‘Something like that,’ I said.
‘Where are your men?’
I pointed vaguely to the snaking carriages ahead, but the lad mistook my gesture and placed the vodka in my hand, closing my fingers gently around the bottle.
His friends cheered when I took a swig.
‘Thanks, I said, gulping. ‘Needed that.’
Handing it back, I closed my eyes, savouring the spirit’s deep, intestinal glow.
I sat wedged against the wall in darkness as the train left the station and chugged towards Lublin Main. When I was certain the soldiers had forgotten about me, I allowed my hand to roam the pockets of my new uniform, taking an inventory.
One box of Nordland cigarettes, unopened, and a smooth, silver lighter heavy as a pebble.
The salvaged wallet, empty except for Harry Mohnke’s identification card.
My prayer shawl. That was it for the trousers.
I loosened a button on the tunic and dug inside the breast pocket, where a square of paper rustled, and something hard dug into my skin when I pressed, brass shell-casing or a pen lid,. The object was concealed in an envelope, but there was a second letter behind it that I unfolded first, since it was already open.
A military form, authorising fifty-four hours of Compassionate Leave for Oberführer Harry Mohnke to attend his brother’s funeral in the family home of Dahme, near the Polish border. Today was the second of a four-day pass.
The envelope contained a long door key and the transferred title deeds of an apartment in Cracow on the corner of Traugutta and Dabrowskiego that had belonged to Erich Mohnke, the deceased brother.
I knew the area well.
Podgorze was just outside the Jewish Ghetto, less than three miles from where my mother and sisters had lived, their last known place of residence.
15
Five hours and three kilometres later, I arrived at Cracow Glowny. Or Hauptbanhof Krakau, as the proliferation of scarlet and black drapes now proclaimed. The station had been Nazified; I knew the feeling.
Navigating the busiest transportation hub in the administrative capital of occupied Poland was not the smartest move for a Jew in a murdered SS officer’s uniform, but now I was here, I had no choice but to keep moving.
Summoning Mohnke’s arrogance at Lublin, I barreled through the crowd towards the exit and set off south towards Podgorze on foot.
High above the banks of the Vistula, Wawel castle was now called Krakauer Burg, the entrance’s bronze likeness of Taduesz Kosciusko on rearing horseback replaced by Governor Hans Frank’s huge black Cadillac. Not even a German car for this stalwart of National Socialism! The pretender-King and his Queen Beatrice rode around like movie stars. Polish civilians were banned from visiting their ancestral seat of the castle now, except for construction workers and cleaners.
At the northern edge of Old Town, the Battle of Grunwald, that great turning point of medieval history when Poles and Lithuanians united to defeat the Teutonic Knights of 1410 was no longer commemorated by an enormous plinth. Five hundred and twenty-nine years later, the Knights roared back, riding Panzer tanks, obliterating all trace of Polish independence. My mother’s last letter had warned off this rampant destruction, but I was still shocked.
After Grunwald and Wawel, it had bee Adam Mickiewicz’s turn. What had a Romantic poet ever done to the Nazis? German police cordoned off his monument at noon on 17th August, 1940 in the Rynek, the Old Market Square and the vandals moved in with scaffold and tools. They set about tearing off the allegorical figures from Mickiewicz’s feet, as if Motherland, Science, Courage and Poetry were street sluts to be whipped. Grown men cried out in the gathered crowd, amateur photographers were beaten and arrested. Many of the assembled citizens did not know Adam Mickiewicz from the Old Testament Adam, but they came to understand the poet that day, after he was toppled. In being struck down, Mickiewicz became more powerful than the Germans could ever imagine. Within forty-eight hours, black market photos of his falling monument were selling quicker than cigarettes. Two years later, one solitary soldier had been posted in Adolf Hitler Platz to keep dissenters from turning the spot into a shrine. He saluted as I strode past. A few seconds later, I realised he was saluting me.
