The Puppet Boy of Warsaw (2 page)

He lifted it out and slipped his arms into its dark sleeves. Now, as when he was a boy, it looked too big, and yet at the same time it fitted him like a second skin. And like a shaman’s coat, it was easy for him to conjure up spirits and memories of his past in its embrace. He took Daniel’s hand and drew a deep breath.

‘Did you notice the poster at the little theatre we passed – “
The Puppet Boy of Warsaw
”?’

Daniel shook his head and gazed at his grandfather, whose eyes shimmered with a wild glow.

‘Well, they used to call me “the Puppet Boy” in our neighbourhood in the ghetto, but they could just as well have called me “the Pocket Boy”.’

‘Is that what gave you such a shock?’ Daniel asked.

Mika nodded. ‘Danny, the soldiers never found the secret world inside my coat, never noticed the pockets within the pockets. You see, this coat has its own magic. But let me start at the beginning. Let me tell you exactly how it happened.’

Warsaw, 1938

I
was twelve when the coat was made. Nathan, our tailor and dear friend, cut it for Grandfather in the first week of March 1938. It was the last year of freedom for Warsaw and for us.

Nathan lived in a small corner shop at the end of Piwna Street in the old quarter, close to our apartment. He was known for his great craftsmanship, and people from all over the city flocked to him. He never tired of his needles and threads, sewing like an industrious spider, as if the threads emerged directly from his hands. Those threads, a huge collection of shades and colours he kept neatly stacked on a shelf, held together shirts, trousers, coats and jackets and, as it turned out, could not only alter lengths and sizes, but also change lives.

I remember the shop from the many visits I made with Grandpa before the occupation; the muffled light, the stuffy smell of fabric stored without enough air. Cottons of all qualities and colours, wools and even cashmere, the sad, dusty rubber plants in the window which survived even though nobody ever seemed to water them, and the tinkling of the small bell above the door when we entered. Most of all I remember Nathan’s bright green eyes, which were a surprise in the dullness of his shop, sitting like emerald jewels in his wrinkly face, and his bony fingers and fidgety hands, always moving, never still. Did he sew even in his dreams?

This was where it all began, in this small, dusty tailor’s shop. My grandfather being measured, then running his hands over the many different materials that were laid out before him like a banquet, letting his fingertips choose exactly the right fabric. He had been promoted to professor the previous month and the tailored coat was his way of celebrating.

Grandpa called me Mika, short for Mikhael, gift of God. Did the shortening of my name make me a smaller gift? I was skinny and not tall for my twelve years but I was quick on my feet and eager to learn. Books lay scattered all around my room, even nestled under my pillow.

I adored Grandpa more than anyone in the world. He had become my best friend after my father died. I called him Tatus or Daddy, and sometimes Grandpa. We were a different kind of family: I had no siblings to fight or plan mischief with, it was only my mama, the old man and me – a triangle of three generations.

When we returned to Nathan’s shop a week later, Grandpa couldn’t wait to try on his greatcoat. It was like moving into a new house, an exciting and grander place to live.

‘What do you think, Mika?’ His face lit up in the broadest smile as he moved from side to side in front of the large mirror. He didn’t wait for my answer.

‘Well done, Nathan, my brother. What fine work! Ah, what is algebra compared to such skill?’

He clapped the tailor on the shoulder, paid and we were off. As we headed home, taking the long route, Grandfather strutted along the cobbled streets of Warsaw, his hands buried in the coat’s big pockets.

In 1938 we still walked freely in the city, a place where Jewish culture thrived. It was a beautiful city, our city. All that would soon come to a brutal end.

A professor of mathematics at the University of Warsaw, Grandfather was a clever and proud man and his students adored him. His round glasses and calm low voice made him seem the very picture of a professor, while his tall physique, angular features and thick, black hair, streaked with a flash of white over his left temple, commanded respect. He loved the clarity of numbers, how everything made sense when one spent enough time and attention on them. ‘Numbers always work out,’ he used to say. But a few months after our stroll home from the tailor, I would discover a different side to him, far removed from algebra, logic and abstract numbers. And then I would learn that numbers could not save us.

