The Requisitions

Praise for The Requisitions

"Vibrant, shadowed, compelling and ultimately symphonic, The Requisitions offers the gift of love in an impossible situation. What starts in a Polish town in a cafe in 1939 ends in the hearts of readers, everywhere, now. Moving and, as intended, memorable."

—Nor Hall, author of The Moon and The Virgin and Those Women

‘The taste of transitoriness is on the tongue.’ Something of that surrender, an echo of the medieval woodcut, the sorrowing starkness of Albrecht Durer, haunts this account of a Europe overshadowed by the imminent avalanche of history, a cataclysm its characters feel helpless, even unwilling to avert.

—John Baxter, author of The Most Beautiful Walk in the World

"There is an inherent lyricism throughout this original and ambitious novel. Deeply researched and masterfully constructed, The Requisitions traces the lives of captivating characters and leaves us with a deep sense of having traversed an arduous and unforgettable journey—during World War Two and beyond."

—Heather Hartley, author of Knock Knock and Adult Swim

"Riveting reading. The Requisitions never lets the reader feel the safe distance of history. The result is viscerally uncomfortable—and perhaps this is necessary for the memory of the Holocaust to remain present and real within us."

—Tim Ward, author of Mature Flâneur

A deeply engaging immersion into two of the hardest questions to answer regarding the Holocaust—namely, why? And how? Masterful prose and plotting, and a unique and imaginative approach, blending personal memoir, historical metafiction, and philosophical inquiry into the deepest recesses of the human soul...sobering, unsettling...but comes out—barely—on the side of a case for hope.

—Janet Hulstrand, author of A Long Way from Iowa

A roadmap through some of the most dangerous and emotional moments of our time. This page-turning book is a must-read for all those who value the work of a master storyteller in command of his material.

—David A. Andelman, author of A Shattered Peace: Versailles 1919 and the Price We Pay Today

SAMUÉL LOPEZ-BARRANTES lives in Paris. He hosts a literary salon, teaches creative writing at the Sorbonne, and leads historical walks on modernism, existentialism, and the Nazi Occupation of Paris.

The Requisitions is Samuél Lopez-Barrantes’ second novel. His first novel, Slim and The Beast (Inkshares, 2015), is a coming-of-age story about a college basketball player and a war veteran set in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

samuellopezbarrantes.com

Kingdom Anywhere Publishing

Paris, France

First published in France by Kingdom Anywhere Publishing, 2024

Copyright © Samuél Lopez-Barrantes 2024

This book is a work of historiographic metafiction. Any references to historical events, real people or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is not entirely coincidental, but this author does not believe in coincidences.

Samuél Lopez-Barrantes has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN 979-8-9895803-0-9 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9895803-1-6 (eBook)

Cover Illustration: Saskia Meiling

Editorial: Carrie Chappell, Augusta Sagnelli

First American Edition

For permissions or information: [email protected]

Contents

A Boy at a Bookshelf

Truth

Fiction

Identity

Civilization

Meaning

Hope

Humanity

Freedom

requisition

[noun]

1.The act of formally requiring or calling upon someone to perform an action

2.A demand or application made, usually with authority

3.The state of being in demand or use

From Latin, requisitio, the act of searching; from requirere, to seek, to ask

Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

a boy at a bookshelf

I sit in one of the dives

On Fifty-second Street

Uncertain and afraid

As the clever hopes expire

Of a low dishonest decade:

Waves of anger and fear

Circulate over the bright

And darkened lands of the earth,

Obsessing our private lives;

The unmentionable odor of death

Offends the September night.

—WH Auden, September 1 1939

When the sirens begin, the professor is sitting at the Astoria Café. Professor Viktor Bauman’s clean-shaven face accentuates his smile. Though he’s only a figment of my imagination, he reminds me of myself as a child, sliding the crystal pepper shaker back and forth between his hands atop the white linen tablecloth (today, like yesterday, the waiter has forgotten the salt).

This is when Viktor first sees her, the young woman in the burgundy dress, smiling at him from across the terrace. Her name is Elsa Dietrich—she is of my imagination, too—and she is about to receive some troubling news concerning her estranged fiancé, Carl. I can hear the clinking of teaspoons on serving plates and the conversations at the bar. Elsa listens to a bald man with a gruff voice criticize Professor Bauman’s optimism about the situation. It is September 1, 1939, and black smoke is billowing on the horizon, but for some reason, Professor Viktor Bauman is not afraid.

The Astoria Café really did exist. It was a haven for artists and thinkers during the 1930s in the otherwise industrial town of Łódź, Poland. My mother often told me the story of how my obsession with this history began: I was just a boy, no taller than a fire hydrant, when I first looked up at the bookshelf, tall and white, which lorded over the wooden cabinets filled with trinkets and old toys. As the story goes, I climbed onto the cabinets, stood on my tiptoes, and pulled down a thick black book with red ink scrawled on the spine, William L. Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.

