by Leon Silver
As the train made its way through the green Lebanese hills, the men sang songs and laughed at the miracle of being liberated so suddenly. Their reminiscences were silenced in barren Syria, however, when the sun beat down on them with such strength that the soldiers became sick with sunstroke, which led to heat exhaustion and diarrhoea. The men were exhausted yet ecstatic to finally loop their way over the Syrian heights down to the Sea of Galilee. Tolek knew all about the city of Tiberias from his pioneering training camps in Poland. It was considered one of Judaism’s four holy cities, along with Jerusalem, Hebron and Safed. It was a shame his introduction to the Holy Land was a mad hunt for a decent toilet; he too had been struck with diarrhoea.
The Polish officers and men were welcomed by the British with salutes and warm handshakes. The integration of the two armies was formal, but relaxed. They were housed in huge barracks with ceiling fans, a first for the men. They even had a chance to try the local hot springs, world famous for curing everything.
For Tolek and the few other Jewish soldiers, Tiberias was like being immersed in the Bible, humans and habitat seemingly unchanged by time. Arab men in their baggy pants and striped keffiyeh headgear to keep out the savage sun, riding lazy donkeys and herding sheep. The women wrapped in black garments. Ragamuffin children running everywhere. The stone and mud-brick houses dotting the hills. Tolek prayed in the synagogue with the Polish Jews and the local Jewish community.
But this was nothing compared to the Polish Catholic boys’ epiphany. Small-town and farm boys who had hardly been out of their neighbourhood were now in their beloved Holy Land. They climbed the hill overlooking Lake Kinneret, as it had been called at the time, where the Sermon on the Mount was given, and where Jesus walked on water. They stood in awe, in reverence, smiling sheepishly, taking lots of photos to send back home to their families and their churches. They prayed in the ancient churches, visited the Roman and Greek ruins. Tolek could tell they thought it almost worth it to have joined the army to visit this holy place.
On 30 June, when Tolek was on his own in his tent, he lit a tall white candle and raised a glass to toast l’chaim to Klara on her birthday, then did the same for Juliusz on 4 July. Memories of happy family occasions flooded him. How many more would he have to celebrate on his own before they were together again?
* * *
The Polish brigade, now attached to the British forces, moved on. While the rest of the troops went to Latrun for exhaustive field training, Tolek and his fellow administrative staff were trucked from the Sea of Galilee to Haifa on the coast, right across the middle of Palestine, to set up a new recruiting office. Tough times were ahead for the troops in the field. Not only did they have to endure never-ending hiking, rope climbing and crawling through mud with full packs and rifles, they were interrogated about everything they’d learned under the French. Then they were retrained and reorganised into the entirely different British system. Tolek wouldn’t blame these men if they were confused about which direction to point their rifles.
Meanwhile, Tolek lived in comfortable barracks. During the day the admin officers processed the hundreds of Polish soldiers arriving from Europe on the last escaping ships or overland through Turkey. Many Poles who had deserted the French Foreign Legion were also joining the brigade. The administration staff did the minimum of light army work, and had nights off to go out and have a good time, though they knew that they were soon to be trucked to Africa to fight General Rommel.
Tolek had a joyful reunion with Singer the sharpshooter, who had stayed behind in the Hungarian internment camp. Singer hugged Tolek with all his strength, black eyes damp. He told Tolek that, together with five other Poles, he had climbed the camp’s walls one night, cut the barbed wire and escaped. One of the Poles – an ex-railway administrator – knew the European rail system well, so they’d stolen and begged civilian clothes and rode freight trains through Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria into Turkey. Singer’s story wasn’t unusual to Tolek; every soldier he processed had an equally incredible tale to tell.
* * *
In Haifa, Tolek fell in love. It was with an American portable typewriter, a Remington. It was nothing like the clumsy ones he’d used under the French, and came in a polished brown case with a green velvet lining. The case even had a lock and key. Tolek loved it so much he typed on that machine more than was really necessary, showing off by looking everywhere except at the keys.
The work of processing the new soldiers was long and complicated. That’s where the Miracle Typist shone again: Tolek could process three times as many recruits as the others. First he proceeded down the question list: name/age/home address/army registration number and dog tags – although many had dumped their dog tags and army registration when escaping as civilians. Then came the personal details to validate the man’s authenticity: personal photos, letters from home and army history. There was always the fear of infiltrating German spies and saboteurs, or at least escaped convicts seeking legitimisation.
