William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice (279 page)

I was eating bananas in Raleigh, North Carolina, I thought, thinking this not for the first time since I had known Sophie, yet perhaps for the first time in my life aware of the meaning of the Absurd, and its conclusive, unrevocable horror.

“But you see, Stingo, in Warsaw one night that winter Wanda had foretold her own death and also my death and the death of my children.”

I don’t recall precisely when, during Sophie’s description of those happenings, the Reverend Entwistle began to hear himself whisper, “Oh God, oh my God.” But I did seem to be aware, during the time of the telling of her story, while the smoke churned up over the nearby roofs and the fire erupted at last toward the sky in fierce incandescence, that those words which had commenced in pious Presbyterian entreaty became finally meaningless. By which I mean that the “Oh God” or “Oh my God” or even “Jesus Christ” that were whispered again and again were as empty as any idiot’s dream of God, or the idea that there could be such a Thing.

“I sometimes got to think that everything bad on earth, every evil that was ever invented had to do with my father. That winter in Warsaw, I didn’t feel any guilt about my father and what he had written. But I did feel often this terrible
shame,
which is not the same as guilt. Shame is a dirty feeling that is even more hard to take than guilt, and I could barely live with the idea that my father’s dreams were coming true right in front of my eyes. I got to know a lot of other things because I was living with Wanda, or very close to her. She got so much information about what was going on everywhere, and I knew already about how they were transporting thousands of Jews to Treblinka and Auschwitz. At first it was thought that they were just being sent for labor, but the Resistance had good intelligence and pretty soon we knew the truth, knew about the gassings and cremations and everything. It was what my father had wanted—and it made me ill.

“When I went to my job at the tar-paper factory I would go on foot or sometimes by streetcar past the ghetto. The Germans had not bled dry the ghetto yet, but they were in the process. Often I could see these lines of Jews with their arms upraised being pushed along like cattle, the Nazis pointing guns at them. The Jews looked so
gray
and helpless; once I had to get off the streetcar and get sick. And all through this my father seemed to...
authorize
this horror, not only authorize it but
create
it in some way. I couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer and I knew I had to tell someone. No one in Warsaw knew much about my background, I was living under my married name. I decided to tell Wanda about this... about this badness.

“And yet... and yet, you know, Stingo, I had to admit something else to myself. And this was that I was fascinated by this unbelievable thing that was happening to the Jews. I couldn’t put my finger on it, this feeling. It was not at all pleasure. It was the opposite, if anything—sickening. And yet when I’d walk past the ghetto at a distance I would stop and really be
entranced
by certain sights, by seeing them rounding up the Jews. And I knew then the reason for this fascination, and it stunned me. I could barely breathe with the knowledge. It was just that I suddenly knew that as long as the Germans could use up all this incredible energy destroying the Jews—superhuman energy, really—I was safe. No, not really safe, but
safer.
Bad as things were, we were oh so much safer than these trapped, helpless Jews. And so as long as the Germans were draining off so much power destroying the Jews, I felt safer for myself and for Jan and Eva. And even Wanda and Jozef, with all the dangerous things they were doing. But this just made me feel more ashamed, and so, on this night I am talking about, I decided to tell Wanda.

“We were finishing this very poor meal, I remember—beans and turnip soup and a kind of joke sausage. We had been talking about all the music we’d missed hearing. I had delayed all during the dinner to say what I really wanted, then I finally got the courage, saying, ’Wanda, did you ever hear the name Biega
ń
ski? Zbigniew Biega
ń
ski?’

“Wanda’s eyes looked vacant for a moment. ‘Oh yes, you mean the Fascist professor from Cracow. He was well known for a while before the war. He made hysterical speeches here in the city against the Jews. I had forgotten all about him. I wonder what ever happened to him. He’s probably working for the Germans.’

“ ‘He’s dead,’ I said. ‘He was my father.’

“I could see Wanda shiver. It was so cold outside and inside. There was this spitting sound of sleet against the window. The children were in bed in the next room. I’d put them there because I’d run out of fuel, coal or wood, in my own apartment downstairs, and Wanda had at least a big comforter on the bed to keep them warm. I kept looking at Wanda, but there was no emotion on her face. She said after a bit, ‘So he was your father. It must have been strange to have had such a man for a father. What was he like?’

“I was surprised at this reaction, she seemed to take it so calmly, so naturally. I mean, of all the people in the Resistance in Warsaw, she was the one who maybe done the most to help the Jews—or to
try
to help the Jews, it was so difficult. I suppose you could call it her specialty, trying to get aid to the ghetto. She felt, too, that anyone who betrayed the Jews, or a single Jew, was betraying Poland. It was Wanda who started Jozef on this way of murdering Poles who betrayed Jews. She was so
militant
about this, so dedicated, a socialist. But she didn’t seem to be at all shocked or anything that my father had been who he had been, and she obviously didn’t feel that I was—well, contaminated. I said, ‘I find it very difficult to talk about him.’ And she said back to me very gently, ‘Well, don’t, dear heart. I don’t care who your father was. You can’t be blamed for his miserable sins.’

“Then I said, ‘It’s so strange, you know. He was killed by the Germans inside the Reich. At Sachsenhausen.’

“But even this—well, even this
irony
didn’t seem to impress her. She just blinked and ran her hand through her hair. Her hair was red and wispy, with no gleam in it at all—so drab and wispy because of the bad food. She just said, ‘He must have been one of those faculty members at the Jagiellonian who caught it right after the occupation began.’

“I said, ‘Yes, and my husband too. I never told you about that. He was a disciple of my father’s. I hated him. I’ve lied to you. I hope you’ll forgive me for once telling you that he died fighting during the invasion.’

“And I started to finish what I was saying—this apology—but Wanda cut me off. She lit a cigarette, I remember she smoked like a fiend whenever she could get cigarettes. And she said, ‘Zosia sweetheart, it don’t matter. For God’s sake, do you think I care what they were? It’s
you
that matters. Your husband could have been a gorilla and your father Joseph Goebbels and you’d still be my dearest friend.’ She went to the window then and pulled down the blind. She only did this when there was some danger coming. The apartment was five floors up, but it was in this building that stuck up out of some bombed-out lots and anything that went on could perhaps be spotted by the Germans. So Wanda never took any chances. I remember she looked at her watch and said, ‘We’re going to have visitors in a minute. Two Jewish leaders from the ghetto. They’re coming to collect a bundle of pistols.’

“I remember thinking: Christ in heaven! My heart always gave a terrible jump and I’d feel this nausea go through me whenever Wanda mentioned guns, or secret rendezvous, or anything having to do with danger or the possibility of being ambushed by the Germans. To get caught helping Jews meant death, you know. I would get all clammy and weak—oh, I was such a coward! I would hope Wanda had not noticed these symptoms, and whenever I had them I would sometimes wonder if cowardice wasn’t another bad thing I inherited from my father. But Wanda was saying, ‘I’ve heard of one of these Jews through the grapevine. He’s supposed to be a very brave type, very competent. He’s desperate, though. There’s some resistance now, but it’s disorganized. He sent a message to our group saying that there’s bound to be a full-scale revolt in the ghetto soon. We’ve had some dealings with others, but this man’s a powerhouse—a mover. I think his name is Feldshon.’

“We waited for a while for the two Jews, but they didn’t come. Wanda told me the guns were hidden in the basement of the building. I went into the bedroom to look at the children. Even in the bedroom the air was so cold it was like a knife, and there was this little cloud of vapor over Jan’s and Eva’s heads. I could hear the wind whistling through the cracks around the window. But this comforter was a huge old Polish comforter filled with goose down and it protected the children in place of heating. I remember praying, though, that I would be able to get some coal or wood for my own place the next day. Outside the window it was so incredibly black, a whole city in darkness. I was just shuddering with the cold. That evening Eva had had a cold and a very bad earache and she had taken a long time to go to sleep. She had been in such pain. But Wanda had found some aspirin, which was very scarce—Wanda could find almost anything—and Eva was asleep. I gave another prayer that in the morning her infection would be gone, and the pain. Then I heard a knock at the door and I went back to the living room.

