Why am I so worried?
My hands are trembling, and undoubtedly my voice will also tremble.
I’m always like this, for no reason at all, until I become accustomed to it. I worry on the stage, I worry while among people, and now here, too.
Yesterday the Czech respectfully bowed his head when I talked to him. Our policeman must have told him that I was Ina Lipman. Maybe he’s from Prague, this youth, and maybe he’s heard me sing. I was in Prague twice. The playbills were huge and the letters gigantic, although there were too many of them. They had spelled my name out on the posters: INNA LIPMANN. Well, so what, maybe they liked that spelling better. They shouted “Viva, viva Ina!” and I sang for them again, and again.
I stand now pressed against the corner of the house and wait for the guard to change. I find them all disgusting to me, as if they weren’t even human but some sort of other creatures dressed in green uniforms, and I’m always afraid of brushing up against them accidentally.
Yes, I think the Czech’s arrived.
He, too, wears a green uniform, but for some reason he seems different from the others. I see him, his face, and don’t even notice his green clothing and his gun. My god, does it all depend on the man and not at all on the clothing he wears? The way it does on stage? No matter what costumes I wore, I was always the same—me, Ina Lipman.
Our world’s a good place because not only Germans strut around as they do there, but many, many other people.
If I could gather them all up into one huge auditorium, into one in which each and every one would fit, I’d walk out onto the stage and wouldn’t say who I was. There would be no announcements and no playbills and posters with gigantic letters, and there wouldn’t be too many letters, or too few. Someone unknown, some woman, a human being just like them, wishes to sing for them. I would sing for them for a long time, all my best songs. They would sit quietly and would listen. I don’t want them to shout “Viva! Brava!” Let them sit quietly and listen. I would sing for them as I have never sung before and will never sing anywhere else. I would sing for them as I sing here, in the ghetto.
The Czech sees me and waves his arm.
I’m going.
He has glanced around.
“You can go,” he says. “If you wish. I would prefer that you go nowhere. You’d be better off here, and if you need something in town, tell me and I’ll get it for you.”
I shake my head.
“Do as you please,” he says. “Just be careful. When you come back, look around carefully. Schoger likes to lie in ambush near the gates at night.”
“All right, all right—don’t worry,” I answer. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I hurry down the street.
I am alone in the street for the first time. The yellow patches are sewn to my jacket, and the jacket, lining turned outward, hangs on my arm.
A man and a woman pass me. I don’t know them, but they turn around two times, then a third. Children run by. They also stare at me. Can it be that I still look like my picture on those playbills, which have long since yellowed and crumbled?
I know that I’m a terrible person. I want them to recognize me. Yes, in the depths of my heart I want that. So many people listened to me when I sang once. But I don’t have the right. They shouldn’t recognize me. The artist still lurks in my heart…. Before, Ina Lipman was famous, and she believed that she belonged only to herself. But that wasn’t true then, and it certainly isn’t true now.
I step into an alley and pull a mirror, some makeup, and a kerchief from my coat pocket. Now surely no one will recognize me. I can be bold, raise my head high, and pretend for a minute that I’m free and that what is really all around me does not exist.
No, I cannot.
It’s strange, but I can’t imagine that. No doubt I know how to pretend only when I’m on stage. Time has left its hard, heavy mark, and makeup will not help me now. It would be better if I were not so bold. There is still much I have to do, and that’s what’s most important.
For four months at night, after we came home from work, we worked some more, in secret, so no one would see or hear us. We rehearsed Aida.
And finally, today, this very night, there’s going to be a dress rehearsal.
My god! I’ve sung Aida so many times, but this seems like the first in my life. We all suffered. But we all worked as well as people can under such conditions. Everything will be just as it is in the real theater, even understudies. No, that must be the most important thing—understudies. In the real theater only the major actors have them, but here we all have them: the most important and the least, stars and chorus. Even everyone in the orchestra has his own understudy. Time indeed has made its hard, heavy mark, and there is no other way out.
My understudy is Mira. Mirka. She’s nineteen. She’ll be a good singer someday. I want her to be better than me—much, much better. I hope that in Prague or Vienna, Paris or Milan, they add many unnecessary letters to her name. I’ll be an old woman, gray-haired; I’ll be cold all the time; I’ll wind myself in a woolen shawl, sit in the theater pit, in the first row, and listen to Mirka sing.
I’m glad that I left the ghetto today and that I’ll tell everything to Maria myself. She’ll be so happy, I know.
The singer Maria Blazhevska….
Before, they told me that Maria Blazhevska is almost Ina Lipman, and they told her that Blazhevksa and Lipman are the same. We would sit together in front of coffee cups in her home or in mine and laugh at what they told us. We knew more than the others, and that’s why it was all so funny.
It’s not easy for her now, either, but easier than it is for me.
They told her to expect me today, and she’s undoubtedly waiting. We haven’t seen each other for a long time—half our lives! She asked that I not come. She doesn’t know yet what I’ll ask for. She can’t imagine, of course, and that’s why I have to go myself; that’s why no one can substitute for me.
