The Train to Warsaw (6 page)

At last we walked up the stairs to our new apartment and waited for the wagon with our furniture to arrive. We're still waiting, said Lilka. That first night in the ghetto we slept on the floor. Papa, I whispered, come and rescue us. But he was not coming back. We were on our own. Shut up behind six foot walls. And everything that belonged to us left behind.

Out the window the snow flew around as though pursued by furies. What madness, he said, licking his finger and turning the page of the newspaper. Go back? Didn't we have enough of it Back There? She smoked one of her blond cigarettes, blowing the smoke out in a thin plume. Why have we come? Why indeed? he replied.

I'm going to cancel, she said. Do it now, he told her. She tied her bathrobe and went to the phone. We ordered a car, she said. He's already here? Well would you tell him that there's been a change of plans. We will not be going to the ghetto after all. No, not at all. Thank you. She hung up the phone. He told me that I speak good Polish. She sat down abruptly. What's the matter with me? My heart is pounding, I feel short of breath. Can it be, he asked, that you've forgotten what fear is?

She watched the snow falling. I remember the winter of 1940, she said. We were cold all the time. They had closed the gates and we couldn't get out. The snow fell and already people began to die. It didn't take long. 186 calories a day. Do you remember, Jascha? Those were the rations for a Jew. Sometimes it snowed for days without stopping. The cold entered into your bones. You felt that your eyes would freeze in their sockets. Polish winter, he said. When was it ever different? When God in His wisdom froze Poland, He should have frozen all the Poles along with it. How wicked you are, she said. Not wicked enough, he replied.

Lilka ate a sweet roll. All over the ghetto, the pipes froze. The whole place became a giant dunghill. In the midst of all that, my mother had managed to bring her fur coat. She wore it with a stylish hat. Until the Jews were ordered to give up every shred of fur they possessed. On pain of death. Every fur coat, fur collar, fur cuff had to go. You could spot a Jew by a coat with the collar removed. No one had warm coats any longer. Then the Poles arrived, looking for furs at fire-sale prices. My mother sold hers for a fraction of what it was worth. The mink coat my father had given her when I was born.

Lilka heaped sugar into her cold coffee. I imagined the German soldiers on the Eastern front in long mink coats with generous collars. Oh darling, said Jascha. Don't be silly. They remade them. They didn't want their soldiers looking like old Jewish ladies, did they? Bad for morale.

Lilka took up her white napkin and dabbed at her mouth. My parents used to stroll together arm in arm, she said. How elegant they looked. She in her black velvet hat with the veil that he had bought for her in Paris, he in his beautifully cut navy blue suits and silk ties. But one day my father could no longer go out.

My mother told me to read to him, play the piano, recite Mickiewicz poems to him. She played cards with him, brought him newspapers and books. He couldn't bear being cooped up in the house. He was restless all the time, drumming his fingers on his desk, smoking endless cigarettes. One day he decided to go out. With your looks, said my mother, it's impossible. A short walk, he told her, and then I'll be back. I want to see what's happening out in the world. I'll lose my mind if I don't get some fresh air. And he held up the false papers he had paid so much for. I remember he was wearing his soft camel's hair coat, his dark hair combed back. She tried to hold him back, clutching at his lapels, pleading with him not to go. Lilka, she said, help me. But how could we stop him? He was determined. And telling her not to worry, that he'd be back in a moment, he kissed her and went . . .

She pressed out her cigarette in a saucer and lit another one. For years I used to think that if I went back to Warsaw I would find him. There had been a mix-up. He had been taken away, but he had survived. He had come back and was looking for us. If I could only get back to Warsaw, there he would be . . . He sighed. My darling, he said wearily, do you think you are the only one? Everyone dreamed these dreams.

After that my mother became tougher, harder. Wasn't she always that? asked Jascha. Beneath the French perfume and the pearls? What do you know about the way she was? asked Lilka. She was the one who arranged for me to be a nurse-in-training at the hospital, who got me my “ticket to life.” At that time, They still wanted to give the illusion that only the healthy were being shipped off to work in the East. Hospital personnel were still exempt from deportation. He studied the newspaper. And she managed to smuggle money into the ghetto so we could eat. She had never cooked, we always had a cook. Now in the midst of the crowds and the filth she was out on the street every day organizing food with the rest of them. Well well, said Jascha. Good for her. He turned the page. She glared at him. There's nothing I can say about her without you making some negative remark. What she did was unacceptable, he said. Since when are you the moral arbiter of the ghetto? she cried.

