Vera

Published by Black Inc.,

an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

37–39 Langridge Street

Collingwood VIC 3066 Australia

[email protected]

www.blackincbooks.com

Copyright © Robert Hillman and Vera Miller 2015

Robert Hillman and Vera Miller assert their right to be known as the authors of this work.

A
LL
R
IGHTS
R
ESERVED
.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

The National Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Wasowski, Vera, author.

Vera : my story / Vera Wasowski, Robert Hillman.

9781863957397 (paperback)

9781925203066 (ebook)

Wasowski, Vera.

Women television journalists—Australia—Biography.

Holocaust survivors—Australia—Biography.

Hillman, Robert, 1948– author.

070.92

CONTENTS

1.
Talk of Murder

2.
The Russians

3.
The Lists

4.
Tales from Hell

5.
Zamarstynów

6.
Ghetto

7.
A Small Bag of Poison

8.
The Russians Return

9.
Imagining Israel

10.
Olsztyn

11.
Warsaw University

12.
The Bohemians

13.
On Board

14.
Australia

15.
Stitching

Picture Section

16.
ABC

17.
Adventuress

18.
This Day Tonight

19.
Leith Ratten

20.
The Talent

21.
Mirka

22.
Hazel

23.
An Axing

24.
Jan

25.
‘Dear Vera...'

26.
Light

27.
Farewells

28.
Party

To all my dear friends, without whom life would be a misery.

V
ERA
W
ASOWSKI

To my three sons, Ruben, Harry, and Audie, with love and admiration.

R
OBERT
H
ILLMAN

  
1
  

TALK OF MURDER

O
utside, at a café in St Kilda, a new place at the back of the Prince of Wales, we're talking of murder. I light up a cigarette, of course I do – that's why Robert and I are outside – but within ten seconds the woman at the next table is acting out a drama of suffocation. She points at her child, a pretty girl of six or seven, at the same time holding a hand to her own throat. I should be ashamed of myself – the mother wants me to understand that. So, okay, I am ashamed of myself. But, madam, listen to me for a minute – one minute only. I am eighty. Few pleasures are left to me. Nicotine, coffee, marijuana. Your child will survive.

Robert, hunched over his notebook, asks, ‘But you had a sense of foreboding?'

‘Yes. Maybe. I'm not sure.'

‘Jews were being attacked in the streets. Your uncle was attacked.'

The waiter appears with my coffee and Robert's tea. He's very good-looking. He, too, disapproves of my cigarette.

I live in a world of disapproval. My friend Jeni rolls her eyes whenever I pull out my packet of Drum and my papers. Others I know disapprove of my politics. When I was younger, my morals were an issue for some. Oh, but the greatest disapproval of all – that was in Poland. That was in Lvov. There, people like me were so disapproved of that we were murdered in large numbers.

Robert prompts me again. ‘That's right, isn't it? Your uncle was attacked?'

‘Yes.'

I don't know that I want to speak of murder this morning. I don't know that I want my book to start with death and despair – nor to end with it. Imagine an epitaph that reads: ‘Vera: She survived the Shoah'. Better it should read: ‘Vera: Lust for life'. Maybe also: ‘Loved music, books, philosophy'. Also: ‘Very good sense of humour'. And: ‘Loved not wisely but too well, mostly'. Something along those lines. It needs work.

Robert picks up on my mood and backs off. Good for him. He lights a cigarette of his own, sips his tea and studies my features.

‘You have,' he says, ‘the most beautiful green eyes I've ever seen.'

It's true. I do have beautiful eyes. It's nice that he notices. May he notice a great many other things.

And may he also discuss with me what sort of book this is to be. I don't think I'll enjoy starting at Lvov then leaping back and forth between catastrophe and triumph over all the years of my life – interiors, landscapes, follies, lovers, betrayals.

Life stories hardly ever tell the truth about anyone. How can they? A life story of ten volumes is still a precis. To record all my thoughts from this Sunday morning alone, I would require twenty pages. Today I walked along Park Street with Robert, and every glance recalled something of St Kilda fifty years ago when I first came here from Poland The human mind is like – well, like what? Like a chaotic archive, a million scraps of paper stored in heaps – with no system, no chronology, no index, nothing remotely like a catalogue; bills and bank statements living cheek by jowl with love letters and, somewhere in the midst of it all, a petrified cheese sandwich forgotten years ago after a single bite.

