by Leon Silver
Ready for Tolek to defect – but that didn’t matter. Tolek’s head was full of the telegram.
For the rest of that day, Tolek walked around in a dream, and he didn’t sleep that night, imagining Klara’s face for hours, looking at him. The way she had grabbed his head for that kiss when they’d fallen off the bicycle.
Tolek was in charge of receiving the mail and the following morning he stood outside the HQ tent, pacing in a tight circle as he waited for the mail dispatch rider. When the rider arrived on his dusty motorbike, Tolek grabbed the bag, signed for it, and then emptied the contents on his trestle desk. He ripped open the envelope addressed to him and the telegram fell into his hands.
He sat outside, staring at the telegram. If there was an urgent message that the Germans were attacking Palestine, it would have to wait; Tolek felt like his family and his home in Bóbrki were in the grip of his hand. He remembered Klara’s letter on that freezing December day, telling him that Lonek had been murdered. The telegram was genuine, sent from Lwów post office, addressed to Solomon Herman in northern Haifa, signed by Klara’s hand. Tolek kissed the signature and the hand signing it. That hand, still at the back of his neck, pulling his head down for a lasting kiss.
Tolek walked around in a daze, in love all over again with his wife and son, the telegram lodged safely in his breast pocket, next to Juliusz’s sketch and the two precious photographs: Klara, and mother and son. He had to do something, anything. Take Solomon’s advice, or not – perhaps he should just go and see him, talk to someone from home, and decide later.
Tolek couldn’t get leave immediately as there was still a week of heavy field manoeuvres. He hiked, camped, crawled under barbed wire, threw grenades, cut pretend sentries’ throats and shot at imaginary Germans with the telegram constantly on his mind. It took Tolek the whole week to digest it, word by word, like an unexpectedly heavy meal.
How much more had Klara meant to say? What had she left out, hoping he’d read between the lines? He was propelled by visions of her at the Lwów post office counter, the Polish – or maybe now Russian – official staring at her while she filled out the telegram form with shaking hands.
Each cigarette he smoked now reminded him of pacing in the downstairs pub – smoking one after the other – while Klara was giving birth upstairs with a doctor and midwife. Once the screaming had stopped and the midwife had brought baby Juliusz down, Tatte, Ijio and Lonek had clapped the new father’s shoulder and hugged him. Mazel tovs and l’chaims, but no mention of the boy’s name until the circumcision one week later.
‘We well’: A gentle opening to not shock him.
‘Give sign of life’: Had she not received all the letters, telegrams, postcards and money orders he’d sent from Hungary, Yugoslavia, Beirut? It hadn’t occurred to him to send a telegram from Palestine, on the other side of the world. Klara must be thinking that he’s dead, or had deserted her and Juliusz.
‘We trouble’: Tolek couldn’t get past those two words. What trouble? What couldn’t she say under the scrutiny of the post office official? What was she forced to leave out?
Tolek sent her a return telegram in English through the Red Cross. He also sent a money draft for thirty English pounds. They were returned a few days later while he was still working hard with the army, marked ‘Unable to deliver’.
On the last night of manoeuvres, while the soldiers were heating their cans over an open fire, a hooded and goggled dispatch rider arrived on a mud-caked motorbike. He didn’t even switch off the engine as he handed Jan an envelope and took off.
Jan read the note, his face tightening, and swore under his breath.
‘The Russians have collected 20,000 Polish intellectuals, academics and military officers and murdered them in the Katyn Forest, near Smolensk.’
‘What?’ Tolek thought he’d misheard.
Jan nodded a few times. ‘Twenty thousand men massacred. They have also rounded up hundreds of thousands of Polish men and shipped them to labour camps in Siberia.’
‘How do you know?’
Jan waved the note limply. ‘Stanisław Kot.’
‘Your friend?’
Jan fumbled in his pocket, took out a small picture and showed Tolek. It was a photo of Jan and Stanisław Kot with arms around each others’ shoulders. Jan in uniform, Kot, a handsome, much older, man in suit and tie with heavy moustache.
‘Government in exile in London. Minister of Internal Affairs.’
