Mendelssohn is on the Roof by Jiří Weil Page B

assignment. Now he was the absolute lord and master of all Jews in the Protectorate. His power was unlimited and no one could encroach on his territory. The minister was glad to meet so well-informed a person, an expert on Jewish monuments who knew the exact dates they were constructed. Once, the head of the Central Bureau explained, Prague had been a virtual bastion of Judaism, where Jews had lived uninterruptedly for at least a thousand years. This was because the Czechs lacked the racial sensitivities of the Germans, who had been trying to get rid of the Jews from at least the beginning of the Middle Ages; often, when the king’s power was weakened, they actually succeeded. But soon not a single Jew would remain in this golden city. Of course, the monuments would remain. The head of the Central Bureau wouldn’tallow them to be razed or burned down, as had happened in the Reich through human anger and bitterness. They were too valuable; they must be preserved. The minister was surprised to find a person engaged in such crude work who understood so well the need for preservation. He decided to mention him in Berlin.
    In the Jewish quarter, the head of the Central Bureau sent for Dr Rabinovich, his servant and slave. The contrast was striking: behind the slender, tall man with muscles hardened by sport and games, whose uniform and coat looked as if he had been poured into them, stood a twisted shadow, hunched over, looking down at the ground. In a briskly military and rather patronising fashion, the head of the Central Bureau ordered Dr Rabinovich to describe the ceremonies for the guest. The servant and slave spoke softly in good German with only a slight accent. The minister was interested in everything, even the embroidery on the ark curtains, even the variously shaped spice boxes – the little towers, fish and the locomotive. And then he saw the ram’s horn, a real ram’s horn.
    ‘What’s this?’ he asked with amazement. He was surprised that such a primitive object still served a religious function. But how else to explain its presence among the exhibits here?
    ‘Explain it to the minister,’ ordered the head of the Central Bureau.
    Dr Rabinovich spoke the words he had often been obliged to repeat to various visitors: the ram’s horn was called the
shofar
. Formerly it had served as a military bugle, but now it was used to announce the beginning of the Day of Judgement; the Day of Atonement, the highest and most terrible of the Jewish holidays, the day when one thinks about one’s sins, repents of them, and begs for forgiveness.
    ‘I see,’ said the minister. ‘It’s a sort of musical instrument. I’d like to hear what it sounds like.’
    ‘Blow it,’ commanded the head of the Central Bureau.
    ‘But I …’ stuttered Dr Rabinovich. He was being forced into a further sin. He mustn’t commit such a blasphemous act. He’d be lost for ever and the vengeance of the Lord would afflict his issue for four generations. For these accounts are settled on earth!
    ‘Blow!’ bellowed the head of the Central Bureau in a threatening voice.
    And so he blew. His flesh was weak, he was not of the martyr’s breed, he had a wife and sons who wanted to live.
    It wasn’t a pleasant sound, not at all, rather a prolonged croak. He wasn’t a trumpeter, after all! He had never held this instrument in his hands before. Other people were meant to blow the
shofar
, people who knew how to produce sounds with it.
    ‘Well, it’s certainly not pleasant,’ announced the minister.
    ‘Nevertheless, it’s interesting.’
    ‘Next time blow it better,’ the head of the Central Office reproached him sharply. ‘You need practice.’
    And he left with his grand visitor.
    Rabinovich remained alone in the exhibition room. He looked around at the cases and the hanging ark curtains, feeling pangs of remorse.
    This had been a terrible day, a day of sorrow not unlike the day commemorating the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem.