Then it hits me: it was pale creatures just like them, all twisted up with pain inside, who used to come to us, the seekers of the bunks. The girl laying a buckle on the table right now had that same tough, hardened look — except when she looked at Kagan and a softness stole into her eyes.
Kagan turns to go and we follow along behind him, the boys covered in mud, the girls from the pit. Stretching out our stride, mud squirting at every step, we walk back to the pole where the generator hums. And I see more people, standing and sitting around on the crates and benches. Young people. All of them Kagan’s workers, to judge from the mud.
He steps up on a crate and reaches with both hands towards the depths of the cave, or whatever it is we’re in, as if he’s groping for the edge where the light gives way to darkness.
Now all we have left to uncover is the final layer, Kagan says loudly, towering atop the crate in his rubber boots, waving his hands like some spooky magician working his abracadabra. Everybody stands and listens, some clutch a pickaxe or shovel, but nobody so much as coughs or shuffles their feet. Then Kagan raises his voice even louder. The echo is pretty impressive.
Yes, now we will dig in the dirt where the tyrants forced your parents and grandparents to kneel. You know as well as I do that this government won’t allow a word about Belarusians murdering one another. But we will shatter the silence! To forget the horrors of the past is to consent to a new evil, Kagan thunders.
He snatches a shovel out of the hand of one of the girls from the pit and holds it in the air.
You see? Dig in the ground and the house of tyranny will collapse! he cries.
The girl looks happy Kagan chose her. But also a little embarrassed.
Kagan leaps down from the crate and seizes me by the hand. Then he goes on speaking.
Your work in Europe, your devotedly maintained and freely visited burial sites are a model to us, dear friend, he says, pumping my hand.
Terezín is in every encyclopaedia, every textbook, he says, speaking now just to me. We want to be on the world map too. We believe you can help us achieve that.
Kagan is shaking my hand, sealing our bond of brotherhood, when all of a sudden we hear it: a sharp, nerve-rending sound. A siren. It wails intermittently as the yellow bulbs blink on and off. An alarm.
Everyone freezes at first, then springs into motion, some people go running off into the dark as Kagan drags me towards the tent. I don’t resist, since all of a sudden I see her, holding open a flap. We slip inside, Kagan gropes around on the ground, lifts a wooden cover. I see stairs, the faint glow of light bulbs. Maruška’s right behind me, we clamber down the steps, there are others behind her.
I duck my head and follow Kagan down a long tunnel, till we come to a train. It looks like one of those rides for kids.
We sit down, Kagan, Maruška and me, some big guy squeezes in with us, plus two girls, panting for breath, smeared with dirt. People are coming out of the tunnel one by one and climbing on board. The carriage next to us, a little thing, is filled with wooden crates, sealed shut. Kagan chuckles softly.
I bet you didn’t know there are still countries where an archaeologist can feel like Indiana Jones. Eh, my friend? Ho ho ho!
And we’re off. The ride is bumpy in places, and slow, but we move right along. I can’t believe we didn’t think of this in Terezín! A little train like this — it’d be great for older tourists! From the Monument to the cemetery and the ramparts. And the kids! Then they wouldn’t be so worn out from walking.
Where’re we going? I ask Kagan.
Headquarters. Of our opposition party. Whatever we find, we store there, he says.
Is it safe? I ask. I have my doubts.
The government and the opposition both support our plan. So there’s no threat to your mission, he says, leaning in towards me. I can’t see his face, but I can smell the strong stink of his rubber coat.
Where’s your headquarters?
Minsk.
Oh no. And here I was hoping we were on our way somewhere else. But if I’d had any idea where I was going to end up, I would’ve stayed nailed to my seat in that train.
The last faint light disappears around the bend. Now it’s really dark and cold. I want to hold Maruška’s hand, but it’s too cramped to move. Still, I bless the darkness, at least now I can take care of the clot in my nose. I’d be embarrassed in front of them.
I reach into my pocket, take out the Spider, and stick it in one of my fabulous boots. Wiggle my fingers, feeling it through my sock. Slowly we wind our way through the dark, blacker than black, nobody talks. Why bother. It’s obvious they’re after us.
10
Finally the light appears and the train jerks to a stop. We get out and walk. Another narrow tunnel, another set of wooden stairs. We walk up, Kagan first, somebody up there is holding open the cover. We’re in a house. Bare wooden walls, high ceiling. No furniture, just crates. They’re everywhere, some new and smelling of wood, others ancient and warped, stinking of dried mud. All of them are shut. Kagan is greeted by a crowd of men and women. They exchange strong hugs, happy to see each other. I want to wait for Maruška, but then all of a sudden I see him. He splits off from the others, walks over to me.
You got the Spider? Alex asks.
Way back when, I had told him what I named it.
Better give me it now. I don’t know how much time we have, he says.
You mean martial law? I ask.
Whatever happens, stick with me. You got it or not? Alex asks again. Mr Hard-line. It actually hasn’t been that long since we saw each other in Terezín. Now he’s got a screwdriver in his hand, wires draped around his neck. Overalls with big pockets. Pliers, tape measure, a few other tools poking out. I haven’t seen him like this before. He looks like a handyman.
The people who were working under the museum come crawling out one by one. Next thing you know the wooden floor’s covered with footprints. Young girls, boys. We could’ve used them at the Comenium. They would’ve liked it there. I follow Alex as we walk towards the back of the room, working our way through the crush. These seekers of the bunks are a tougher bunch than our sensitive students. There’s anger on their faces. I bet they’re pretty pissed off they had to make a run for it. Everything’s tougher and crazier here. In our country the girls would be selling souvenirs instead of digging with shovels. Listening to Lebo’s talks instead of Kagan’s fiery speeches. At night they’d be smoking red grass, drinking and dancing. They wouldn’t be so pale. Ah, well! Wouldn’t that be nice? And then I see Maruška.
She’s cradling a little boy in her arms, with another one hanging on her skirt. Both of their faces are glowing as she whispers something into the down on the little one’s head.
In the corner of the room there are more kids, women, older ones too.
There’s something I want to show you, says Alex. You didn’t have this in Terezín.
We go behind a divider. Again I’m blinking in the dark. I can feel the Spider in my boot. Now what? After I give it to Alex, then what’ll happen to me? Where will I go? These are the questions I want to discuss with Mr Hard-line. The sooner the better. He takes me by the elbow, we keep walking.
In the murk of the back room I make out some human-size mannequins, standing and sitting, hunched on chairs.
These aren’t brides like the girl with the shiny headband. There’s a stench of old age coming off them.
One standing next to me moves, I almost scream. It opens its arms and I stare at the face in disbelief. A guy with leathery skin, shrivelled, nose like a beak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that old in all my life.
I’m even more shocked when a voice issues from the ruins.
Welcome, comrade, he says in Czech. And wraps me in a hug. He staggers, I struggle to hold him up. His long, nervous fingers, like toothpicks, tremble before he drops into a wicker chair deftly pushed underneath him by Alex.