While Goethe’s Faust had once professed a desire to reroute the Rhine to encircle Wittenberg, the Nazis had been as yet unable to alter the flow of the Vistula, which still snaked around Kazimierz as lazily as I remembered.
The island’s Jews were gone, unceremoniously dumped in a Ghetto across the river.
Erich Mohnke’s apartment was situated in a leafy Podgorze neighbourhood just north-east of the Ghetto, a stone’s throw from its prison walls. For now, I tried not to think of the squalor and misery within, lest the mask slip and my emotions betray me.
There were many more German soldiers on patrol south of the river than the isolated clusters I’d glimpsed in Old Town. After the shock of seeing streets full of uniforms, I became appreciative of the camouflage they provided. Who would notice one more SS? Thankfully, no-one did. Head held high, I crossed the road to Traugutta Street, the corner of Dabrowskiego.
I had survived my first hour in the city.
Stopping opposite 65, I turned out the envelope from my pocket and studied the apartment’s transfer deeds. I ruled out the possibility that Harry Mohnke’s brother was married or had children. Any beneficiaries would have inherited the property, not his brother. But that did not necessarily mean Erich lived alone.
According to the paperwork, the apartment was number 3E. I scanned the brick wall up to the third balcony. A good sign: the curtains were drawn. No lights on.
I crossed the road and unlocked the front door. The lobby was dank and musty. To my right was a wall of labelled letter-slots. ‘Mohnke, Erich’ was not hard to find: his was the only slot bulging with mail. I removed several weeks’ worth of envelopes.
There was an elevator, but I didn’t relish being stuck inside the cage with a curious busy-body. The staircase was at the rear. What I could not see from the letter-racks was the proximity of the janitor’s kitchen, tucked away behind the stairwell. I hurried past the open door, but it was too late. A chair squeaked on linoleum and the ancient janitor was hobbling towards me, a rolled newspaper clutched in his liver-spotted hand.
‘Hey, stop there!’ Dim eyes focused on my uniform, the stripes on my shoulder. His glower lifted like a summer fog. ‘Oh, please forgive me. How can I help you, sir?’
I stepped towards him, palm extended. ‘Harry Mohnke.’
‘Harry?’ His hand went limp in mine.
‘Erich’s brother.’
‘I was so sorry to hear the news.’
‘You must be Mr…?’ I wagged a finger next to my head.
‘Escherich, Gert Escherich.’
‘That’s right. Erich mentioned your name.’
‘Your brother was a hero, Oberführer Mohnke. Those Warsaw Ghetto rats should be exterminated. Instead they talk about sending them to Madagascar.’
‘Thank-you. We are all very proud of Erich. The funeral was most… touching.’
‘There have been so many sacrifices of late.’
‘We are gaining ground,’ I said. ‘There is a real momentum. I predict our victory early next year.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest your brother’s death was in vain - ’
‘Of course not. Forgive me, I am quite shattered.’
‘Please.’ He pointed his newspaper to the stairs.
I turned away, then stopped. ‘No visitors I should know about, I trust?’
‘Everything’s just as it was, sir.’
‘Good. And not that I’m expecting anybody, but I would appreciate keeping my arrival quiet, until tomorrow at least.’
He tapped the side of his nose and grinned. ‘In that case, for the sake of appearances, you may wish to leave a few letters in Erich’s rack.’
I peeled off a handful and handed them over.
‘May I ask how long you intend to stay, sir?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Probably for the best.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We’ll talk about my plans tomorrow.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘Good night, Otto.’
The third floor hallway reeked of boiled cabbage, peppered with the tang of fresh vomit. There was a bundled bed-sheet outside the door of my neighbour’s apartment, upon which a note had been pinned: APOLOGIES FOR THE SMELL – SICK CHILD. PLEASE STAY AWAY. I kicked the sheet along to the end of the corridor and left it outside my door, to deter well-wishers.
I knocked, loud enough to raise an army. The only sense of movement I was aware of came from behind me. My neighbour was at the peephole, studying the back of my head. Resisting every urge to spin and glare, I guided the trembling key into the lock and turned.