Tolek recorded names of parents and family, the name of the main street in their town, their favourite pub, their neighbours’ names, the civil administrators in their town and so forth. The difficult part was to verify this information. It was not like he could telephone back home and check. So Tolek went through the files of all the enlisted men to find someone from the same town. Sometimes he was successful and sometimes he wasn’t. The recruits he could not legitimise had question marks placed next to their names in case they caused trouble.
Most of the new soldiers were smiling and happy to have made it back into the army to fight for the fatherland. But there were some problems, including the occasional newcomer who took an instant dislike to Tolek’s Semitic profile. A few antagonistic men stared him down and said that they’d wait to be interviewed by one of the other staff, and one man – watching Tolek’s speed typing – even accused Tolek of acting the szef – boss – trying to run the army like the Jews had run Poland back home.
The pressure of these few hostile Poles ricocheted Tolek right back to what he’d witnessed in the woods outside the Hungarian border town at the start of the war. The steady rhythm of his typing gave him courage and he allowed his mind to drift, to see a little more of the horror vision. The soldier, hacked to pieces by those monsters, arms and legs chopped off…
We need all the soldiers we can get to win this war, Tolek told himself when the anti-Semitic men challenged his dedication to Poland. The Germans were winning the war all over Europe and Africa.
7 Old home friend and new enemy within
Tolek put on a fresh uniform and wedge cap, had a haircut, then went to the city’s information centre and inquired as to the address of Herman Solomon’s furniture business. Herman was Tolek’s best friend from his Zionist youth days and had made aliyah. He was directed to a large furniture shop, which he entered, passing displays of beds, tables, chairs and sofas. He waved off the sales people and went to the office in the back, his heart pounding in his throat.
Herman looked up, noticed uniformed Tolek’s wide grin, and froze. Tolek worried that he should’ve phoned. But Herman jumped up and rushed out – banging his thigh on the table’s edge – yelling, ‘Tolek, Tolek!’ They hugged and kissed. Herman was so emotional he could hardly speak and had to sit down. He wanted to take Tolek home for lunch, but Tolek the soldier had to go back to work. He promised to come to the Solomons’ for dinner.
After passing the day in a haze, Tolek arrived at Solomon’s apartment on Mount Carmel, overlooking Haifa. The port was busy, crowded with civilian and British Navy vessels being loaded and unloaded by the same rows of white-robed workers. A wartime, yet energetic and pretty, sight.
Herman’s arm stayed firmly around Tolek’s shoulders as he introduced the soldier to his wife and children. Stories were exchanged over a festive dinner. Tolek entertained them with his recent adventures, Herman with his Palestine life. The evening was a welcome break for Tolek from the constant heart-wrenching worry over what was happening
to the Jews in Poland and the fact that he hadn’t heard from Klara since that letter in the internment camp. It was nice to be with safe Jewish people just for a little while.
Herman had spent his last night in Poland at the Klings’ house, sleeping on the floor in Tolek’s room. They had talked all night, exchanging spirited pioneering dreams. Herman had learned wood-processing skills at a sawmill to help build Jewish settlements in British Palestine. From this beginning he’d graduated to running his furniture business in Haifa.
Tolek laughed as he told them, ‘I was going to follow Herman, but my mother threatened to kill herself if I did.’
‘Never dreaming,’ Herman’s wife added, ‘that you’d be reunited here, under these circumstances.’
The word of Tolek Klings’ arrival spread. After dinner, more ex-Polish friends joined the party. They sat on the balcony talking, drinking and gazing over the harbour. Alcoholic insights flooded Tolek’s mind. Yes, they’d been childhood friends – still were friends. But really, Herman was unrecognisable. He’d made the transition so well, successfully blending into Jewish Palestine life, had a wife and children, spoke fluent Hebrew, was fit and suntanned, wore open-necked shirts and shorts. A Jewish saying – ‘It should happen to me’ – kept hammering in Tolek’s head. To me and Klara, Juliusz, Ijio, Lonek, Mamme and Tatte – to be here and so free.
