The Miracle Typist

by Leon Silver

  ‘You’re right, the kibbutz Jews are different. Not a Finkelstein or Goldberg among them. No Yiddish Polish names, only Hebrew names like Vigdors, Gannons, Dayans and Tzeners. It’s got to be in the names, right, Correspondent? Maybe if the Polish Jews took up modern Hebrew names, the Polish population would love them. They would stop in the middle of a heated pogrom to check nametags. Or perhaps the new names should be pasted above the doorframes in sheep’s blood to encourage the marauding Polish Angels of Death to pass us by. As God commanded Moses to get Pharaoh to let his people go. Pesach style.’ Tolek dismissed Jan and got on with his work.

  A newly arrived colonel, Zalewski – referred to as ‘the Bulldog’ – had developed a habit of entering the tent each morning, barking Tolek to attention, and reaching for the mail dispatches folder. Tolek had asked him not to interfere with the mail each time, but Zalewski ignored him. The administration tent was Tolek’s domain and discipline was relaxed – it was impossible for him to stand to attention whenever an officer came in, otherwise he could never do his work. He just waved a casual greeting and that was enough for most. It was a benefit of having his CO’s trust and it felt good; a connection.

  The morning after Tolek’s officer’s application was torn up, however, he was in a foul mood. He hadn’t slept all night worrying; he felt he was losing control over his destiny and worried about having to bed down with the Correspondent for who knew how many more years. On that morning, the trust and freedom to run the admin tent as he liked almost earned Tolek a court-martial.

  ‘Please, sir, don’t touch the mail. I’m responsible for it and I have to hand it to the captain without anyone seeing it,’ he said to Zalewski as the colonel reached for the mail.

  The Bulldog looked down his nose at Tolek for a second, then, with a smirk, went back to reading the dispatches. ‘I don’t know why the Polish Army recruited Semitic profiles like yours. This is just what the Germans are warning us about. Your kind are trying to take the army over the same as they run things back home.’

  Tolek’s mind filled with images of being robbed in the woods and the devilish screams of the horrific scene that followed.

  ‘Enough!’ he yelled. He leaned down, gripped the edge of the table and heaved it up, throwing the trestle aside. The mail went flying and his beloved Remington crashed to the ground.

  When the shock passed, the colonel reached for his pistol and drew it out as Captain Kasprowicz charged in from next door, hand extended in peace.

  ‘Put the gun away, colonel. Corporal Klings, you’re needed to take notes in General Kopański’s office. Report at once.’

  An official hearing was held in front of the CO and Tolek was formally reprimanded for insubordination. But the colonel was now being investigated for his unhealthy interest in the mail. That day, the typewriter proved mightier than the pistol. It was now rumoured by the men that not only was Tolek unbelievably lucky, he also had the CO in his pocket.

  Tolek spent more sleepless nights worrying that this would make him a bigger harassment target. How much could he take?

  * * *

  Meanwhile, the Allies’ fortunes were improving. Montgomery was winning in Africa, and the British had landed in Sicily on 10 July 1943, then on Italy’s boot on 3 September, four years and two days after the war started. Two days after Tolek’s thirty-third birthday, when a few men, led by Jan, had toasted him with vodka and whisky. They all got a little bit drunk.

  The latest battle news was read out to the men in the canteen: the German Army’s attack on Stalingrad had failed. The German Sixth Army had been encircled by the Soviets.

  The men threw their caps and helmets into the air and cheered. All drinks that night were free.

  The Poles sailed out from Egypt in convoy to join the British in Italy. Tolek revelled in the peaceful crossing of the Mediterranean; not an enemy plane or submarine in sight. The balance of air and sea power had already dramatically shifted in the Allies’ favour since the Poles’ heavily bombed voyage to Tobruk. The men were excited to head back home to Europe. They offered each other cigarettes and played card games on deck. Standing at the rails, they smoked and tried to get a first glimpse of Europe. The men laughed and talked, reminiscing about their secret European departure from Split, escaping like thieves in the night, though many of the original 300 were dead or injured. Tolek was swamped with memories of his nauseating climb up the rope ladders of the SS Warszawa. The tremulous sensation of abandoning his wife and child. How had he endured that biting pain for so long? If only another dusty dispatch rider could bring a new message from home that the remaining four members of his family were safe and well, he would fight on day and night with triumph.