“I don’t remember the other Jew too well—he didn’t say much—but I do remember Feldshon. He was stocky and sandy-haired and in, I guess, his mid-forties and had these piercing, intelligent eyes. They pierced through you even though they came through these thick glasses, and I remember one lens was cracked and had been glued back. I remember how angry he seemed, beneath the politeness. He just seemed to be seething with anger and resentment, even though his manners were okay. He said right away to Wanda, ‘I won’t be able to pay you now, to reimburse you right away for the weapons.’ I couldn’t understand his Polish too well, it was rather, you know, groping and difficult. ‘Certainly I’ll be able to pay you soon,’ he said in this clumsy, angry voice, ‘but not now.’

“Wanda told him and the other Jew to sit down, and began speaking in German. What she first said was very crude. ‘Your accent is German. You may talk German with us, or Yiddish if you’d care to—’

“But he interrupted her in this angry, irritated way, in perfect German, ‘I don’t need to speak Yiddish! I was speaking German before you were born—’

“Then Wanda very quickly interrupted
him.
‘There’s no need for elaborate explanations. Speak German. My friend and I both speak German. You won’t be required to pay us for weapons at any time, particularly not now. These were stolen from the SS, and we wouldn’t want your money under such circumstances. We can use funds, though. We’ll talk about money some other time.’ We sat down. She sat next to Feldshon underneath this dim bulb. The light was yellow and pulsing, we never knew how long it would last. She offered Feldshon and the other Jew cigarettes, which they took. She said, ‘They’re Yugoslav cigarettes, also stolen from the Germans. This light may go out at any minute now, so let’s talk business. But first I want to know something. What’s your background, Feldshon? I want to know whom I’m dealing with and I have the right to know. So spit it out. We might be doing business for some time.’

“It was remarkable, you know, this way that Wanda had, this absolutely direct way she had of dealing with people—anybody, strangers. It was almost—The word would be
brazen,
I guess, and she was like a tough man that way, but there was enough in her that was young and female, a certain softness too, that allowed her to get by with it. I remember looking at her. She looked very...
haggard,
I guess you would say. She hadn’t had any sleep for two nights, always working, moving, always in some danger. She spent much time working on an underground newspaper; this was so dangerous. I think I told you, she was not really beautiful—she had this milky-pale freckled face with a large jaw—but there was such magnetism in her that it transformed her, made her strangely attractive. I kept looking at her—her face was as harsh and impatient as the Jew’s—and this intensity was just very remarkable to see. Hypnotic.

“Feldshon said, ‘I was born in Bydgoszcz, but my parents took me to Germany when I was a small child.’ Then his voice became angry and sarcastic: ‘That’s the reason for my poor Polish. I confess that some of us speak it as little as possible in the ghetto. It would be pleasant to speak a language other than that of an oppressor. Tibetan? Eskimo?’ Then he said more softly, ‘Pardon the diversion. I grew up in Hamburg and was educated there. I was one of the first students at the new university. Later I became a teacher in a gymnasium. In Würzburg. I taught French and English literature. I was teaching there when I was arrested. When it was discovered that I was born in Poland, I was deported here, in 1938, with my wife and daughter, along with quite a few other Jews of Polish birth.’ He stopped, then said bitterly, ‘We escaped the Nazis and now they’re hammering down the walls. But whom should I fear more, the Nazis or the Poles—the Poles whom I suppose I should consider my compatriots? At least I know what the Nazis are capable of.’

“Wanda ignored this. She began talking about the guns. She said that at the moment they were in the basement of the building, wrapped in heavy paper. There was also a box of ammunition. She looked at her watch and said that in exactly fifteen minutes two Home Army members would be in the basement ready to transfer the boxes to the hallway. There was a prearranged signal. When she heard it she said she would give a sign to Feldshon and the other Jew. They would leave the apartment immediately and go down the stairs to the hallway, where the parcels would be waiting. Then they would get out of the building as fast as possible. I remember she said she wanted to point one thing out. One of the pistols—they were Lugers, I remember—had a broken firing pin or a broken something or other, but she would try to get a replacement as soon as she was able.

“Feldshon then said, ‘There’s one thing you haven’t told us. How many weapons are there?’