Did I have a sense of foreboding? How can I answer that? Yes, of course I did! Jews are born with a sense of foreboding. Is this news? Is this the stuff of literature? I could say, ‘Robert, children as young as I was were hanged by their neighbours in many Polish towns, in my town, Lvov. Little Vienna as it was known. Yes, there was a great deal of foreboding!'

What now? A crowd of cyclists, adults and children, have stormed the café, all of them dressed in close-fitting outfits covered in advertisements. The mothers and fathers are in their mid-thirties; their children are mostly five or six years old. It's a ritual, I suppose; instead of dressing the children for church on Sunday morning, their parents dress them for cycling and the café.

When I first came to Australia, only postmen and school children rode bicycles. Now the bicycling bourgeois are everywhere. Exercising has become religious observance.

Robert is ready to return to the themes. If I won't talk about murder, maybe I will talk about Jan.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Jan, Vera. It wasn't – well, it was not an exclusive relationship, as I understand. That's right, isn't it?' ‘You mean did I sleep with other men?'

‘Yes.'

‘Of course.'

‘That would have been unusual. Particularly in Australia.'

‘Everything was unusual in Australia in the nineteen-fifties.
Presswurst
was unusual, let alone
kołduny
or
zraci
. If you asked in a shop for
presswurst
, they thought you were a communist.'

‘And you were a communist, ironically.'

‘No, Robert. I was a bohemian, not a communist.'

‘Yes, you told me earlier, I'm sorry. I heard “bohemian” defined one time as a man who wears a dressing gown at midday and sleeps with his niece.'

‘Is that so? Well, maybe. Incidentally, I had an uncle who wanted to sleep with me. But he was no bohemian.'

I say ‘wanted to sleep with me' but what I mean is that he tried to rape me. Dear God, I have experienced everything. My father took his own life – I watched him die. My mother resorted to a sort of voluntary rape, giving herself to my uncle in return for concealment in an apartment outside the ghetto on the Aryan side of Lvov, when the ghetto itself was about to be liquidated and the last of the occupants gassed. Later, she bought our survival by sleeping with a Russian general. Those less fastidious than my mother died: less fastidious, less beautiful. I can sit here with Robert, enjoying a cigarette and a coffee, because of my mother's good looks and practical approach to fucking.

That's what I brought to Australia all those years ago – I, and thousands of others. A first-hand experience of what the world could be, what people could do, what survival involved, what mattered and what didn't. And also what
presswurst
tasted like. When you know what people can do, at their worst, you know forever what's important and what's bullshit. You know what life tastes like: not just
presswurst
, but life. When you've lived on crumbs, you never lose your relish for a full loaf of bread.

Well, maybe that's not true. The full loaves of bread in the shops when I came here were uniformly white and free of taste and easy to do without.

‘So, what do you want in the book?' Robert asks me.

‘What do I want in the book?' I think for a minute. ‘I don't know. But I don't want you to say, “Vera has beautiful eyes”, “Vera has slept with ten thousand men”? I don't want that.'

‘The book will be what you want it to be, Vera.'

‘I don't know what I want it to be!'

‘This,' says Robert. He lifts his hands and gestures at the bicycle bourgeois, at the mother whose daughter's life I placed in mortal danger, at my empty coffee cup, at me.

‘This?'

‘Yes.'

‘Some book.'

‘Vera, you've lived a big life. It will all be there.'

I shrug. I look away. If it's all going to be in the book, as Robert says, then let it record that these bicycle people irritate me. The suffocating lady with the pretty daughter irritates me even more. One type of arrogance has been replaced by another.

I came to St Kilda from Warsaw, where you couldn't scratch your behind without someone from state security, some Urząd Bezpieczeństwa stooge making a note about it. But in Poland, we were free in our hearts. In university, we laughed about everything – in private. We drank with each other in the most irresponsible way, we made love, we argued, and we thought that art and literature were more important than anything on earth.

In Australia, we met the members of the middle class for the first time in our lives: so sure of themselves, so smug, so condescending. And so frightened. Their arrogance was brittle. They thought we owed them a great debt of gratitude. We should say ‘thank you' all day, every day. We had been rescued from a hellhole behind the Iron Curtain and our gratitude should shine from our faces.

I couldn't be bothered with gratitude. What person with any self-respect wants to say ‘thank you' again and again? Okay, thank you with all my heart: now leave me alone.