  On a cold December day in 1943, the Carpathian Brigade landed in Taranto, Italy. The local Italians welcomed the Poles like liberators. Italy was now officially on the Allies’ side, having declared war on Germany. At the first touch of the Taranto beach, Tolek dropped to his knees, kissing the Italian sand. Certainly a first, for a Jew returning from the Holy Land.

  Pretty young Italian girls threw flowers and some even ran up for a quick kiss from the liberating soldiers. Smiling, Tolek superimposed this scene onto Bóbrki’s main street, Klara running up to embrace him with open arms and face.

  The men were jubilant with the latest news: a second landing in Europe from England with American help was well into the planning stage. The war would soon be over. These positive war bulletins fed the men with more sustenance than the best of the delicious Italian food. Jan had once again left on a special assignment to do some editing work for The White Eagle, though Tolek found it hard to miss his antagonist this time around.

  Again Tolek revelled in the image of himself in an army jeep, rambling down the main street of Bóbrki, the population cheering and throwing flowers. He saw his wife, his son, his brother and mother standing in front of their restaurant, tears on their faces – the nightmare ended.

  Two weeks after Jan returned from his special assignment he came running through heavy snow into the admin tent. His wet face, eyes and the posture of his entire body hit Tolek like a missile. He jumped up from behind the typewriter as Jan opened his fist to reveal a wet note. He handed it to Tolek.

  Klara and Juliusz Klings are hidden in a neighbour’s house.

  15 Go climb a mountain

  The snows and freezing cold of December 1943 didn’t touch Tolek, he was insulated by this new knoweldge of his hidden wife and son. He bombarded Jan with questions.

  ‘Any news of my mother and brother? Which neighbours? How long have they been hidden?’

  To which Jan only held up his hands in a gesture of I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

  ‘Thank Stanisław Kot for me,’ Tolek said finally.

  Jan nodded and Tolek clutched both of Jan’s hands in warm thanks.

  Thank God they were not in the ghetto. They must be with the Mazurs, devout Catholics and close friends since Tatte had gone to war. Tolek concentrated on picturing Klara and Juliusz in their house: kitchen, running water and internal toilet. Blazej Mazur was a carpenter and handyman. He had made a rocking bassinet for Juliusz when he was born. Their three kids were married and gone. And yes, their basement – they had a large basement. Thank God, some good people were still around.

  The Klings’ menorah has been hacked apart. Two candles burning on their own in hiding. And the other two candles? Mamme and Ijio? Tolek nearly punched the wall with frustration.

  Everything else in the war was looking up. The Poles, now attached to the British Eighth Army, travelled first class. Overwhelmed by the American supplies channelled through the British, they were encouraged to use them: Lucky Strikes cigarettes and lots of chewing gum. Tolek touched the Polish pine tree insignia on one arm, the British Eighth Army emblem on the other, chest proud. Like being taken over by a stronger football club: more money and greater facilities.

  Snowed in, the brigade spent their time oiling their weapons, playing cards and drinki
ng. Meanwhile, the propaganda war took over. Each side was bombarding the other with advertisements, pointing out their own virtues and the opposition’s failures. There was little subtlety on either side. Huddling in the cold bunker, the soldiers heard planes overhead before new leaflets fell on them like snowflakes.

  Jan laughed. ‘Manna from heaven. Would have been much more appropriate in the desert near Egypt.’ This Pole knew his Bible.

  Tolek crawled out and collected a few wet flyers. One depicted a Devil Stalin marching columns of cowed Polish prisoners to Siberia. Another, the three evil puppeteers – Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt – making the Polish puppets dance. Others encouraged the Polish compatriots to desert the colonialist British and imperialist Americans, and join their true friends, the Germans, to rebuild a better united Europe together.

  Some British pamphlets fluttered down as well – the front lines being very close – with drawings of the German soldiers’ graves multiplying since 1939, and instructions on how to surrender to the Allies. Physically it would be very easy to change sides. Slip away from a patrol, or go for a walk at night. The biggest danger was being shot by your new comrades before they realised you were a deserting enemy.