Today’s the dress rehearsal. Finally. But today, when the last note of the finale has stilled, I’ll have to climb onto the stage, raise the musical score above my head, and shout: “Here’s the opera you wanted! Here’s La Juive!”
We can’t wait any longer. We need the score today.
The children looked for it everywhere but couldn’t find it.
Maria has it. I’m going now to see Maria Blazhevska to ask for La Juive.
Aron Zwinger gave it to Maria. He was a good boy and a good friend. Maria must have known that better than the rest of us. She ordered a special case lined with red velvet and carried its key with her all the time. It was an old, antique French publication with Halevy’s own corrections and signature. Aron sold everything he owned then and bought La Juive for Maria. Zwinger doesn’t exist anymore, but there, on the title page, remain two lines written in his own hand.
I wonder what would happen if I were Maria, and she came to me to ask for that velvet-lined box. What would happen then?
No, again I cannot imagine. I can only pretend on stage. Time. It’s time that’s to blame. A person can do much, very much, but there’s one thing he cannot do—affect time, return it, turn back the clock.
Do I have the right to go see Maria?
Here’s the front door, and I open it. Here’s the threshold, and I cross it. I climb the stairs to the third floor, stop, then ring the bell. I can hear the hurried patter of anxious footsteps. The door opens. In front of me stands Maria Blazhevska. God, she’s so worried, can’t utter a word, but her eyes gleam, and I see that she’s happy as she helps me cross the low threshold into her apartment.
No doubt, you are interested in what happens next. I understand. But you must understand what happens when two best friends who have not seen each other for half their lives see each other again. What happens when Maria Blazhevska, who is almost Ina Lipman, and Ina Lipman, who is Maria Blazhevska, m
eet after having spent half their lives without hearing each other’s voices. Not sung, but common, spoken Polish words: hello, well, let’s go, you, I.
We speak only briefly, but maybe that’s just how it seems to me, because the Czech has given me only an hour, and I have to return to my home. I have to hurry and beware. I have to beware of many things, but most important: Jews are not allowed to walk around without their stars—especially when they are alone and it is after six in the evening. And in the ghetto tonight is the dress rehearsal of our first opera!
Then I tell her why I have come.
Maria looks at me and immediately runs into the other room. She brings in the score and fumbles with it strangely. It seems to me that her fingers tremble, though no doubt I only imagine it.
She opens to the title page, glances at it, takes the paper between her fingers, and then lets it go again. Did she want to tear that page out? No, most likely I only imagined it.
“I wouldn’t have come if—”
“Don’t say anything, Ina. You know we communicate without words.”
“You see, Maria—”
“Don’t say anything, Ina! I’ll start to cry, and what’ll happen then? You should try instead to imagine what Aron would say now.”
“We will take care of it as if…”
“I know.”
We say goodbye to each other.
Maria looks for something to give me and finally finds it—a small bag of dried peas. I don’t want to take it, but I just can’t refuse.
As I get up to leave, Maria takes me by the arm and says, “Do you know what I would like? I’d like to gather lots of people into a huge auditorium, into one in which each and every one would fit. I’d walk out onto the stage, and I would sing for them for a long, long time, all my best songs.”
I listen, my breathing shallow and my eyes wide.
“And I’d also like…do you know what I would like? I’d like both of us to be old women, wrapped in shawls, sitting in the theater pit, in the first row, listening to your Mirka, famous throughout the world, sing.”
Now I say, “Don’t say anything, Maria.”
I cannot listen any longer, and I leave.
Now, surely, no one looks at me, no one glances, no one turns around. I am bold, though I know that I have to beware.
Here’s the narrow street. The gates of the ghetto are not too far away, and next to them stands the Czech, so I guess I’ve made it on time. I just have to hurry. Faster! Always near the end of a journey, time stops, stretches. I run, and the gates are very, very near.
Suddenly I stop and begin to walk quite slowly. And that’s why time speeds up. We’ve exchanged roles. Like on stage.
Near the gates, next to the Czech, stands Schoger.
I have been caught.
I thought he wouldn’t be here today, but he’s there, smiling, beckoning me with his finger, waiting. He must be happy, Schoger. He’s wanted to catch me doing something punishable by death for a long time. And only now do I notice that the jacket with the yellow star lies draped across my arm. Perhaps Schoger hasn’t noticed yet. I could put the jacket on, and then he could only beat me for the peas. Perhaps he’d only beat me…. But the score’s wrapped up in the coat. If he saw it with Halevy’s signature, Aron’s two lines, no one today at the dress rehearsal would climb onto the stage and shout, “Here, my friends! We have La Juive!”
Schoger can smile. Today his hour has come. Not long ago, having frisked me himself when I came back from work, he said, “As far as I’m concerned, honored lady, you don’t exist. I don’t care whether you live or die. Only your voice hinders me. Woe to him who falls into my hands. I believe I’ll get you someday, and you will suffer then, honored lady. Of course, I regret that. But what…?”