Tolek returned the photo and Jan stared at it.
‘What you said that first night about the Jews running out to kiss the Russian tanks was wrong,’ Tolek said.
Jan looked up with surprise.
‘Communist Jews and Poles may have run out, but other Jews, the majority, didn’t, we know better.’ Tolek paused. ‘Most of the Jews who migrated from Russia to Palestine before the Great War returned to Russia after the communist revolution. They sailed up the Moskva–Volga Canal, got off in Moscow, were collected in trucks by the new communist administration, and never heard from again. They were all shot: men, women and children. Communism is not the Jewish utopia. No Jews I know would run out to kiss Russian tanks.’
Jan’s eyes showed doubt in the firelight.
Tolek stirred the fire with a stick, thinking of Klara’s telegram in his pocket. He was fed up with the army and wanted to flee to Haifa. At least he would be with his own kind for a few days. Wouldn’t need to be on constant guard among anti-Semites. Would have sympathetic shoulders to cry on.
Tolek wiped his face with his sleeve.
‘You all right, Tolek?’
‘I’ve received a telegram from my wife.’ Talking to his antagonist was better than not talking at all.
Jan shot up, as if a bomb had exploded. ‘From Poland?’
‘Where else, from England?’
Suddenly Jan had his notepad and pencil in hand.
After a few minutes of silence, he said, ‘Well?’
‘I don’t want this written up in The White Eagle,’ Tolek snapped.
‘I swear.’ As though by magic, notepad and pencil disappeared. ‘Off the record.’ Pause. He dug into his pocket and produced another small photo, showed it to Tolek. ‘My wife, Irena, married April 1939 – five months before the Fritzes invaded. Irena is a teacher.’
Nice young woman, intelligent face, hair swept back in a bun.
Tolek returned the photo and squatted near the fire, holding his hot can of food with a stiff wire. His hand trembled. Yes, Jan also had a wife back home in Poland. Supported by her government and the law. What had cousin Nester told him that strenuous day in Stryj? The Poles are at home… their own land… backyard… towns and countryside… A Jew’s existence in Poland is as fragile as that flickering candle.
Tolek lifted his gaze from the flickering fire and eyeballed Jan. ‘Can I trust you?’
Jan nodded twice. ‘On my honour. Where did the telegram come from?’
More fire stirring.
‘I give you my word,’ Jan said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘It’s a miracle, Tolek, God is on your side.’
Tolek looked at him hard. It was all definitely all his fault. He represented the Polish anti-Semites who had ruined everything. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Jan didn’t rush Tolek, simply scooped the vile-smelling meat out of his can, though he watched him closely.
Later they folded up camp and hiked through the night, walking side by side at the tail end of the column, talking. Tolek was suddenly brimming with hope. Maybe this Correspondent could help, maybe he could get information, there were channels – everyone was talking about the active underground at home. Maybe Jan could smuggle a message?
Finally, Tolek couldn’t hold back. He yearned to talk too much, much more than he had ever intended. His tongue was running loose, out of control.
When morning came up over the hills, his mouth was as tired as his feet. He’d shared everything, told Jan about Klara, how they met, fell in love, got married. How he’d c
alled her from Schrenzel’s Lwów office and she’d made him promise to stay with the army. It felt so much better to have relived that part of his life out loud. In this way, he was already contacting Klara… But he’d held back on the details of the horror scene in the forest. That was buried too deep.
In the burgeoning morning light, Jan said, ‘Look, I have some contacts.’ He patted the picture in his pocket. ‘The Armia Krajowa is well into organising the underground army all over Poland, especially in the Russian zone. The next time I go to London maybe I can find out something for you… I did get news that Irena was doing well. Managing.’
Tolek didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll pay whatever it costs.’
‘Don’t be so Jewish,’ Jan said and laughed, trying to put Tolek at ease, but only achieving the opposite. Tolek was stiff, and Jan’s words rankled. He was not allowed to be human.
‘Why are you helping me after what you said in Latrun? You were arrested for picketing Jewish shops with the Endecja Party.’
‘Look, Tolek.’ Jan shrugged with half a smile. ‘I can’t deny that maybe that was wrong, but I was young, and it was, well, the nationalist trend at the time.’
