened to them, you have to read Jiri Weil. For me, this is a superior book than Wiesel’s Night – not necessarily better executed, but certainly more real, more authentic, and at a certain level, far more profound. I hope to read Weil’s other key book (Mendelssohn on the Roof) someday soon. And someday too, I hope to walk along the banks of the river Vltava, on and on for miles and miles until I reach the suburbs and the fields, just like Josef Roubicek once did.