The hallway was hot and narrow, two doorways in the opposite wall and a further two at each end, front and back. All were shut, except for the kitchen, where the door-panel had been removed from the hinges. It was a sad, otherwise unventilated space with only one worktop and no table.
Next door was a tiny bathroom, where a man could urinate, shave and fill the tub without breaking into a stretch.
The back room contained Erich’s bed, desk and wardrobe. A spare uniform hung from the pole, a few tailored shirts and ties, a smart grey suit, two pairs of shoes underneath. The shelf above the clothes held a brown leather suitcase. I was about to place the old lady’s prayer shawl inside when I stopped. I cursed my lack of foresight.
What if Harry Mohnke had luggage on his train? For a two day visit, he must have taken a case. But then failed to collect it at Lublin. The porters would have found a bag by now. It could be gathering dust in the Lost Property office. Worst case scenario, if Erich used luggage labels, an enterprising porter had already alerted the authorities.
I found a telephone in the front room, dialed the operator and asked to be connected to Lublin Hauptbanhof, where I gave my rank and explained my forgetfulness, blaming it on the preoccupied state following my brother’s funeral. The clerk was most sympathetic, but didn’t know anything about a case. He promised to call me back as soon as possible.
I could do nothing except to tremble and perspire. Even controlling my breath proved grueling, and I feared I might pass out. Eventually I managed to persuade my lungs to inflate beyond the dimensions of a pea, and the dizziness passed. My new life – if that’s what this turned out to be – would be fraught with fear from one minute to the next. If I could not learn to live with it, I may as well end it now.
Thirty minutes later the telephone rang, startling me from silent contemplation. It was the clerk: my suitcase had been handed in to Lost Property.
‘That’s excellent news,’ I sighed, and surely never had a man sounded more relieved.
‘There’s just one slight problem, Oberführer. According to the label, the final destination was not Cracow.’
‘You’re right. I forgot to write a new one after the funeral.’
‘I hope you forgive the intrusion, Oberführer, but for the sake security, I must ask you to confirm the original destination on that label.’
‘Of course,’ I said, playing for time. I had forgotten the name of the city where they’d buried Erich Mohnke. All I could think of was that it began with D.
Dornburg, Dornstadt, Dornstetten…
‘The name of the city, sir?’
‘Oh, right, yes. You need to hear it from me, don’t you.’ Dresden, Dachau, Dortmund. ‘I was waiting to hear to hear it from you.’
‘The other way round would be preferable.’
‘Otherwise I could have confirmed anything you said.’
‘Exactly. To make sure your suitcase doesn’t get into the wrong - ’
‘Dahme.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘My brother was buried in Dahme.’
A pause.
‘Thank-you very much, sir. Your case will be on the first train to Cracow tomorrow morning. Can I assist you with anything else?’
I curled into Erich Monhke’s bed and slept the sleep of the dead.
The next morning, I decided to return to Izaaka Street as Jozef Siegler and seek out any original neighbours who had known my family. It was six months since Shoshana had taken my mother and sisters to a friendly farm outside Cracow, from where they had hoped to leave for Palestine. She hadn’t revealed the name of the village in her letter, for obvious reasons. I had no way of knowing if they were still holed up in the countryside, if they had managed to escape, or if their plan – like so many other - had failed.
I left Harry Mohnke’s uniform in the wardrobe and dressed in cotton shirt and woollen trousers. For the first time in daylight, I opened the bedroom curtains to assess the lay of the land. At the foot of the building was a maze of vegetable gardens, sheds and workshops. The area was bordered by an empty plot of land on one side and across Tragutta Street by a new-looking wall that extended in both directions at a length of several metres, and didn’t seem to be guarding much except a nest of grim tenements, crooked as tombstones. When I followed the barricade round to the east as far as I could, I saw the curious sight of a large concrete gate in the middle of the wall, through which a rail train emerged, loaded with glum passengers.
I had inherited a room with a prime view of the Jewish Ghetto. Izaaka could wait another hour.