Tolek asked Herman to telephone the kibbutz Ma’abarot near Netanya to check on his sister-in-law Neche. Herman rang and was told that she’d gone back to Poland to help family. They left a message for Neche to contact Herman Solomon as soon as she returned. On one hand, Tolek was glad that Neche had returned to Poland as she could be with her family. On the other hand, Neche had left safe Palestine to return to hostile Poland. If she was stuck in the West, in the German half, she was in great danger. Tolek hoped and prayed that she had made it to the Russian side.
Being with the Solomons was like being on a holiday. Tolek spent many nights at dinner with them, and slept over on weekends, rushing back to work on Monday morning. Fresh from Poland, in uniform, Tolek Klings was a bit of a celebrity. The Solomons held soirees, inviting old friends from their Zionist camp and amateur theatre days, who greeting him with bursts of tearful joy. These men and women had still virtually been boys and girls when they left Poland.
From the beginning, Tolek was fascinated by the Jewish Palestinian women. His old female youth camp friends had undergone a serious cultural change – it was like time had skipped forward a generation. Apart from the casual and revealing clothes they wore, short shorts and shirts with rolled-up sleeves, they didn’t walk half a step behind the men and certainly didn’t wait to speak until they were spoken to. They juggled children, housekeeping and jobs. Some worked on the new kibbutz farms or even in construction. They had opinions about everything, including politics, same as the men – and sometimes shared them even louder than the men. Women were so equal in every public social way that it sometimes made Tolek smile with amazement. But hey, he told himself, why not? They worked as hard as the men.
When one of these old female friends lectured Tolek on how suppressed the women were at home, how they should wake up and demand equality with men, Tolek grinned to himself, picturing quiet Klara in this society. Would she be sitting in a café loudly pontificating on the ills of the world? And little Juliusz? Running around all over the place, gushing torrid Hebrew, kicking a soccer ball in the parks? Tolek would so much have loved having them in free Palestine. Tolek pictured himself and Klara doing everything equally and together back home. Klara would fit in with these women, and she could teach them a thing or two.
Sometimes, after a generous breakfast with the Solomons, they marched as a group, adults and kids, down the winding roads of Mount Carmel to the city below. Seeing the busy port – the oil refineries, the power stations and busy rail network, factories and cultural institutions, including the Technion Institute of Technology – tugged at Tolek’s heartstrings. In this place, Lonek would have studied port engineering. And if he’d been sick and had to go to a British Palestinian hospital, he would not have been murdered for being a Jew.
Boys of all religions playing together, kicking balls, arms around shoulders, teasing, laughing, eating dripping falafels… Jews, Muslims, Druze, Christians and Baha’is. Could he see Juliusz here in his striped sailor’s top?
From the first day, Herman and his friends tried their hardest to convince Tolek to defect and bring his family over when the war was finished. They felt that the Palestine Jewish community’s need of him was greater than that of the Polish Army. The growing Jewish underground also needed experienced soldiers. It was common knowledge that many Polish-Jewish soldiers had already defected. From the roughly thirty Jewish soldiers that had made the crossing from Lebanon, Tolek knew that at least half had disappeared. What his friends were asking him to do was never called desertion, only ‘changing sides’. Tolek argued that he needed to stay in the Polish Army to rescue his family. He wanted to be the first one home with the victorious Polish Army.
However, before Tolek could make up his mind, his Haifa utopia was brought to an end by the British sense of fair play.
The administration staff was lined up on the beach to listen to a high-ranking British officer read out a speech: ‘Men of the British and Polish Armed Forces, it’s a shame that fit young soldiers like yourself should fill inactive administration jobs, while older soldiers in the field are unfit for combat duties. I would be proud –’ he saluted the men, ‘– to see these young soldiers volunteer for combat duty.’
Miracle Typist or not, Tolek was one of the first to step forward. The officer had a point. He was a young, fit soldier and it was time he went back to fighting the Germans.
Others followed, and the ones who didn’t volunteer soon did so after a swift kick up their backsides from a British soldier.
The following day, Tolek left his new love – the Remington typewriter – and travelled to the fortress of Latrun, 120 kilometres south of Haifa, where he mentally prepared himself for hard field training.