She stuffed a chunk of bread into her mouth. Do you know everything? Do you understand everything? she cried. You don't. The white marble clock on the mantel was ticking. A woman in white marble held the round enamel clock face in her arms. Does she never get tired? asked Jascha. Who? demanded Lilka. He pointed to the clock. She shook her head. What an irritating man you are. He looked at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. Your mother went out once a week by the Grzybowska Gate to meet her German officer. How do you know that? cried Lilka. Did the Accountant not know everything? He put out a hand to her. That's enough for now, darling. No, she said fiercely and pushed his hand away. Don't give me your hand.

He shook his head. Why are we fighting? It was so long ago. Lilka spread a roll with black jam. Not to me, she said. It's as near to me as last week.

Come and sit on my lap, he said. Nothing is the way it was. Let me tickle you and whisper in your ear. Don't be so silly, she said and poured out more coffee. He grinned. Come on, darling. Don't be shy. She shook her head. You're crazy. He laughed. This is what you used to do. Pretend to be a shy virgin. You did it on purpose because you knew how it excited me. Did it? she asked. I remember times when I wasn't a shy virgin at all. She lifted her neck seductively. Or have you forgotten that? He stared at her. Your mother had that same gesture. Don't talk to me, said Lilka.

The snow had piled up on the windowsill, obscuring the bottom part of the window. Look at that, said Lilka. Soon we'll be snowed in entirely. Good, he replied. Then we won't have to tramp the streets of Warsaw like homeless Jews. Why homeless Jews? she asked in surprise. Aren't we? he asked.

Jascha stood up from the breakfast table, stubbed out his cigarette and began to strip off his clothes. Lilka looked at him in astonishment. Have you gone insane? she asked. He dropped his clothes on the carpet and went into the bathroom. I'm taking a hot bath, he announced. In lieu of a trip to the ghetto.

He turned on the taps all the way. A narrow stream of rusty water issued forth. What is this? he cried. Do they call this trickle running water? He placed his open palm beneath the faucet. And it's lukewarm, he reported. Come in, darling, he said. All is forgiven. She stood in the doorway. This is Poland now, she said. Everything was better before the war. Then we had hot water. Not in the ghetto, he said. I'm not talking about the ghetto, she said. I'm talking about before.

The taps snorted and choked and pressed out hot water in spurts. But soon steam rose up from the water and he turned to her with a smile. Get in, he said. Before it changes its mind. Let us steam ourselves like in a Russian bathhouse. Let us switch each other with birch branches and talk about Eternity.

He lay stretched out in the old veined marble tub, his broad shoulders resting against the stone, the water up to his neck. He closed his eyes. Ah, how delicious. I could stay in here forever. Come in, darling. Get yourself clean. The steam rose up off the water. Jascha, she said, your hair is getting all curly with the steam. She reached down a hand to touch his hair. I remember your dark curls, she said softly. That was long ago, he replied.

She sat down on the edge of the tub and lit a cigarette. I remember your dark eyes. How handsome you were in your high leather boots. When I first saw you, I thought you were a Jewish policeman. In the ghetto, they were the only Jews with boots like that. And you were as cocky as they were. But you weren't wearing their special yellow armband. Only a blue and white one with a star. Like the rest of us. He's an informer, I thought. Whatever he is, it isn't good. He laughed now. What was good, in your opinion? A scholar who would soon be dead? A lawyer when nothing was any longer legal? He shook his head. What a silly girl.

One morning, he said, I was walking down Karmelicka, on my way to see the Accountant. It had snowed during the night. Already the snow on the ground had been stamped down by passersby, by carts, by rickshaws. Along the road men in long dark coats, with rags tied around their shoes and armbands on their sleeves, were shoveling snow, their faces blue with cold. What else was new? This was not what caught my eye.

What caught my eye was a procession walking two abreast down the crowded street. Girls dressed in immaculate pink and white striped uniforms. Nurses-in-training with white aprons and navy blue woolen capes with red linings. And on their heads starched white caps. Freshly scrubbed, well fed. Nothing looked that clean in the ghetto. They looked like angels in the midst of all that filth. Like a vision. I was in love with them all.