The janitor was changing the light-bulb on a tottering ladder when I got downstairs. I stood gripping the side-rail as he worked.
‘I trust you found the sleep you were looking for, Mr. Mohnke.’
‘It was a little odd lying in my brother’s bed, but tiredness soon got the better of me.’
‘In that respect, I envy you. The older I get, the more tired I become, but now I can’t sleep. God’s nothing if not a joker.’
‘I was looking at the allotments under the bedroom window. Did Erich have a plot?’
‘Not much of a green-fingers, your brother. He couldn’t even keep a spider plant. I ended up adopting it myself.’
‘That sounds like Erich. Do you mind if I take a look?’
‘At his plant?’
‘The allotments,’ I said.
With a final twist, the light-bulb flickered, casting Escherich’s gaunt face a sickly yellow. ‘Follow me.’
Outside it was bitterly cold in the shadowed of the tenement. The gardens were well-tended and generously proportioned, but little grew in winter apart from onions and lettuce. I pretended to study the soil until I heard the janitor close the door behind me, then I began searching for the path that would deliver me onto Tragutta, twisting and turning past shed and green-house until the Ghetto suddenly reared into view across the street.
The wall rose three metres high and was topped elegantly with curved panels which bore a striking resemblance to matzevahs, Jewish tombstones. Most of the buildings behind it were already dilapidated before the war, and chronic overcrowding had only hastened their decline. All windows that faced outward to Tragutta were boarded up to prevent contact with the Aryan world. The air that did manage to escape over the wall reeked of sewage and clogged water closets. Lines of scrubbed clothes and sheets hung stiffly between balconies, garments frosted overnight. I grabbed a wheelbarrow from outside the nearest shed and trundled out to the pavement.
I met three young soldiers in the empty lot of land next to my apartment block, smoking and stamping the ground while two suited Jews attempted to dig trenches with long handled hoes. The older prisoner wore a tall, dented hat and long black beard that obscured the worst of his shame like a scarf, and had paused momentarily to watch my approach.
‘Need any work doing round here?’ one of the soldiers shouted in Polish when he saw me. ‘We’ve got Jews to do the heavy lifting now.’
I stopped, set the barrow down, slapped my head as if cursing my memory, turned round and trundled back the way I’d come. The soldiers were having too much fun with their prisoner to follow me.
The Limanowskiego
gate through which I’d seen the tram emerging was two blocks in the other direction, and heavily guarded by soldiers and the Polish Blue Police. I had no wish to risk any further contact, so stopped again at the allotments and gazed up at a soot-stained block of flats that soared high above the wall. The windows facing me were bricked up, but there was a side block that intersected, and these windows had been left untouched.
As I stood watching, a figure approached the window and flung the pane open. The red-armband of a black SS sleeve appeared momentarily. A shouting match began inside the room, as if a tug of war had broken loose. A female voice protested, ‘No, give him to me!’ Seconds later, a bundled ball sailed out the window. The blanket whipped back in the breeze to reveal what looked at first like a pink doll. Before I realised what I was looking at, the bundle plummeted beneath the wall out of sight. The crunch of impact on the courtyard was drowned out by the screams of the baby’s mother above, who was in turn silenced by a single gun-shot.
When I threaded my way back through the maze of gardens, I heard the janitor calling for me. I was in no mood for small talk, but there was no way of avoiding him.
‘Thank heavens I found you,’ Escherich said, visibly flustered. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
‘What happened to telling nobody I was here?’
‘I didn’t, I swear. They know everything.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘The big boss. Oberführer Scherner. SS and Polizeiführer for the whole of Cracow. He’s waiting inside.’
‘For me?’
‘I’m pretty sure he hasn’t come for Erich’s spider plant.’
I found myself being ushered back towards the lobby. The Oberführer was standing at the letter-slots with his hands crossed at his back, gazing out onto the busy street. His Mercedes was idling at the kerb, the chauffeur tapping the wheel. I coughed as I approached.
I Am Juden Page 25