* * *
Tolek would remember the following day for a long time. Not only was he still digesting Jan Bielatowicz’s change of heart, but he was also nearly killed. Manoeuvres were over and his leave pass had been granted, so Tolek left the Latrun camp early to hitchhike to Haifa, after just a cup of lukewarm white dishwater for breakfast. He was reluctant to admit that he was actually beginning to like the sweet tea with milk – and maybe even the unpredictable Correspondent.
Tolek was picked up by three Polish officers in an open army jeep. They greeted him with loud cheers and slaps on the shoulder. Tolek joined the third officer in the back, but didn’t notice until it was too late that the three were totally fershnickered. The car lurched wildly all over the narrow bitumen road, violently jerking around corners.
Tolek politely asked to be let out, but the officers just laughed. ‘Corporal colleague, we will all share the same fate!’ Tolek held on tight and closed his eyes, praying that Eliezer’s blessing would protect him.
When the jeep crashed through the safety rail and rolled down an embankment, Tolek was thrown clear, suffering only a bruised shoulder and a scalded behind after the car’s battery landed on top of him, the leaking acid burning out the seat of his heavy khaki pants.
The driver was killed, and the other two appeared to be crippled. One couldn’t move except for his arms, and the other’s legs were a bloody mess of broken bones. Tolek climbed back up to the road to organise the rescue, with a behind as bare as a Parisian nightclub stripper he had once seen in a magazine.
The jeep accident cost Tolek half a day. By the time he changed into fresh pants and finished the report, it was midday. He skipped lunch and got back onto the highway with his thumb out. He was picked up by a young Palestinian Jew, a kibbutznik. Before getting in the truck, Tolek leaned over and smelled the man’s breath. Just onions and radishes; it was safe. This young man may have been sober, but he drove just as recklessly, ignoring all the traffic signs. He also spoke Hebrew too fast, and shot suspicious looks at Tolek when he discovered that he was a Jew in the Polish Army. Strangely, Tolek found himself relating more to the drunken Polish officers from his previous ride than to this very obliging young man. His name was Ilan, and he insisted on driving far out of his way to deliver Tolek to Haifa.
Tolek thanked Ilan for the ride and the invitation to visit his family’s kibbutz, something every Palestinian Jew Tolek had met was quick to offer. Palestinian Jews must have considered diaspora Jews badly in need of reorientation. Tolek thought they were not far wrong.
He lumbered up the hill, his shoulder agonisingly sore from the jeep crash. The sun shone down as though guiding Tolek to his destiny. He stopped to take in the hillside, covered with flowers. At a viewing platform, a group of British soldiers illegally snapped away at the harbour with cameras. Tolek leaned on the rail and tuned into their happy chatter.
The Tommies tried to engage him in friendly conversation, but Tolek pretended not to understand. One even tried a few Polish words mixed with Yiddish. Tolek shook his head and looked away, out into the distance. He had no friends that day, especially ones with families safe at home. He was desperate to know how his family were managing. Tolek’s road home was so complicated, would he ever make it? Should he stay in Palestine or not?
He turned to go. In the clearing on top of the hill a young man was teaching a young woman how to ride a bicycle. He was not being very successful. Tolek couldn’t help but stop and smile at the young couple. The morning after their bicycle-riding lesson, Klara had called him at the solicitor’s office, terribly worried. She hadn’t slept all night, apprehensive over the consequences of the public kiss and Tolek rubbing against her stocking-clad thighs when her skirt had ridden up. What if someone had seen and reported them to their parents? Tolek had laughed and told her that she was too innocent for her age.
10 Stay or go?
It was late by the time he arrived at the Solomons’ house. Starving, Tolek scoffed down a typical local lunch – bread, cheese, fruit – taking in the defection papers spread before him: Palestinian identity card, British immigration certificate, Palestinian driver’s licence, even a French steamer’s disembarkation papers. All duly signed and stamped, made out in his new Hebrew name, Naftali Leyhut. The forgers had even supplied a camera to take his pictures for the documents.
