by Leon Silver
All in all, life was good.
The factory’s knitting and linking machines were Italian, so Ted occasionally flew to Italy for business. On one of these trips, twenty-five years after the end of the war, Ted visited Israel. In Haifa, he had a long, tearful reunion with Herman Solomon and his family. Lots of reminiscing and drinking. But they couldn’t hide the fact that they weren’t the same men they had been in 1942. The elephant in the room: Tolek’s abandoned plan to defect. And after the war’s annihilation of the Polish Jews, should he have married a local Sabra girl and helped establish the fledgling Jewish state? Hard to say.
Ted rented a car and drove to Northern Israel, looking for that kibbutz and stretch of road where he and Jan had had the Polish-Jews-are-cripples conversation. He finally found D’ganya, which was now called D’ganya Aleph, as there was also a D’ganya Bet. Ilan Tzener and a few elderly pioneers remembered that visit by the marching Polish brigade. Over a sumptuous lunch, they told Tolek that if they’d known about the Holocaust back then, they’d have thrown the Polish troops out. But they’d simply had no idea. They laughed about the closet full of broomsticks, and showed Ted photographs of the 1948 war of independence. On 20 May 1948, during the battles for the Kinarot Valley, the residents of D’ganya Aleph and Bet, assisted by a small number of military personnel, repelled a Syrian attack and succeeded in halting the advance of the Syrian Army into the Jordan Valley. During the attack, D’ganya Aleph was destroyed. The settlers persisted by launching a counter-attack to repel the Syrians. The pioneers showed Ted the photos of the men and women who died in that war.
Ted realised that if he’d defected that day at the Rutenberg Electricity Company with his friend Shimon Brietfeld, he could have well been part of this kibbutz’s – or another’s – war of independence fighting force.
Ted visited Latrun, where he’d met Jan. A guide explained to the tourist group that the fortress was located at a strategic hilltop in the Ayalon Valley. The guide told them that this was the site of fierce fighting during the war of independence. It was then occupied by Jordan until the 1967 war, when it was captured by Israel along with the West Bank.
There was no trace, of course, of the tent canteen where Tolek had had that first confrontation with Jan. You don’t have to buy your way in, you’re a Pole, the same as the rest of us. Don’t you think of yourself as a Pole, Miracle Typist? Have a whisky, colleague.
Ted visited Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Remembrance Centre. He found that many Poles who had helped Jews had been recognised by Israel as Righteous Gentiles.
From Israel, Ted, reeling in those renegade departure boat streamers, flew to Italy to visit Monte Cassino. He hadn’t been back since the war, even though he’d been discharged in Italy and had lived there for some years.
It was a gorgeous spring day, not like those windy, bombardment days in ’44. Looking 100 per cent the smart Australian tourist in a lightweight grey suit, tilted straw hat and dangling camera, Tolek walked by himself through the endless rows of well-kept graves at the foot of Monte Cassino. White wooden crosses and Stars of David standing above his friends, many of whom he’d held, carried, supported as they’d died. Many of whose last sight in this world was his face leaning over them. Rows upon rows of people who suddenly ceased to exist. How close had he come to being in one of these silent graves, never existing for his wife and daughter and future grandchildren to have knowledge of him? Ted could again hear the Polish soldiers singing ‘Red Poppies on Monte Cassino’. His nose was stabbed with the pungent smell of vinegar to cover the stench of the rotting human flesh hanging from the trees.
Next to a monument for the fallen soldiers, Ted picked a spot where he might have dived on top of those barbed-wire coils and torn his jacket to pieces when that sudden bombardment caught them off guard. Apprehensively, he kicked a mound of loose dirt with the toe of his polished shoe. Any chance of finding that dispatch rider’s note and Juliusz’s stick drawing? He would have given anything to find them. He still had the photos; they were safe at home.
Tolek visited the site of the concert held after the battle was won. He stood alone on the small hill looking down over the soldiers’ ghosts and singing the poppy song to himself. The carpet of red poppies covered the hillside just as it had in the spring of that war. The flowers still rolled up the mountain as a welcome mat to a charging army long since dismantled.