But it was you I had my eye on. What a walk you had. The way you moved. I have to have her, I said to myself. I walked alongside you until at last you turned to look at me. I got a shock. At first I thought there must be some mistake: those bright blue eyes, that flaxen hair, those high cheekbones. What a beauty you were. This girl is Polish, I said to myself, she “looks good” as we said Back There. What is she doing in here? But then you turned toward me. And I saw the expression in your eyes. I knew right away. I could always tell.

How insistent you were, she said now. Where did you get that flaxen hair, darling? you asked me. I was appalled. Is this the way young men in the ghetto behave now? I asked you. No manners at all. You shrugged. The Germans have confiscated our etiquette books, you said. Have you forgotten where you are? I didn't want to have anything to do with you, said Lilka. What a liar, he said.

He dipped the washcloth in the water. Where did you get that flaxen hair? Jewish mothers buy flaxen hair like that in the marketplace for their dark-haired daughters. No one wanted our dark stubborn curls. They couldn't wait to get rid of them . . . That's what you said Back There, said Lilka. And then what did I say? he asked now. You said that you wanted me for your own. He nodded. At least she remembers something.

When you walked away, said Lilka, Magda said to me: that's Jascha Krasniewski. He's one of the biggest smugglers in the ghetto. He has a thousand girlfriends. A slight exaggeration, he said. He smiled. But not by much.

I thought about you all the time, he said. I wanted to lie down in your flaxen hair. I wanted to take you to bed right away. I wanted you to belong to me completely. What didn't I want? The Accountant saw the state I was in and told me to be careful. He told me that mooning around on the job could be disastrous. Jascha reached out a wet hand to her. You were madly in love with me. I wasn't, she replied. You're soaking me, she cried. He grinned. What a terrible liar you are. She smiled slowly and dried her hand on the towel. Maybe I am.

She pulled the puckered paper wrapper from a bar of dark green soap and handed it to him. He held it up to his nose and closed his eyes. Pine, he said. He inhaled again. It smells of the Praga forest. Do you know how much this was worth Back Then? 50
groszy
. Later it was worth more. In January of
'
41 a piece of soap was 80
groszy
. In October of
'
41 it was 1
zloty
60. And by February of
'
42 only doctors, midwives, dentists, hospitals, and the prison had the right to it. I still remember every price on the black market, he said. Ask me the day, the year, the merchandise, and I'll tell you. What we would have given, she said, for a hot bath.

Do you remember that miserable ersatz fat they tried to peddle as soap? he asked. The lather was useless. And afterward a sticky paste stuck to your skin. I brought in real soap. With real lather. With my soap you could really get clean. She pressed a towel to her moist face. What did it matter? she asked. The stench followed you everywhere. The whole place stank to high heaven. The ghetto was a giant dunghill. What was another unwashed body? Those who could afford to pay for real soap were the lucky ones, he said. They felt human. Not like those stinking beggars who hadn't washed in months. He spat. Jascha, she said. How can you be like that?

He slid under the water and came up snorting, blowing out water and slicking back his hair. Water dripped from his cheeks and eyelids. Why should I go back to the ghetto? Do I not know every street, every gate, every blackened building like the back of my hand? There are twenty-three gates and I know every one of them. Every open drain, every sewer, every tunnel that leads to The Other Side. I know which buildings are riddled with holes and passageways like Swiss cheese. I know where they have drilled through the walls of an apartment on Our Side to one on The Other Side. Do I not know where they have loosened the bricks in the Wall? So we can remove them once the guards have been paid off?

Do I not know every Jewish policeman, every guard and his schedule. Until, that is, they brought in the Ukrainians and I had to start all over again. Do I not know where the rubber tube leads from a window on The Other Side to a window on Our Side for milk to run through and collect in buckets on the other end? Do I not know every inch of the cemetery? Where the hearses once returned from the cemetery stuffed with black-market merchandise, until there were too many dead and they had to throw them into pits. My darling, I know the ghetto like the back of my hand. I was, you might say, a master topographer. You had to be in those days. Without that I would have been another corpse on Pinkiert's wagon. He took up the dripping washcloth and handed it to her. Go back? What for? He put a finger to his forehead. The entire ghetto is in here.