After dinner on the day of his arrival, Tolek, still on a high from rejoining the fighting troops, took Australian beer – which was worth at least twice any other beer because of its delicious taste – he had brought up from Haifa to the canteen. He thought it would be nice for an office administrator to enter with a gift for the hard-training men. Tolek laid the beer in the middle of the table around which the relocated administrative staff had gathered, and extended an open invitation to the men to help themselves.
‘You don’t have to buy your way in, you’re a Pole, the same as the rest of us,’ a corporal, freshly shaven and keen-eyed, said, relishing the coming confrontation. ‘Don’t you think of yourself as a Pole, Miracle Typist? Have a whisky, colleague.’ The corporal leaned forward onto the wooden table, looking at Tolek with icy blue eyes. Tolek knew this man had been waiting for him to arrive.
That veiled fog descended on Tolek, that same sudden helplessness as when he was robbed in the Hungarian woods. Would that ever leave him?
The corporal poured Johnnie Walker scotch into his glass, looking at Tolek as he did, not spilling a drop. A Miracle Pourer. A venomous smile stretched the moustache over the corporal’s top lip. ‘Jan Bielatowicz, journalist for The White Eagle.’ He extended a hand to match his smile.
‘Tolek Klings.’ Tolek limply shook the extended hand. Tolek had heard of him, had read some of his articles in the official Polish Army newspaper.
Jan Bielatowicz was famous, quite a Polish literary national hero. He was twenty-six, three years younger than Tolek. As a cadet he had served in the fifth regiment of the Podhale Rifles. After the start of the war, he crossed into Hungary with the army and was interned in the Kisbodak camp, where he was active in organising the transfer of Polish soldiers to France. Jan was then arrested and put in a prison camp, from where he escaped. He travelled through Yugoslavia and Turkey to get to Palestine. He had a wife back in Poland. Not a whole lot di
fferent to Tolek’s own story.
Tolek liked reading Jan’s articles. He could be critical, tough and cutting in his writing, but he also wrote with a poetic touch. An account of how the Russians stormed into East Poland, grabbing thousands of civilians off the streets and shipping them to Siberia as labour slaves sprang to Tolek’s mind. Vivid descriptions of teen boys snatched from their mothers’ arms and fathers struck down while trying to protect young daughters from rape still haunted him. But Jan was also an active anti-Semite.
Tolek decided to stick to beer, despite not being a beer drinker. To him, the cold beer seemed stifled – it had no ‘expression’. In their pub at home the beverage was served at room temperature.
As Tolek took his first sip, Jan served his opening salvo: ‘The Jews are the enemies of the Polish people… More dangerous than the Germans. The Jews are the enemies from within. The fifth column.’
Tolek knew that ‘the fifth column’ meant a group of people who undermine their country to assist in enemy attacks. He gave a tired smile.
‘Only race matters,’ Jan continued quickly.
The other men, some of them Tolek’s friends, watched silently. No one had taken up Tolek’s offer of beer.
‘In the long run, there are no other divisions. Not economical. Not political. Not social. Not even –’ big grin, ‘– not even religious.’
Smile frozen, Tolek shook his head in pity and sipped his cold beer. Such an intelligent correspondent spouting the classic street pogrom dribble.
‘Did you like that, Miracle Typist?’ Jan added, blue eyes twinkling in the lamplight. ‘Not even religious? You should know! The Jews are the worst exponents of race purity. Go to any length to protect it.’
The Correspondent downed yet another glass of whisky in two gulps. ‘Jews always remain Jews. They never became true Poles. Kept their own names, habits, lifestyles.’ Jan’s face reddened, his blondish hair looking more orange by the minute, as if a quickening pulse was darkening its colour. ‘And the tanks… when the Russians invaded Poland, tore it in half, overran your beloved Bóbrki and Lwów, who ran out into the streets to greet them? Who kissed the Russian steel? Who threw flowers on the tanks? Who hailed the Russian troops yelling, “Liberators”?’ He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘ “Liberators!” they shouted. Who did that, Miracle Typist?’ Jan’s voice was now heavy and growling, the teasing gone. He stood up, holding onto the table. More late-night drinkers had come in and were watching the pair. Tolek was more upset with his comrades than with the Correspondent. One of them at least should defend him.