From that moment onwards, I became obsessed. I collected books, action figures, DVDs, military medals, anything that might help me understand the calamity of World War Two. I watched (and re-watched) Nuit et Brouillard, Life is Beautiful, Schindler’s List, and Saving Private Ryan. I played every video game I could find, mastering Medal of Honor and Company of Heroes and Brothers in Arms, hoping that sooner or later I’d understand what it was like to live through those times. The obsession stayed with me through university and graduate school—a degree in Holocaust studies, another in the psychology of genocide—but the more I studied, the less I understood. What did that little boy at the bookshelf know that I could no longer remember?

Another memory of me peering at that bookshelf, this time as a graduate student home for Christmas: I’d woken up early, before the real-estate appraisers came, to help my mother sort through the cabinets beneath the bookshelf (she was bankrupt and had to sell the house; the measly family fortune had all been spent treating her mother’s Alzheimer’s). The trouble was, my mom tended towards hoarding. If it were up to her, she’d hold onto everything, so I agreed, begrudgingly, to spend the days between Christmas and New Year’s sorting through it all.

That morning, I sat on the living room floor surrounded by boxes. I sifted through old memories of stiff plastic action figures, faded Lincoln Logs, chewed-up Legos and dog-eared textbooks, trying to be as categorical as possible while my mother cleared out pots and pans in the kitchen. Her long-term memory was faltering, but still, few people were more attuned to their primordial wisdom than she.

You sure you don’t want to keep that? She pointed at a clay sculpture of a dog.

It’s broken.

You made it at art camp in the Great Smoky Mountains.

Wasn’t it in Maine?

No, she picked up the three-legged dog. I’d like to hold onto this if you don’t mind. It’s the first piece of art you ever made. One day, your grandchildren will thank me.

We’ve already talked about this. I don’t want children.

The words cast a shadow on her face. I’d like to keep it anyway. Someday, you might want to remember.

What do you mean, remember?

This sculpture is a totem, son. It’s evidence of who you were—of who you are. You’re too categorical about the past—you think it’s finished. No, don’t put it there. Thank you, I’ll keep it. You can be so dismissive. There’s still something you need to remember, son.

My mother looked at the growing discard pile and picked up an old set of dominoes in a red leather case. She shook her head and pulled out three ivory pieces that rattled in her hand as she contemplated their weight.

"These used to belong to your grandfather, you know. He fought for the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War. Do you know the story of the night Franco’s police came knocking at his door? The euphemism was simple enough: dar un paseo. Most who were ‘given a walk’ never came home."

But Granddad survived the war.

Yes. Because of these dominoes, she held out her hand. When your grandfather was arrested, he was allowed one personal item. For some reason, he brought the dominoes to the station. One of his captors recognized it—he’d had one just like it in grade school. They got to talking. Eventually, he let your grandfather go.

My mother returned the ivory pieces to the red leather case and snapped it shut. Son, be careful what you decide to forget. Getting it back isn’t as easy as you might think.

Barely aware of what she was trying to tell me, we continued sorting through the artifacts of my childhood, moving from the cabinets up to the bookshelf, where she pulled down the tattered copy of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and put it in a trash bag.

"We can’t give that one away," I said.

Don’t you have a copy?

Yes, but this one’s different, I pulled it out.

"Oh, is it? She grinned. I remember you standing on the cabinets on your tiptoes, holding that very book in your hands, just like you’re doing now. I’d never seen anything like it, a little boy wanting to read about that."

I turned the book over in my hand. Why’d I choose this one?

You don’t remember?

No.

You said they needed your help.

Who?

And that’s when they came back to me, Viktor and Elsa.

Viktor’s eyes are obscured by a black suede hat that complements the colorful scarf he’s looped around his neck for warmth and display. Here on the terrace, he feels a world away from the industrial sprawl of unpaved roads, textile plants, and rundown tenements to the north of the city. Though Viktor doesn’t wear glasses, he still looks the part of an academic, which means that today, like yesterday, he’s procrastinating. Already on his second cup of coffee, he’s come to the Astoria not to write but to people-watch until his friend Martin arrives.

Crisp days like today remind Viktor of autumn afternoons at Kings College; cups of tea on Euston Square; passionate conversations at the pub over pints of lager and shots of whiskey; of walking with Helen through Paris’ Latin Quarter, the last time he felt at home. Though Łódź isn’t Paris, Viktor comes to the Astoria to appreciate its baroque décor and the warm hues of gold and red, which recall the packed terraces of Montparnasse.

But the past has passed. Viktor is in his mid-thirties now. Focus on the good things, Viktor. Yes, today feels like a good day again: the skies are still blue, and the woman in the burgundy dress is back, and is she smiling at him again? As soon as he catches her eye, Viktor looks away. He knows her from somewhere, but how? She’s far too elegant to be a university student. Viktor is mesmerized by how intensely she scribbles words into her notebook. If only I had the discipline.

Viktor tries to refocus on his papers, on what he’s scribbled under the title, A Treatise on Aesthetics, but his mind won’t fix. He can never get any work done at the café anyway, and he’s far more interested in what the woman in the burgundy dress is writing in her notebook.

