Clara's War (20 page)

The litany of deaths, the rumours and Beck's own provocative behaviour convinced the men in the bunker that something must be done. This grave offence would not go unpunished. After much discussion they had come up with a possible solution. Mr Patrontasch would have to convince Beck to apologize to Von Pappen.

Mr Patrontasch knocked on the trapdoor and, a few minutes later, Beck opened it.

‘A word, if you have a minute,' was all Mr Patrontasch said.

Our lives were at stake and we were sending him on a mission that was as perilous as an escape from the ghetto or high-level diplomacy between Roosevelt and Stalin. Convincing Beck, who was as stubborn as any human being could be, to apologize to a man he thought a murderer would be a difficult feat. But just a few minutes later, Patrontasch returned, pen and paper in hand. Beck wanted Patrontasch to write a letter to ‘soften up' Von Pappen. Even though Beck was a
Volksdeutscher
, he had very little German. Patrontasch started to write in his
elegant German script how honoured Beck was to be able to serve the Reich in whatever capacity he might best be used. He wrote that it had always been a dream of his that Germany would return to Poland and fulfill its destiny of eastward expansion, bringing culture and civilization to the Slavic masses. He wrote how much he admired Von Pappen personally and how pleased he was to have the privilege to serve under such a German patriot. The lies flowed effortlessly. ‘Beck' begged Von Pappen to understand that his personal failings in no way detracted from his loyalty to the Fatherland.

When Beck came back a few hours later after delivering the letter, with vodka and tobacco as a reward, he bragged that Von Pappen had been eating out of his hand. The crisis had been averted and the men shared an uncomfortable laugh with Beck. If only Von Pappen had known that a Jew had penned the eloquent ode to the Fatherland. But the relief was short-lived.

That same night we were awakened by Julia screaming and knocking on the trapdoor. ‘It's the Ukranian police!' It had to be three o'clock in the morning. Mama was so upset she fainted and the children started crying, but by this time they knew how to cry silently. The rest of us started praying. Beck must have been reported by one of his many enemies. It could have been the rifle. It could have been anything. The ‘why' didn't make any difference. The police were at the door and we would know soon enough. We listened as they informed Julia that they needed to bring Beck in. The commandant of the Ukrainian police wanted to interrogate him. As calmly as she could, Julia asked what he had done. The policemen didn't have the entire story, but they said that Beck had been as ‘drunk as a Polack' and that he had said ‘something' to the chief of their Blue Coats. We had heard Beck at his worst so we knew it could easily have been any one of a hundred horrific things. Beck had just escaped Von
Pappen and now the Ukrainians were after him, and in the middle of the night. These men had grudges that went back years and years and now they were looking to settle old scores.

Beck must have passed out because otherwise he would surely have been yelling at the Blue Coats to ‘shit on their mothers'. It was Beck's standard expression when he was cursing. The first time Beck had used it, poor Mama had looked shocked and had immediately shot Mania and me one of her looks that said, ‘You better not have heard that and if you did, you better forget you did.' But by now, she was thankful this was the only curse in his arsenal. He usually said it to Julia.

One of the policemen found Beck and grumbled to his colleagues that if they wanted to bring him in, they would have to carry him. The commotion must have woken Beck up, because we heard another one say, ‘Go to bed, Valentin. We'll just say we didn't find you at home.' The same policemen whom Beck had accused of stealing his rifle were now protecting him. They left shortly thereafter.

While Julia was still trying to find out from Beck what exactly he had said and when to warrant an interrogation, Beck, in his drunken stupor, decided he had to go to the police station, confront his accusers and get to the bottom of ‘this travesty of justice'. Julia stalled him while Ala went and hid his bicycle, hoping that if Beck insisted on going, the walk might at least sober him up on the way. I heard Julia scream, ‘I can't take it any longer!' and slam the door shut after her and Ala. Beck continued to curse and throw furniture around the place while trying to find his bicycle. Then a door was smashed in. It sounded like the bathroom door. Why was he looking in the bathroom for his bicycle? He must have been beyond drunk. Beck cursed Julia, calling her an idiot. ‘I shit on your mother!' I didn't know if he even realized that his wife and daughter had
left. We heard the outside door slam again and then there was silence. The idea of what a drunk Beck would say to this Ukrainian police chief who hated him and was looking for any reason to see him shot was terrifying. There was no hope of sleep now as we waited for either Beck or the police to come back.