The spectre of war had been hovering over us for a long time. Then, on 1 September 1939, the bombing started. Schools had already been suspended so I stayed home with Mother and Grandpa, curled up in the old armchair in our sitting room, my physics books spread around me. I heard the first explosion from the direction of the city centre: a deep thud, then a noise as though something huge had smashed into a thousand pieces, splinters ripping into stone.

I ran to the window. All hell broke loose: a swarm of Messerschmitts droned like locusts over our beautiful city, dropping bomb after bomb, lighting up the sky in sinister orange and phosphorescent yellow. I stood pointing, gasping, until Mother grabbed my arm and pulled me away. We hardly slept that night. Nor any of the nights to come.

After that first attack, bombings followed day and night, relentlessly crashing down on the city. Some attacks lasted minutes, others hours. I couldn’t help but watch the deadly fireworks, especially at night. Even after we had blacked out the windows with curtains, bedsheets and newspapers, I still found tiny cracks to peep through. But we were trapped like rabbits, waiting to be slaughtered.

‘Come away from the window, you’ll get us all killed!’

Mama worried we would draw the planes to us with our spying, while I thought that if I could keep an eye on the planes, the bombs wouldn’t fall on us. It was a foolish thought but on many nights Tatus joined me. What else could we do? After days locked in our apartment, our limbs and eyes ached, and we were raw with sleeplessness.

And the hellish noise! I feared our eardrums would burst. Then, when the planes disappeared, the strange emptiness of silence scared us even more. But this was only the beginning. A few days later the ‘Stukas’ arrived – Germany’s fiercest fighter planes, fitted with ear-splitting sirens designed to break our nerve and drive us into submission. I heard them from a long way off before I spotted the first one, circling above us like a sinister bird of prey. Suddenly it dropped out of the sky, nose-diving with breathtaking speed and a high-pitched scream, sliding down in a diabolical crescendo.

‘We took one down.’ I cupped my hands over my ears and shouted.

‘Tatus, come, look!’ I was hopping up and down but my elation quickly burst like a soap bubble. A second before impact the plane dropped its bombs. Our sky lit up in flames, followed by thick black clouds of smoke while the plane began to climb again. The bastards had hit us and escaped. This was bad, very bad. If they could pull a stunt like that, what else did they have in store for us? That night I did not return to the window.

Our small family pulled together tight as glue. Mama still managed to cook a soup or a simple stew most days, while Grandpa entertained me with algebra and geometry. Sometimes we spent a few hours with our neighbours, but mostly we just held our breath, peeping from behind our blacked-out windows, listening to the crackle of the radio. There were fewer announcements now, only Chopin’s polonaises and waltzes floated through the ether, reminding us of our Polish heritage and pride. Sometimes the music stopped in mid-phrase, interrupted by a broadcast, but they were never heartening.

We were the first to experience Germany’s newest tactic, their ‘Blitzkrieg’, taking us by surprise with intense, overpowering might and forcing Poland to her knees. Our cavalry had fought so bravely, but what were horses and guns against roaring planes, armoured tanks and mortars? People fell like flies in the fierce onslaught, ripped apart by the explosions, buried under the rubble of their own homes, mowed down by machine-gun fire from planes, when all they had done was go out to fetch some water or barter for food.

On 29 September, after a month of bombing which left the city in smouldering ruins and with no more water to extinguish the fires, Warsaw surrendered. Stepping outside, I emerged into a different world. At 46 Pawia Street, where the Chrotowskis had once lived, only an ugly, burnt-out façade remained. The Karsinskis had lost two of their children and my friend Jacob’s house was a smoking shell, his father buried under the debris. The old Rosenzweig couple next door had survived but Steynberg’s bakery opposite Nathan’s shop had burnt to the ground. There would be no more of Steynberg’s fluffy white bread. The cobbled streets were littered with rubble and mangled belongings. And the horses. Their bloated carcasses lay everywhere, black clouds of flies lifting as we passed.

That evening we saw a long line of our brave, wretched soldiers being marched out of town. To see them trudge like beaten dogs, barely held together by their dirty, ripped uniforms, made me cringe. What would happen to them? To us?

