Jakob the Liar Read Online Free PDF Page B

from an old slapstick silent movie when Charlie the little policeman tries to arrest the giant with the bushy eyebrows, and, try as he will, the big fellow doesn’t even notice him. We all know that Mischa could lift him off the ground and tear him to pieces. If he wanted to. The corporal hits him a few more times — by now his hands must be hurting — then shouts something or other that nobody’s interested in and only lays off when a thin trickle of blood runs out of the corner of Mischa’s mouth. Then he straightens his tunic again and belatedly notices that in the excitement his cap has fallen off; he picks it up, puts it on, goes back to his men, and marches away with the off-duty sentry detail behind him.
    Mischa wipes the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, winks at Jacob, and reaches for a crate.
    “All right, let’s get on with it,” he says.
    They lift up the crate, and, as they carry it, Jacob’s anger flares up again, almost tearing his teeth apart. He’s not superstitious, and there’s no such thing as a higher power, but in some inexplicable way — perhaps only because it verged on the comical — he feels that Mischa deserved the beating.
    “Oh, Jacob…”

W e know what will happen. We have some modest experience in the course events are apt to take; we have some imagination so we know what will happen. Mischa won’t be able to keep his mouth shut. Never mind that he has been forbidden to talk. It won’t be spite that will make him break his silence or make him not even try to remain silent; it won’t be some malevolent desire to get Jacob into trouble — it will be joy, pure and simple. Stop taking your own lives, you’ll soon be needing them again! Stop living without hope, our days of misery are numbered! Make an effort to survive, you’ve had plenty of practice, you’re familiar with all the thousands of tricks that can cheat death — after all, you’ve managed so far. Just survive the last two hundred and fifty miles, then survival will be over, then life will begin.
    Those are the reasons why Mischa won’t be able to keep his mouth shut. He’ll be asked for his source; he will reveal it, what’s wrong with that? Soon even the children in the ghetto will know the big secret, in the strictest confidence of course, they will hear about it when their parents in their joy forget to whisper. People will come to Jacob, to Heym the possessor of a radio, and want to hear the latest news; they will come with eyes such as Jacob has never seen before. And what on earth is he going to tell them?

H alf a day has passed, the big crates have been stowed away in the freight cars, now it’s time for the smaller ones, the kind that one man can carry alone, and Jacob has lost sight of Mischa. Well, not literally lost sight of him, they see each other every few minutes but always a few feet apart, in passing, with their backs under a load or on their way to pick up another crate. The opportunity for a word of explanation hasn’t come yet; he can’t just take Mischa aside and say, This is how things really are. Whenever they see each other, Mischa winks at him or smiles or makes a face or waves surreptitiously; whether carrying a crate or not, it hardly makes any difference, each time some confidential gesture: we both know what it’s all about. Once Jacob forgets himself and winks back, but he recovers immediately — that would be going too far, that would block the way to the opportunity. But he can’t help himself; each time they pass his anger subsides. After all, the fellow has a right to be happy. Why shouldn’t he be happy after all that has happened?
    The day is bright blue, as if specially chosen for the joyous occasion. The sentry by the wooden shed is sitting on a few bricks, having taken off his rifle and placed it beside him; he is leaning his head against the wall with his eyes shut, basking in the sun. He is smiling; one could almost feel sorry for him.
    As Jacob walks past he