When Beck came back in the morning, he refused to tell us what happened and, to make things worse, he was too sick to go to work that night. We were living below a live volcano that could erupt at any moment. Julia only came home for a few minutes to tell us she was going to Lvov to buy tobacco, and Ala left for work. As soon as we heard the bus for Lvov leave from the stop across the street, Beck knocked on the trapdoor. ‘The house is filthy. I want you to come up and clean it.' Lola and I crawled to the trapdoor because usually we do the cleaning. But Beck said, ‘Klara, why don't you give me a hand?' We watched Beck's hand come down through the hatch, chivalrous and gallant, to help Klara upstairs.

The men watched and discussed the war between the Allies and the Axis powers with Talmudic fury. But it was the war between the Becks that had the most relevance to our lives. Italy, Germany, England, these were places in the novels I read. It was impossible to connect the conferences and battles to the battleground on the floor above. One wrong word and we were dead. It was that simple. There was a world war. It was taking place upstairs.

And now the war had spread into the bunker between the families over a piece of wood five centimetres wide. It had been brewing for months and months, ever since Zygush and Zosia came to live with us and Mania died a few days later. It was almost too horrible to talk about. Because of Mania's death we were too grief-stricken to ask for more sleeping space for the two children. It was the furthest thing from our minds. My
parents had been religious about never mentioning her name. They told not one story about her to make them feel better. They didn't exchange one memory. We didn't have one picture of my sister. We were each alone with our grief. Zygush and Zosia learned never to mention her name. Our very silence was our song of mourning. But with the arrival of the two children, there was not room enough for the five of us. It was hard enough to sleep as it was and with Zygush and Zosia it was almost impossible. I didn't know why we endured the additional discomfort for so long. Perhaps it was because the two children had taken Mania's place on our pallets and even after she had been dead for eight months to say the words out loud would evoke her memory in too painful a way.

I knew we couldn't go on being polite and considerate with each other for ever. The resentment on our side about the space and the three families' resentment about the Steckels' hard hearts was like a leak in a gas main. All we needed was one spark. The men had been whispering from time to time about asking the Steckels for help, at least for the four children. But they never did. My father was afraid to offend the Steckels, because he knew the Becks depended on their money and he didn't want Beck mad at us. I knew these men were brought up not to ask for anything, just as Mania and I were. It wasn't a matter of pride. It was just in the Jewish world of Zolkiew, no one ever had to ask for help. It was always given without a word. It was a sin to humiliate a man by calling attention to his poverty. The Steckels had perfect vision and could calculate to the gram the weight of any piece of bread, lard, meat, potato, onions or anything else. Yet they were blind when it came to seeing that the children's legs looked like clubs, all bone with the knob of a knee in the middle. They could see their big eyes when the food passed by their faces. I know the children just
liked to look at the food and smell it because they couldn't help themselves and it was better than nothing. Zygush's little face was looking like an old man's from hunger. Sometimes all I dreamed about was the day I would be alone with a loaf of bread and a knife and I could cut myself a slice as big as I wanted.

The two children in eight months had never once asked why the Steckels didn't share their food with us and not once did they ask them for even a crumb. There had to be a word for people incapable of feeling shame. To me, the Steckels were as bad as the Fascists. I felt there were only two kinds of people in the world. Those who wanted to save us and those who wanted to kill us. Even in times like these, a person couldn't be only for himself. Poor Mania endured torture to save us all, including the Steckels. Yet they dared hoard their money as if they didn't even know Mania's name. They owed Mania their lives and did they ever offer their condolences? No! Did they offer to share what they had even for the children in her memory? No! I tried not to hate the Steckels as I hated the Fascists. They were after all hiding from the Nazis just as I was. They were fellow Jews. But to them, my sister's death only meant a few more centimetres of sleeping space.

My father said almost too softly to hear, ‘I've been meaning to mention it. Since the children came to live with us…we don't have as much sleeping room…' The spark. We were now five people and had only sleeping room for four. When the children first arrived, we were so happy they were there and grateful they were allowed to stay that we didn't dare ask for extra space to accommodate them. It meant that not one of us could sleep on their back or stomach. It meant we could not turn in our sleep.