Viktor steals a glance as she brushes her hair behind her ear. Did she look at me? This time, I’m sure of it. Viktor looks a way a gain, grabs the crystal pepper shaker, and slides it from hand to hand atop the white linen, sprinkling black specks across the clean surface.

Viktor’s closest friend in the city, Martin Arendt, soon arrives with his wispy gray hair and round belly.

"Pretending to write again, are we, professor?" Martin slaps Viktor on the back and takes a seat. The wrinkles around Martin’s eyes suggest a long history of smiling, but today, his face is marked by a tired scowl.

Martin rubs his belly, lights a cigarette, and glares at the woman in the burgundy dress. And who, let me guess, are you trying to impress? That’s five days now that she’s been watching us. You still don’t have a name?

"You’re paranoid, Martin. She isn’t watching anyone. Anyway, I’d rather try to impress her than a group of stuffy academics. Can you believe I’ve been working on this treatise for five years, and I can’t even think of a decent first sentence?"

No, frankly, I can’t. You’re an idiot. Why do you still care about aesthetics? The answer is easy: it’s all subjective, and the rest has already been said.

Sure, Viktor smiles. Except nobody ever listens.

You’ve got that right, Martin scoots his chair forward until his belly is pressed against the table’s edge. "Did you learn that after the first or second master’s degree?"

Viktor laughs and looks over at the mysterious woman. She averts her eyes and focuses on spooning her cold beet soup, bravely cupping her white-gloved hand beneath the crimson Chłodnik as she brings it to her lips.

She’s been eavesdropping, you know, Martin doesn’t bother whispering.

What’s wrong with you, Viktor hisses. You’re going to scare her away.

You can’t trust anyone these days, Martin says. Speaking of, where’s Calel? He forgot to put out the salt again, didn’t he? That boy’s a liability, I tell you.

Don’t be so hard on him. He’s anxious enough as it is.

"Better he learn it from us than them. Martin takes a long drag of his cigarette and puffs a cloud of smoke in the young woman’s direction. I’ve got a joke for you, Viktor. Ready? A man walks into a bar."

Okay.

His alcohol dependency is destroying his family.

Martin laughs from his belly, shaking the table’s edge. Viktor smiles and turns towards the café’s interior to flag down the rosy-cheeked, gangly, bow-tied waiter.

Calel stumbles to the table with a tray of coffee, which he promptly spills all over the pristine white linen. Martin has no time to move before the black liquid has seeped to the table’s edge, staining his belly.

Martin takes another long drag of his cigarette. Good morning, Calel. First spill of the day? You almost made it to lunch this time.

I’m incredibly sorry, Mr. Arendt. It won’t happen again. Here, let me help.

It has and it will. A dry napkin is useless! Bring me something damp, you buffoon.

The sheepish waiter disappears into the restaurant and returns, trembling, with a damp rag.

Viktor places his hand on Calel’s shoulder and passes the cloth to Martin. Calel, why don’t you take a seat? It’s fine. Just calm down.

Words tumble from Calel’s mouth before his frail body hits the chair. "My daughter is sick, and what with the Luftwaffe strafing refugees outside of Warsaw, I don’t know what to believe anymore … you’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you, professor? About what they’re doing to Polish babies? They’ll be here tomorrow, the next day at best. I can’t let my daughter and wife … I do … do you think I should …"

Calm, Calel, Viktor squeezes his shoulder. If we haven’t been bombed yet, it’s for good reason, right?

"Ah, now that’s wisdom from the great Professor Bauman, Martin bellows. If we haven’t been bombed yet, it is for good reason: Poland is already kaput."

Nonsense, Viktor dismisses the thought. You’re just being a grumpy old man. The Łódź Army is holding strong.

Martin tosses the soiled rag onto Viktor’s empty cup of coffee. Your youthful optimism will get us killed. Mark my words. Nazis on our doorstep and you’re speaking like a theorist. What does an optimist have to say about the SS and the Death’s Head?

Have some faith, Martin. We’re still drinking coffee, aren’t we? And tomorrow we’ll drink again. For now, that stain on your shirt needs some salt.

The salt, Calel slumps his shoulders. I forgot to put it out. Tomasz is going to kill me.

Sit. I’ll get it. Viktor enters the café for two saltshakers, one for his table, the other for the woman in the burgundy dress.

A bicyclist in a gas mask passes the terrace and rings his bell at a young couple shoving suitcases into the trunk of a small car. The cyclist pulls off his mask to force a smile and wish the couple luck. Elsa has been watching similar scenes for days: locals contorting their faces to make believe they’ll be safe in the city while others flee in terror towards another kind of unknown. But Elsa is German, and her estranged fiancé is in the army, and rumors suggest the city won’t be bombarded. Despite the sirens, Elsa has decided to adopt the professor’s optimism and remain seated at her usual table to write about the goings-on at the café: The waiter’s passivity reminds me