Plunder by Menachem Kaiser (english novels for students txt) 📕

thousands of slave laborers had been worked to death, but that didn’t seem to be on anyone’s mind. I talked with this explorer and then that explorer and then I brooded alone—​islanded, not unpleasantly, by the chaos and my lack of Polish—​and then I found myself in conversation with Marcin, a software engineer from Łodź in his late twenties who was not a member of HUNTER and who didn’t really know anyone, and Sławek, a middle-aged construction worker with a big hard belly and a kind gap-toothed smile who knew everyone and was, he said, a founder of HUNTER.

I was feeling confounded. I wanted some insight. I was drunk and thus more susceptible than usual to meaning-cravings. Who were these guys and what were they doing? What was I doing? What makes you tick and what does this mean? It’s a far drive from Łodź, I said to Marcin, why’d you come all the way here? It is my hobby, Marcin said. That explains everything, I said, but it also explains nothing. Sławek, who spoke no English, impatiently tapped Marcin’s knee; he was eager to be included in the conversation. Marcin translated what I’d asked and what he’d answered and Sławek gave us a disapproving look. Someone said, Manhattan, nominatzia! Someone else fell out of a hammock. I poured out my vodka and then pretended to drink it. Do you want a potato? someone said. Fresh from the fire. Sławek touched his camouflage pants, camouflage jacket, camouflage cap. He said to me, via Marcin: Do these clothes look like the clothes of someone doing a hobby? But as Marcin was translating he did something—​I don’t remember exactly what, a gesture, an eye-roll, something like that—​to show me that he, Marcin, thought it was all a little ridiculous. You’re wearing camouflage pants, I said to Marcin. What are you really after, I thought but did not say aloud. This camouflage thing seemed in the moment to be the key to understanding everything. Marcin smiled and shrugged and said, These are the pants you are supposed to wear. It is annoying. They’re expensive and they get very dirty, it doesn’t make sense, but these are the pants you are supposed to wear. Sławek tapped Marcin’s knee. Marcin translated our exchange or some version of our exchange. Sławek beamed. French, he said, referring to his outfit. I asked why French. Sławek shrugged; apparently he just liked the design. An explorer whose name I didn’t know sidled up to show me a bottle of whiskey and a picture on his phone of what at first glance looked like a gold nugget, but I didn’t get a second glance because Sławek wanted my attention. French, he said, again, and then, perhaps to show me how idiosyncratic camouflage preferences can run, he had each of the explorers around the fire announce the nationality of their outfit. NATO, Polish, French, US Marines first Iraq war, US Marines second Iraq war. The differences were lost on me. I mean, I could discern the visual differences—​colors, patterns, etc.—​but the implications of the differences were lost on me. Only Marcin didn’t know which country’s camouflage he was wearing; someone else identified it for him: British special forces.

I still don’t understand, I said to Marcin. You could go camping closer to home.

Yes but there is something special about Silesia, he said. There is a lot of mystery here.

I’ve been hearing that word for a long time now, I said, and I still don’t know what it means.

No one knows what it means! he said, laughing. Słavek tapped Marcin on the knee; Marcin caught Słavek up and Słavek laughed.

I don’t understand anything, I said.

Why are you here? Marcin asked.

Why am I here? Because you are here. Because of Abraham Kajzer.

You don’t have family that’s closer?

Manhattan, nominatzia!

I spent a year in Israel, said a pudgy explorer named Daniel who’d come out of nowhere. I was in the Polish army and we were sent over during the Lebanon war. In one day I went swimming in three seas: Dead Sea, Red Sea, Mediterranean Sea.

I poured out my vodka and pretended to drink it. I’m not Israeli, I said to Daniel.

When Marcin said “closer” I knew he meant closer physically, as in geographically, but the other meaning—​viz. in terms of kinship—​landed harder. I was having confused feelings regarding legacy. I felt weirdly disloyal. It had to do with Abraham Kajzer and/versus my grandfather. If only the treasure hunters cared about my real grandfather! I’d think, and then feel guilty about thinking. Someone poured vodka into my metal cup. Someone else showed me his bowie knife. But three seas, I said to Daniel, that’s cool. Daniel said, It is an honor to meet the grandson of Abraham Kajzer. He’s not my grandfather, I said. I don’t understand, Daniel said. He’s my grandfather’s cousin, I said. He is the father of your father, Daniel said, or he is the father of your father’s father? Yes, I said, fine, I concede, he is my grandfather. Myth is more persuasive, more seductive, than truth. From here on in I’ll just go with the better story. I am Abraham’s grandson. Do you think, I wondered aloud to Marcin, that there is an inherent tension between “adventure” and “memory”?

I am sorry, Marcin said, I do not understand your question. Manhattan, nominatzia! Someone poured vodka into my metal cup. I poured it out but unsurreptitiously, just dumped it on the ground, right in front of everyone, though no one seemed to notice. Sorry, I said, I’ll ask my question again. I turned to Marcin and said, But don’t translate this to Sławek, at least not yet? Marcin said okay. All these guys, I said, gesturing at the gathering of camo-clad men sitting in the forest nominating one another into oblivion, they come here to explore, to drink, have fun, whatever?

Something like this, yes.

So my question is, what about all the people who died here?

Yes, Marcin said. What is your question?

I don’t know,