The words came out of nowhere. I know he must have been thinking about saying it for months and months. I was hoping that the others would be ashamed for not thinking about it
themselves and just agree. But as soon as I saw the expression on all the faces, especially the Steckels, I knew it was not to be. Not one of us asked for one extra anything in over a year. Not one. Not a cup of water. Not a potato peel. Not a drop of oil when we had it. Mama looked up from peeling the potatoes. There was no reaction at first as everyone was looking around the room for someone to say something. Mrs Melman started to say, ‘The children…' She didn't have to finish the sentence. I could read her mind. ‘The children could get us all killed! We didn't want them. Beck shoved them down our throats and now you want us to give up our room?
Genug is genug
, enough is enough, already!'

‘Every family, everybody, has more room than us. You think that's right?'

‘We do you a favour and this is what we get? A lot of
tsuris
, trouble!' Mrs Melman continued.

‘Look at you and look at what we've got!' Mama was pointing at our sleeping area. ‘How dare you! Who are you anyway to come in here all high and mighty?'

‘You lower your voice!' Mr Steckel actually hissed.

‘I beg your pardon?' said Mama.

‘You heard me.
Shatt! Shatt!
'

Mr Melman tried to be a peacemaker, but it was too late. We were pushy, bossy, picky; we were taking advantage. We were risking everybody's life. Including their children's!

I was shaking and the children were crying. They understood no one wanted them there. I couldn't believe that the other three families were ganging up on us. What had we done? All we had done was lost my sister. I was afraid Mr Beck would hear upstairs and get angry. I had never seen Papa so angry. And then I started screaming. ‘Quiet! Everybody be quiet!'

My father turned to me and, before I knew it, he slapped me hard across the face. He had never raised a hand to anyone in
our family. Ever. He looked at me like he wanted to hit me again. His eyes, so black and drained with exhaustion, had a look I had never seen. Hot and brutal. Furious with contempt. I wanted to die. From shame. From hurt. From hurting him. From feeling how hurt he was. But then he realized what he had done. All the warmth returned to his eyes. My father had come back. I had never seen such a look on his face except for at Mania's death. Everyone in the room was stunned. I had succeeded. The bunker was silent.

All Mama said was, ‘Meir.' Then Papa was holding and kissing me and begging me to forgive him. There was nothing to forgive. He was exhausted. He was not able to mourn Mania. He felt responsible for her death and nothing would ever take that ache away. He would mourn her all his life. Mania's death, a silent accusation, would stand between him and Mama to the end of their days.

Mr Patrontasch took out his measuring tape and crawled across to us. He excused himself and measured how much room we shared. Then he measured every other family's sleeping space in the main bunker. He opened his little notebook, licked his pencil and made some calculations while we all watched.

‘What's fair is fair,' he announced. ‘Everybody gets 35 centimetres in which to sleep.' He grabbed a slat or two from each of the other three families and put them next to ours. Nobody said a word. When we went to sleep that night, it didn't seem like we had any more room. Mania would have thought it hilarious.

 

The Becks called a truce for Christmas. We were all lying on our pallets listening to the party upstairs. The radio was on and everyone was dancing. It seemed all of Zolkiew was above our heads. Beck's family as well as Julia's. Adolph. Krueger and Beck's other police cronies. Professor Lang and Eisenbard. I couldn't tell
if there was another soul asleep; I assumed we were all awake. The pounding from the dancing feet seemed like it was inside my head. Earlier in the day I had been crying out of love and thankfulness for the Becks. But now the tears were falling because these people were happy celebrating while so many thousands were dead and dying. I heard Mr Beck's feet crossing right above us to the radio. He turned the radio off and almost one by one the feet stopped dancing. Mr Beck said, ‘Listen.' In the distance, I heard carol singing. I could picture them walking up through the snow, all bundled up against the cold, holding candles to light their way. From the sound of their voices I knew they were not far from the church where Mania had been captured. Her memory intruded on almost all my thoughts. As the carol-singers got closer and closer, I was able to recognize the song. It was
Przybiezeli do Betlejem.
It was one of the most beautiful of all Polish carols and one that Mania and I had sung together just one year before.