  As far as Tolek could ascertain, the expensive German propaganda campaign resulted in only one Polish soldier changing sides. He listened with amusement to live German radio broadcasts featuring this Polish deserter extolling his new masters’ virtues: ‘Under the British I was treated badly,’ he said. ‘But under the Germans I am an equal.’ One day Tolek picked up a pamphlet showing the deserter dining in a lavish restaurant with German officers, chic females smoking in the background. The deserter looked stunned. He stared into the camera, not able to believe this extravagance. If only an exit from the war could be so simple.

  Tolek joked to Jan that these leaflets were not designed with a Jewish clientele in mind. Jan only continued cleaning his gun silently.

  ‘Not one soldier is wearing a kippah in any of these pamphlets.’ Tolek smiled as he said that. But then… Why isn’t Jan laughing, what hasn’t he told me? What is he keeping from me? ‘Any further news from Kot?’

  Shake of his head. ‘You’ll know as soon as I do.’

  Waiting for the snow to ease, the war took a break. The soldiers drank whisky, vodka and gin, played cards between patrols, and fattened up on the abundance of rations and home-cooked Italian food and wine. Italian prostitutes lingered on every corner, offering warmth and comfort. Some nights it snowed so heavily that in the morning they had to dig their way out of the tents and foxholes. Their new allies, the local Italians, swore that it was the heaviest snow on record this far south. Tolek and the others loved these statistics. The Almighty had put in a record-breaking effort to give them a well-deserved rest.

  But record snows could not last forever. As soon as they eased, the war became fiercer, as if to make up for lost time. Tolek unpacked this new snow uniform – white overalls, gloves and hats – designed for camouflage when out on patrol.

  The British and the Poles pushed the Germans back up Italy, until they were blocked in the Apennine Mountains in eastern Central Italy, near the Sangro River by German artillery bombardments. The Allies finally broke through the German lines, though not without suffering heavy losses – more than 2000 Allied soldiers died. Many of Tolek’s friends died in that long battle, including Szymanski, his colleague from the water well, the Hungarian internment camp and Latrun. Szymanski’s sergent told Tolek that, after Szymanski recovered from Lewandowski’s death in the desert, he volunteered for every dangerous mission that came up. It seemed he had finally managed to commit suicide by war and join his life-long friend.

  Sorting through Szymanski’s private papers to send to his family, Tolek discovered two crumpled photographs. One was of the two grinning boys standing in homemade shorts, chests bare and arms flung around each other’s shoulders. The second must’ve been the day they were recruited: short Lewandowski grinned with delight, while Szymanski was more serious, both still with arms around each other’s shoulders.

  Tolek’s two best army compatriots were now dead. The hope of inviting them and their families to the Bóbrki hotel in postwar reunited Poland and raising a few glasses to memories of ‘the fixer’ were gone.

  The weary troops left the brand new cemetery and sparkling white crosses and Stars of David and continued to advance steadily, pushing the Germans back until they reached Monte Cassino between Naples and Rome in early 1944. The monastery at the top of the mountain, first built by St Benedict around 529 AD, had been destroyed by Allied bombers, so the Germans sent in paratroopers, who had dug in among the ruins. The monastery loomed over a vista of demolished buildings: piles of rubble, bricks and blown-up wooden houses, as well as trees reduced to charred fragments. Ash, soot and curling smoke was everywhere. Allied snipers crawled in and out of camouflaged bunkers like uniformed rats, targeting the German heads above.

  The Allies were doing their utmost to shake the Germans loose from the monastery so they could liberate Rome. The front line stretched twenty kilometres. Hitting the enemy again and again, charging up the mountain, the troops were constantly knocked back as the Germans rejoiced in their commanding view of the countryside and the road to Rome.

  The battle cry rang out: ‘This hill has to be taken!’

  What an easy statement for the commanders to make. But for the Poles and the other troops, it meant tens of thousands of injured, crippled and dead. An ugly siege ahead.

