destroying . . . to pass on the humiliation. That’s what
kikes and niggers are for . . . the whole point of such notions of the alien . . . to make damn sure there’s some poor bugger who’s worse off than you are yourself. Some poor bugger who
can be blamed for all your ills. It’s sort of what makes the world go round.’
Siebert had no facial reaction to this. No shrugs, no twist in the lips to say it was beyond him. He simply sat back with his brauner – a strong cup of coffee with a thick head of cream
– stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit up once more – drag, sip, drag – and said, ‘Could you leave me out? Whichever one I might be in, could you just leave me
out?’
§ 34
Little had burnt. Little but enough. The packed swatches of cloth, dense and heavy, had resisted flame in much the way the pages of a telephone directory would if one tried to
light the inch thick edge. They had scorched and smouldered but not burnt. His sewing machine in contrast was a train-wreck. A small tortured sculpture in twisted iron and steel. Hummel could still
make out the word ‘Singer’ on the frame, stripped of its black and gold. For all his adult life and much of his childhood the old Singer, which had been his father’s before it was
his, had seemed like an extension of Hummel himself. His big flat feet rhythmically worked the treadle, and through the treadle Hummel connected to the earth, the universe, the everything and the
all. The small Antaeus of the sewing machine. As a boy he had sat and pedalled, no cloth no thread, and stared at nothing and found it easy enough to think of nothing, almost mesmerised by the
motion. His father would come in and tell him how the sun was shining and that he should go out and play. A limb had been severed. Two arms, two legs, but treadleless. It was a moment to weep and
had Hummel been a weeping man he might well have wept.
He became aware of someone standing behind him in the skewed frame of the shop doorway. It had to be Trager.
Without turning Hummel said, ‘Why, Joe, why?’
Trager shuffled forward kicking up fine, flying black ash with the toecaps of his boots.
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
‘What’s to get?’
‘It had to be me. That’s what you don’t get. ’Cos if it wasn’t me it wouldn’t have been one of them. It would have been all of them. The whole fuckin’
lot. Do you honestly think one Viennese copper, some stupid English twat who’d got himself lost and me . . . Little Joe Trager . . . could have held off that lot?’
Hummel said nothing.
‘It’s not even as if they were Germans. That was your lot. Austrians, Viennese . . . for all I know people you’ve known all your life.’
‘I’d never seen any of them before. They might as well have been Germans for all I know.’
‘Fine. Have it your own fuckin’ way. Germans, Austrians, whatever they were, but Joe, if you stay maybe they ’ll kill you.’
‘ They ?’ said Hummel with all the irony he could cram into one syllable.
‘We . . . then . . . we . . . fuck it, Joe, maybe I ’ll have to kill you?’
‘But you’d only be following orders.’
He’d finally got to Trager. Trager had turned red in the face, risen to his full short height, all but loomed over Hummel. Hummel expected foul-mouthed rage, perhaps a blow from his
fist.
‘Jesus Christ, Joe. Jesus Christ.’
He had spoken so softly it was neither oath nor curse. A heartfelt whisper. Then he hoisted his rifle, turned and left. Hummel did not see him again until it was dark.
He thought better of sleeping in the flat over the shop. The floor might give way, and ‘they’ might return. Instead he went round to Shkolnik’s Kosher Butcher’s two
streets away and asked Old Shkolnik for four steel meathooks. Shkolnik was standing in the remains of his shop, shuffling around on a carpet of broken glass making no attempt to clean up
anything.
‘Take as many as you like. I’m out of business.
kikes and niggers are for . . . the whole point of such notions of the alien . . . to make damn sure there’s some poor bugger who’s worse off than you are yourself. Some poor bugger who
can be blamed for all your ills. It’s sort of what makes the world go round.’
Siebert had no facial reaction to this. No shrugs, no twist in the lips to say it was beyond him. He simply sat back with his brauner – a strong cup of coffee with a thick head of cream
– stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit up once more – drag, sip, drag – and said, ‘Could you leave me out? Whichever one I might be in, could you just leave me
out?’
§ 34
Little had burnt. Little but enough. The packed swatches of cloth, dense and heavy, had resisted flame in much the way the pages of a telephone directory would if one tried to
light the inch thick edge. They had scorched and smouldered but not burnt. His sewing machine in contrast was a train-wreck. A small tortured sculpture in twisted iron and steel. Hummel could still
make out the word ‘Singer’ on the frame, stripped of its black and gold. For all his adult life and much of his childhood the old Singer, which had been his father’s before it was
his, had seemed like an extension of Hummel himself. His big flat feet rhythmically worked the treadle, and through the treadle Hummel connected to the earth, the universe, the everything and the
all. The small Antaeus of the sewing machine. As a boy he had sat and pedalled, no cloth no thread, and stared at nothing and found it easy enough to think of nothing, almost mesmerised by the
motion. His father would come in and tell him how the sun was shining and that he should go out and play. A limb had been severed. Two arms, two legs, but treadleless. It was a moment to weep and
had Hummel been a weeping man he might well have wept.
He became aware of someone standing behind him in the skewed frame of the shop doorway. It had to be Trager.
Without turning Hummel said, ‘Why, Joe, why?’
Trager shuffled forward kicking up fine, flying black ash with the toecaps of his boots.
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
‘What’s to get?’
‘It had to be me. That’s what you don’t get. ’Cos if it wasn’t me it wouldn’t have been one of them. It would have been all of them. The whole fuckin’
lot. Do you honestly think one Viennese copper, some stupid English twat who’d got himself lost and me . . . Little Joe Trager . . . could have held off that lot?’
Hummel said nothing.
‘It’s not even as if they were Germans. That was your lot. Austrians, Viennese . . . for all I know people you’ve known all your life.’
‘I’d never seen any of them before. They might as well have been Germans for all I know.’
‘Fine. Have it your own fuckin’ way. Germans, Austrians, whatever they were, but Joe, if you stay maybe they ’ll kill you.’
‘ They ?’ said Hummel with all the irony he could cram into one syllable.
‘We . . . then . . . we . . . fuck it, Joe, maybe I ’ll have to kill you?’
‘But you’d only be following orders.’
He’d finally got to Trager. Trager had turned red in the face, risen to his full short height, all but loomed over Hummel. Hummel expected foul-mouthed rage, perhaps a blow from his
fist.
‘Jesus Christ, Joe. Jesus Christ.’
He had spoken so softly it was neither oath nor curse. A heartfelt whisper. Then he hoisted his rifle, turned and left. Hummel did not see him again until it was dark.
He thought better of sleeping in the flat over the shop. The floor might give way, and ‘they’ might return. Instead he went round to Shkolnik’s Kosher Butcher’s two
streets away and asked Old Shkolnik for four steel meathooks. Shkolnik was standing in the remains of his shop, shuffling around on a carpet of broken glass making no attempt to clean up
anything.
‘Take as many as you like. I’m out of business.
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