Tolek hugged the photographer, Shimon Brietfeld, an old friend from home. He was astounded to learn that, by day, Shimon ran the vast Rutenberg Electricity Company’s head office in Haifa. At night he was an officer and the chief forger for the Jewish underground, the Haganah.
‘Soon you will throw away that disgraceful uniform, Tolek,’ Shimon said as they sat down for lunch. ‘In two days’ time this Polish soldier will disappear into the back of a truck. A new pioneer kibbutznik will emerge on the other end.’
Everyone at the table clapped.
Tolek told Shimon and the others that his chances of saving his family were much greater if he stayed with the Polish Army. How could he help his desperate family if he stayed in Palestine?
‘Make a home in Palestine and receive your family when the war is over,’ Shimon said. ‘You don’t need to go back into Poland at the end of the war. The Jews that are left alive will –’
‘Information is scarce,’ Herman said. ‘Ghettos, labour camps, shootings. Mostly in the German zone. The Russian half seems more bearable.’
‘As soon as the war ends in Europe, we’re fighting for a Jewish state,’ Shimon added. ‘We will kick the British out and have a Jewish state within ten years.’
We trouble… we trouble, hammered at Tolek from the telegram in his pocket. He had heard the talk of the Jewish state before, at youth camp and at Jewish political meetings after hours in his parents’ pub, but he wasn’t convinced it would ever happen. He didn’t want to be caught up in fantasies – he had to be at the Polish border the minute a ceasefire was announced.
Tolek spooned more food onto his plate as he told them a story that to him still seemed quite incredible. A few days before his brigade went on manoeuvres, a strapping sergeant went on leave to Tel Aviv with six tough Poles, including some tattooed ex-French Legionnaires. While having a few drinks in a bar, they made anti-Semitic remarks to Jews drinking beside them. All seven came back to camp by ambulance, strapped in bandages, only their swollen eyes visible. ‘Where do you think you are, in Poland?’ the Palestinian Jews had asked, slamming fists into the soldiers’ faces.
To the Solomons and their guests, this was nothing unusual. They raised glasses and drank l’chaim to the story. These Palestinian Jews were certainly tougher than the Jews at home, Tolek thought, but they could afford to be. They were free.
Tolek pushed his plate away, looking around the table at the younger faces for fresh conversation. He began reminiscing about the f
un they’d had performing plays in their amateur theatre days.
The crowded table disregarded his change of subject and returned to talk of deserting. It was time to get serious. Tolek reiterated to his friends that as a deserter he’d have no chance of ever going back into Poland to rescue his family. In answer, Herman and Shimon sat down on either side of Tolek and told him the statistics he already knew. Twenty per cent of Polish-Jewish soldiers had deserted since his battalion had arrived in Palestine, gone underground, disappeared, and the numbers were growing every day.
Herman leaned closer as though divulging a secret. ‘We need you, Tolek. We’re building a Palestinian brigade of all the deserters from the Polish Army.’
‘You don’t understand, there is more involved than deserting.’ He told them all about his confrontation with Jan the correspondent. ‘My fear is not retaliation from the Polish Army or the government. There are standing orders in HQ from the top brass not to prosecute. Retaliation against my family for deserting is what’s making me sick.’
At the back of his mind were the Correspondent’s ice-blue eyes, the power he had at home with the enraged population. One mention by name of the desertion of a Jewish soldier from Bóbrki… There was no law in Poland to protect the Jews. Tolek had to stay with the army to rescue his wife and son as soon as the war was over.
On the tip of Tolek’s tongue was the gruesome woodlands scene. Tell them, and Herman and Shimon would immediately stop the desertion talk. But he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t admit that he had witnessed such horror.
‘Never mind that, your place is here, with us,’ Herman said, bringing Tolek back to the present. ‘Your place and your family’s place is with us. I’ll tell you confidentially that we have groups ready to go into Poland to bring out our people as soon as the war turns and the Allies start winning.’
‘We need you.’ Shimon gripped his arm from the other side. ‘We need your experience and your knowledge of the Polish Army. To get our people out after the war we will need to deal with the Polish Army officials, and you are the perfect man to do that.’