The next day the German Wehrmacht moved in. And I tell you, they did not do so quietly. Even their Führer, Hitler himself, arrived to inspect his troops and his new, conquered city. The tanks that had so brutally overrun our country now rolled into our city, their treads clattering over our old cobbled streets. And the marching of their troops, endless squares of helmeted soldiers, goose-stepping rigidly as if one body. They reached the Führer’s tribune and all heads turned sharply as they passed the man with the moustache, pounding the ground even harder with their black leather boots. The whole city trembled from their force.

The flags went up next, as if the prevalence of the hooked cross should remind us of this new ‘Herrenrasse’, the blonde, blue-eyed master race that would stamp on everything they deemed low and unworthy. It wouldn’t be long before they began to squash us like vermin, like insects, like dirt.

Soon the first directives appeared. Then they continued to emerge, week after week, month after month, never all at once, but drip-fed to us, erasing one piece after another of our freedom, our dignity. First they banished entertainment: from one day to the next those of Jewish blood were forbidden to enter local parks, cafés or museums. Our Krasinski Park was out of bounds, outings to the zoo and Lazienki Park were not allowed any more. Benches and trams were suspended and ‘
nicht für Juden
’ – not for Jews – signs sprang up everywhere.

One day as I walked home from school along Freta Street, a German soldier appeared around the corner.

‘
Mach daß Du wegkommst. Runter hier
,’ he shouted. Before I could even try to decipher what he had barked, he grabbed my shirt and threw me into the street as if I were an old sack. I fell to the ground and could feel blood trickling down my knees. My heart hung in shreds by the time I reached home. That night, Grandfather read the newest directives to me: Jews are forbidden to use public trams, visit restaurants in non-Jewish districts and must not walk on pavements but share the street with cars and horses.

In May, Tatus lost his job at the university. Out of the blue one day they told him to pack his things, and said that his presence was no longer welcome. It wouldn’t be long before I was hit too.

It happened during a chemistry lesson. Siemaski, our teacher, had just pointed to the element beryllium on the periodic table, when there were three loud knocks, the classroom door opened and our headteacher Gorski stood there looking all flustered, squeezed between two German soldiers. The soldier on the left was carrying a list and he pushed it into Gorski’s hands. ‘Read.’

‘Abram Tober, Jacob Kaplan and Mika Hernsteyn,’ Gorski’s voice trembled, ‘pack your books, you are dismissed. Go home.’

For a moment I couldn’t move.

‘
Schnell, macht schon
,’ the German shouted. I got up and left the classroom, not looking at anyone. I never saw Abram and Jacob again, nor my friends Bolek and Henryk, who stayed behind.

When I got home, I threw myself into Grandpa’s arms.

‘
Tatus
, they kicked me out, just like that. It’s not fair.’ Grandpa hugged me and Mama joined in.

‘I know. It’s in the papers today: “Jewish children are to be withdrawn from public schools immediately.” I’m so sorry, Mika.’

I slumped into a chair.

I considered myself to be both a Jew and a Pole, and Polish figures such as Chopin, the great composer, Copernicus and Madame Curie were heroes to me. Those daring scientists and artists had opened new frontiers, pushed into new territories, and I wanted to see myself following in their footsteps. Sitting in our old armchair, frozen with disbelief, I remembered when Grandpa had taken me to Madame Curie’s house in the old town, and although we had not entered the Holy Cross church, it filled me with pride that Chopin’s heart lay buried in our beautiful city. Having to leave school was a terrible blow. I was an excellent pupil, I loved school. Bolek and Henryk didn’t care about school half as much as I did, but they were allowed to stay. Why? We had spent many afternoons playing games in the streets, Bolek even shared the same birthday with me.

Grandfather tried to comfort me and we spent long days together bent over his old books as he shared his love of mathematics with me. I soaked up his gentle voice, his knowledge and kindness. And algebra was indeed a soothing activity. Yet part of me couldn’t accept his attitude of surrender – why did he not fight? He had been at the university for decades and was respected by all. So where were his colleagues now? Why was no one willing to stand up for him?

‘I am old, Mika, you mustn’t worry about me. But you, my boy, you still need to learn and your mother needs you,’ he said, shaking his head. He had no answers and could only lay his hand on my shoulder, light as a bird.