  During March and April 1944, the weather was mild and the roads clogged with drying mud. Red poppies poked hesitant heads through the fragmented landscape, like silk knots from a carpet-weaver’s fingers, all the way up the mountain; a red welcome mat to the charging army. The German guns bore down constantly, the Allies could barely lift their heads, much less collect bodies for burial. The men smeared vinegar on to their arms and legs to overpower the stench of the rotting human flesh hanging from the burnt trees on the hill.

  The Allies made another aborted assault. Dozens of stretchers waited for the casualties the soldiers were able to bring down. The surviving soldiers sang in low, flat voices a song composed on the battlefield by Alfred Schütz and Feliks Konarski, ‘Czerwone Maki na Monte Cassino’ (‘Red Poppies on Monte Cassino’), lamenting Poland’s lost sons, and how their spilled blood coloured the flowers that bloomed in the mountain’s soil.

  For days and weeks an army of Americans, British, Poles, French, Indians, New Zealanders and others waited at the mountain’s base for the call to charge up the hill. A multiracial, multilingual army, laying siege as armies had done since before the days of Jericho. This time there were no horses or chariots. No legions of spear-throwers or bowmen. Little else had changed since those barbarian days. The trumpets sounded, the leaders commanded the men to charge, yelling that God was on their side. The casualty lists grew, graves were dug and coffins were nailed up.

  The survivors, hidden in the earth, lived among the destroyed buildings and the skeleton trees of the village below. They smeared themselves with more vinegar and crawled into the ground, hoping to survive another day. The pack mules refused to go up the mountain so the men became the pack mules; mindlessly advancing in wave after wave.

  One morning, a weak sun shining, Tolek’s platoon watched six captured Germans being marched by two Americans down a ‘safe’ side of the mountain. The Germans held their hands up, smiling, not looking too displeased to be alive and in American custody. Then the Germans at the top opened a ferocious machine-gun and mortar barrage and Tolek’s platoon dived into the wreckage of a barn for cover, on top of broken bales of sharp wire fencing. They emerged into the silence with torn uniforms. The group of two US and six German soldiers had been blown to pieces, more fragments of flesh in the skeletal trees to be slowly picked off by the crows. The troops made more requests for tins of vinegar.

  Soon it was the Poles’ time to again charge up the mountain. Tolek awaited orders at the temporary HQ, located in
a half-destroyed house. He knew this day would put his wedding blessings to their supreme test. As the attack started, Tolek juggled telephone calls reporting heavy casualties. He was told the supply sergeant up the mountain had been killed. The lifeline of the advancing troops, supplying water and ammunition, gone.

  A replacement was sent up, and he too was killed. It was a position with a high mortality rate. Not only did the supply sergeant have to be in the front lines, but he had to move around from position to position. A tantalising target. When they ran out of supply sergeants, a sergeant from intelligence, working next to Tolek, was ordered to go – under fire they were all equal.

  The sergeant’s face was ashen as he shook a trembling hand with each of them. His physical presence was still warm in the room when they were advised that he too was injured, lying screaming, waiting to be dragged back.

  The CO was out inspecting the front positions, so the captain in charge silently looked at his diminishing staff. The men shrank from his gaze as from a rifle’s sight. Who would be left without a chair when the music halted? The CO stopped at Tolek. At that moment, he was the most dispensable. At worst they would need to find another diligent typist who excelled in spelling and grammar.

  ‘You’re next, Miracle Typist.’ He was a good man, a fair officer, not prejudiced. They had known each other since Africa. He appeared genuinely sorry to be sending Tolek to his death. ‘Good luck, colleague,’ he muttered, eyes moving from Tolek to the map on the trestle table.

  Tolek’s comrades breathed a sigh of relief. They looked at Tolek as if he were already a dead man. The telephone barked out more messages.

  ‘Hurry up,’ the captain muttered without looking up.

  Not only was Tolek Klings already dead, but he had to hurry about it.

  Covered in a cold sweat, Tolek prepared himself to go. He took his helmet, rifle and ammunition, tucked in his shirt and tightened his belt, boots and canteen. Delaying tactics. In his mind’s eye he was staring at the cracked ceiling, praying for a miracle. Where are you, Eliezer? Please bless my mazldik nshmh.