Maybe we were also arrogant. I should concede that. Maybe, if I tell the truth, we pitied the middle class with a little too much enthusiasm. But the thing was, I didn't come to Australia looking for a chance to show my gratitude. I came here with Jan and my son to be free of the tedium and vulgarity and stupidity of anti-Semitism, to be free from oppression and laugh at everything that deserved to be laughed at. And to watch movies – even movies as innocent as Danny Kaye comedies – without being accused of enjoying ‘decadent products of capitalism'. To do all this with the utmost seriousness. I wanted to do everything I had done in Warsaw, but without Jew-haters looking at me as if judging how long a rope would be required to hang me.

The Poles have episodes of madness when they believe that everything that troubles them or angers them is down to the Jews. The Poles and everyone else. The Poles especially. You could take a contingent of them through the ruins of Auschwitz and say, ‘Look, look! See where it leads! Anti-Semitism, Jew-hating, do you see where it leads, given time? Do you see?' And what would their response be? I'll tell you. It would be this: ‘What point are you making?'

Okay, okay, okay. Many Poles found the decency to help us. They have trees planted for them in Jerusalem. Righteous Gentiles. I honour them. But I also remember those like the village fool in a town in the west who was given an iron bar by the SS and permitted to apply it to the skulls of Jews rounded up in his village, and, when he was done, was applauded by onlookers as he sat on a heap of dead bodies, playing folk tunes on his accordion.

So when I came back to Poland from Germany (this will come later: how, after the war, my mother and I escaped to Germany – of all places, Germany! – even life in hell is rich in irony), I was like a wild creature that has been hunted by hounds and now lives in constant readiness to flee, every sense alert. The communists were taking control in Poland, and who was to say that the communists would be any better than the Nazis?

And yes, the time arrived – of course it did! – when the communists under Władysław Gomułka came up with the brilliant and original idea of persecuting Jews. Gomułka, that imaginative man, said that Jews could leave Poland on a one-way passport.

At that time, my feral years behind me, I was at university, with a child to raise and a husband to care for.

My friends promised to hide me, to protect my child. But I looked at them and thought of the many, many Jews whose friends had hoped to protect them from the Nazis during the war, and how the determination of those friends had in the end been unavailing.

So I came here, to St Kilda, a
presswurst
-free zone.

Well … not any longer. The bicycle bourgeois are enjoying sundried tomatoes and dill jelly and ciabatta and, for all I know, organic cabana.

I shouldn't be so scornful. Isn't this what we want for the world? A big, juicy democracy with parents dressing their children in lycra for a Sunday morning outing down Fitzroy Street to Acland Street to Barkly Street and back again? With an opportunity on the way to stop at a café and listen to the mother of a pretty girl deliver an extempore sermon on the wickedness of nicotine?

Yes, I suppose so. I suppose so.

My spirits revive, as they always do. I answer a few more questions from Robert and sip the last of my coffee.

But God, dear God, do I really have to go through the catacombs of my memory and gather together all the stories in the way Robert wants me to? It exhausts me to contemplate it.

Who slept with whom? So many whoms were slept with. Is this book going to enrich society? But what does enrich society? A well-made sandwich from a delicatessen. Good coffee. When I think of it, why should our taste in sandwiches matter any less than our taste in the people we sleep with?

Really, what should I complain about? I've known good people. And some of the worst.

‘Vera, can we go back to the ghetto for a minute?' says Robert, in his conscientious way.

Can we go back to the ghetto for a minute? Do I wish to? Now that I'm cheerful again? But yes, yes, we will go back to the ghetto for a minute. You're a Jew, you survive the ghetto: you tell the story for the rest of your life. You have to believe that it matters. Poor Primo Levi, the tiled floor rushing up at him, facing what the Nazis could not achieve: his death. And why? Because what Robert wants to hear from me Levi had ceased to believe meant anything to listeners, to readers, to anyone. Every Jew who survived has to fulfil the destiny of an Ancient Mariner – but a guiltless Ancient Mariner, if such a creature can be imagined: such a creature waylaying others on their way to wedding feasts, to the cinema, to the pub, to the football, to bed. And each time a person like Robert says ‘Can we go back to the ghetto for a minute?', we risk discovering that our strange power of speech is not so strange any longer, the glitter in our eyes not so compelling. We risk that, every time, and we risk it more with the passing of another decade. Someday someone will say to me, ‘The Holocaust? Is that a movie?' and like Primo Levi I will see the floor speeding towards my face.