Why am I so worried?
Now I really shouldn’t worry. I’m not on stage and not in a crowd of people. Now I have to think and try to keep my hands from trembling so that my voice, too, will be calm.
I leave my jacket draped across my arm and with the other hand rattle the bag of peas. I’ve transgressed greatly today already, walking around without the yellow patch, so the peas have no significance. I’m wearing makeup, and we are forbidden to paint ourselves.
I walk on with firm steps, my head raised high. Now I really can be bold; I’ve earned that right. I shake the bag, the peas rattle like a thousand castanets, and I’m happy.
I laugh.
“Are you satisfied?” I ask Schoger.
He smiles too.
I rattle the peas, holding them high, almost beneath his chin, and the thousand castanets suddenly sound like a thousand rifle shots.
He tears the bag from my hand and throws it aside.
“That coat’s not mine,” I tell him. “Let me give the jacket back, and I will be in your debt, Mr. Commandant.”
“Give it back quickly,” Schoger replies.
I slink into the ghetto, and with my entire back I can feel the heat of Schoger’s gaze.
Someone is walking by. I don’t know who, but it is a friend. I hurriedly thrust my coat into his arms and say, “Give this to Mirka Segal. Do you know Mirka Segal?”
“Yes, I know her.”
“Give this to her immediately, all right? It’s Mirka’s jacket; I borrowed it.”
Now I am free.
I see how the Czech’s cheekbones move and creak, as if he is chewing metal. All I need now is for him to interfere. Everything will be for naught. Let him, and not someone else, stand guard at the ghetto’s gates; let him do as the people of the ghetto ask, and let him not see what should not be seen. His life is just beginning, and it will still have many good and many bitter hours, just as the rest of us do, just as every man does.
I look at him angrily. He understands and unwillingly turns his back. I am a little sad that I not ask him his name for the second time. It’s similar to a Polish name, and Polish…
I could tell you more. There’s still a small chunk of time. But I won’t. Such stories always end the same way, and they are never interesting. The most important thing is to have an understudy. I’m very happy that my understudy is Mirka, Mira Segal. She’ll be a great singer someday, my Mirka….
The Eighth Move
• 1 •
If I lose, the others will be in for it, but I will remain alive…. If I win, the others will not be harmed, but I will have to die…. If there’s a draw, a stalemate, everyone will be happy.
“Listen,” Schoger interrupted his thoughts. “Are you grateful to me? You will never again have another opportunity to play before such an audience.”
The entire ghetto had gathered around them in a circle.
That’s what Schoger had ordered.
The large crowd flooded the large square, stood silently, barely, barely swaying, the hundreds of eyes staring at the players.
Isaac pushed a pawn forward.
Schoger responded quickly. He did not want to waste time.
What is he thinking now? Isaac asked himself. About winning, always about winning. He’s happy there are so many people around—he has to win. And with my whole body I can feel their eyes, hundreds of eyes. They pierce me. They know why I’m playing here and for what stakes. They want a stalemate. A stalemate. And I?
I’m afraid to look around. The people bother me. They’ve flooded the square. Yes, just as they flooded the bridge as they slunk into the ghetto, eyes piercing the ground beneath their feet.
I don’t want all these people around me….
• 2 •
A month has passed, an entire month, since the day I first saw Esther. No doubt I used to see her before, too. It just never entered my head that it was she. That girl is my Esther-Liba, Libuzia, Buzia.
A month has passed since I saw her for real and gave her her name. A month is not such a long time, is it? Time is a ye
ar, years, centuries.
It only seems that way.
In reality it is otherwise.
A month is a very long time. If they chopped me into the tiniest pieces, there would still be too few of them to count out the days, hours, minutes, and seconds of that month.
I’m talking about time.
I know that I could tell you about something else, about life in the ghetto, which, it is said, is a hard life. I could tell you about our work. It is very hard work. I could tell you about what we eat and what we think.
I don’t want to.
Everyone does what he is assigned to do. Those who are assigned to it go to the camps to work. That’s where I work. Those who remain in the ghetto also work. They want to be clothed, fed, and able to go to the camps. Everyone’s busy and works at what he has to do.
I’m just like that, like the others.
But no one can forbid me to remember the words from Song of Songs and to think about my Buzia, my Esther.
* * *
—
Each evening, if there is no pressing work to be done, I wash myself and put on my good blue shirt. I hurry to the large flat stone doorsill and wait. Then we go together into the yard where lie the long log and the wooden box. I sit on the log, and Esther clambers onto the box. She draws up her legs, clasps her knees with both hands, and rests her chin, and I’m contented. I’m happy that we sit together and that she sits in that way and in no other.
I close my eyes.
I forget everything.
I very much want us to walk out into the wide blossoming meadow and sit together on the soft grass, with no one else around.
We cannot.
The ghetto is fenced.
There are gates.
Stalemate Page 2