‘I don’t know who you are, but this is my shop and …’
Jacob Noah, in the bloom of his life, small admittedly and after those years in his hole in the bog unmistakeably pale and thin, thin as he will make a point of not being for the rest of his life, lifts himself up like a bear disturbed while eating. His chest swells like a bellows, and although it is doubtless not really the case his hair seems to stand on end. His shoulders rise, his small, almost feminine hands unfold into enormous coal shovels and his feet suddenly feel so strongly rooted to the earth that it’s unlikely that even a tornado could shift him from the spot.
‘Jacob Noah!’ he roars. ‘Son of Abraham Noah! Son of Rosa Deutscher! Brother of Heijman Noah! This shop is my father’s shop! OUT!’
The man looks at him through narrowed eyes and takes a barely perceptible step back.
They stand facing one another, attracted by their mutual dislike, repelled by a curiosity that fills them both with nausea. Tiny muscular spasms ripple over their faces and through their bodies. Jacob Noah’s jaw tenses and AryanBookshopHilbrandts’ throat muscles ripple, Jacob Noah’s midriff hardens and AryanBookshopHilbrandts’ thighs twitch, Jacob Noah’s stomach shrinks and Aryan Bookshop Hilbrandts’ shoulders bend.
‘It’s my shop,’ the other man says. ‘I know nothing of any previous tenants. I’ve always paid on time.’
Jacob Noah feels the blood thump in his neck. Then he turns round with a jerk and grabs for the door handle.
In the full light of the midday sun he blinks against the brightness of the world. Two women walk past and don’t recognise him.
Aryanbloodybookshop.
He cycles
and he cycles
and he cycles
and he cycles.
He cycles
along the Gedempte Singel, right down Brinkstraat, left up the Brink, where he throws the bike against the wall of the town hall and storms in.
‘Who’re you?’ says the official whom he gets, after five other imperturbable officials, to speak to.
He says his name. He says his father’s name. He would, if it was still in his possession, show his identity card.
The official rises to his feet, walks to the row of filing cabinets behind him, opens a drawer, runs his fingers over the files and, interrupting himself with barely audible remarks (‘No, not that one. Mi, Mij, Mo, Mu. There it is’), he hums a cheerful little tune. He pokes his nose into a folder (‘Yesyesyes. Humhum’) and walks with the file to another row of cabinets, where the same business starts all over again (‘marketmarketmarket, no, there it is’) and at last a fat bundle of cards, architectural drawings and loose papers is revealed.
‘Here it is. No, that property is let to G. Hilbrandts from 13 November 1942. Vacant premises, I see. So.’
‘It’s my property.’
‘Ah, no, I don’t think so. A certain D. Noah, I see here, and you were J. Noah, I seem to remember. So we need Mr D. Noah.’
For a moment the wooden floor of the department of buildings and dwellings gleams smooth and brown as the counter in the shop. Behind the windows lies the sunlit town, where people are walking in the street and hanging pennants from their houses. The greenery, thick and heavy on the trees, promises a lovely summer.
‘There was a war.’
‘Yes,’ says the official, in a tone which suggests that he came across this fact in one of his files a long time ago: World War II, 10 May 1940–5 May 1945.
‘I don’t know where my father is. I don’t know where my parents are. We were in hiding. Taken away.’
The official looks at him confidently.
‘Then it’s a matter of waiting until the affair is administratively clarified, but I can assure you that everything will sort itself out.’
‘There’s a bloody Nazi in that property! My father’s shop … I live there. We … Our life. Our things.’
He has trouble getting the words out and that annoys him.
‘None of that falls within my area of competence. The premises were let by the then government to …’ He glances at the file. ‘G. Hilbrandts.’
‘By whom?’
‘What do you …’
‘Under which official?’
The man straightens, arranges his features into what he doubtless considers to be an official, representative expression, and says in a measured tone: ‘The government is not a person.’
‘You …’
‘I advise you to register a complaint about the tenancy, or a request to have what you believe is your property returned to you. Signature by the legal owner … Noah, D … is required. That is all. I have other things to do. If you will excuse me.’
And less than fifteen minutes later, thrown out by two burly farmhands retrained as clerks, who have no trouble dealing with such a thin little yid, he jumps on the bike that isn’t his bike
and cycles
and cycles
and cycles
and cycles and as he cycles and his heart thumps between his ears and the blood presses behind his eyes, the image of the shop comes back, as the shop was when he came back from Amsterdam God knows how in the middle of the second year of war to that godforsaken bloody hole because he couldn’t sleep for worrying about his parents and walked from the station to the square his whole body bent over the star on his jacket and there in the square found windows boarded over and a door that wasn’t locked and inside, where shoes and boxes and an unimaginable quantity of papers were scattered over the floor and the smell of old air still lingered, there, having walked upstairs, through the empty rooms, and back down again, in the half-plundered shop, on a chair that he had first had to pick up and set upright, it became clear to him that his parents and his brother weren’t there any more, and it had grown dark behind the windows that looked out onto the square, the roofs standing out sharp-edged against the lacerating blue light, a late bird shooting across the even surface of the sky and on his chair, a straight-backed dining-room chair with an embroidered seat, he had hidden his face in his hands and …
everything
everyone
The door to the shop is shut now, but he feels no hesitation and lifts his right leg and kicks just under the lock and as the door flies open he himself goes flying in.
‘What …’
He takes his only souvenir of the whole bloody war out of his jacket pocket, surprised at the weight of the black metal in his hand, and presses the barrel of the pistol against AryanBookshopHilbrandts’ temple as he grabs him by his thin tie and brings the bewildered shopkeeper’s pale, mousy head close to his own.
‘You,’ he says, panting like a god giving birth to one of his creations. ‘Out.’
And, suddenly fluent, but still hoarse: ‘Otherwise I’ll blow a hole in that Nazi head of yours, AryanBookshopHilbrandts.’
He lets the man go and pushes him back, sending him crashing into a bookshelf.
Silence falls, an after-a-lot-of-shouting silence, the sort in which the memory of noise from a moment ago still rustles.
The man against the bookshelf rolls his eyes, a little thread of spit runs from the right-hand corner of his mouth and his head twitches back and forth as he stares at the barrel of the pistol that