Lifting his camera up several times and looking through the tiny viewfinder, Ted could not bring himself to snap a single photograph. It would be an insult to the many soldiers who had died there. This, now, was not the real Monte Cassino. He himself was no longer Tolek Naftali, but simply Aussie Ted. Standing among the silent graves of the white Monte Cassino cemetery, Ted was filled with a realisation: these men died for nothing. The Poles died only to have their country reoccupied by an invader. The Jews gave their lives in the belief that Mother Poland would protect their families.
It was hard for Ted not to contemplate the dishonourable anti-Semitic fringe that reached the top echelons of the Polish high command. A friend of Ted’s, a survivor of Monte Cassino, still bore the pains of that open prejudice. His name was Rosen, also a solicitor from Poland, who now resided in Sydney. The Polish private who was ambushed and shot up, but didn’t receive the Cross of Valour for battlefield bravery as his four Polish comrades had. Rosen had come to Melbourne and stayed at Ritterman’s house, another Polish war veteran who had fought with Tolek at Monte Cassino. The three ex-soldiers convened a war council. Both Ritterman and Ted encouraged Rosen to resume the fight for the decoration he rightfully deserved. ‘Go to court if you have to,’ they urged him. ‘We’ll support you.’ But Rosen dismissed the suggestion with a lingering bitterness. He didn’t want to be associated with the Polish Army or its memory. On Anzac Day in Australia, he marched not with the Poles, but with strangers.
Ted Klings marched with the Polish contingent every Anzac Day. It was the same date as his wedding anniversary with Bruna.
When Rosen came to Melbourne he also brought some good news. Catholic Wojciechowski, the cook who’d married the Jewish-Greek-Egyptian girl in Alexandria, had had to leave Egypt with his wife, kids and in-laws after Nasser took over. They came to Australia, the multicultural multi-ethnic refuge, and settled in Sydney, where Wojciechowski was now a successful chef in Darling Harbour. He had asked Rosen to again thank admin corporal Miracle Typist Klings for that week’s leave and the war medal.
After Italy, there was no question of travelling ‘back home’. For Ted Naftali Klings, the Lwów law practice and the Bóbrki family hotel were off the map forever. He could never – never ever – imagine handing over money to the same people who sold his family out to be shot for 500 zlote each – or their descendants.
Finally, those last boat streamers had been truly severed.
* * *
Whenever he was in the city, Ted took time out to sit on a bench near the public library, watching the young people mill around him. Asian, Semitic, African, European profiles and everything in between.
All the same, all equal, all wonderful.
Epilogue
When Ted returned from his overseas trip, he found out that his now married daughter was pregnant. Ted placed all of his war memorabilia on a shelf in his study: the family and war photos and all his medals and war papers. Then he added the tallith prayer shawl, kippah and Bible given to him by the Jewish rabbi in the desert and the nail clippers he’d taken from the German POW near Cairo. Ted stared at this shelf for many hours, thinking that perhaps now, with the next generation knocking on the door, it may be time to tell his story.
The mission was suddenly urgent. His son-in-law was a diligent writer. Ted Klings bought a small tape recorder with a foot control pedal. He assembled all his documents and numbered them for posterity. He was going to record his story and hand it over to his son-in-law to put into a book.
Ted grabbed a blank A4 sheet and threaded it into the Remington, then sat there for a while, looking
out the window. He began to type:
My dearest grandchild, soon to be the newest flickering candle in the Klings family menorah: You’re not born yet and I don’t even know your name. But I do know that you are a real person and two generations removed from the war. The one war within and the other exterior war. I am going to record my war story, all six years of it, and assemble all the supporting documents, medals and photographs. Perhaps, when you’re older, you’ll feel the need to poke around in this recorded history and see what you make of it. Tell you what! When you’ve read the story, finished hearing these corroborating war tapes and studying the documents, when you know what your grandfather did in the war, perhaps you’ll march for me on Anzac Day and wear my medals.
Perhaps even, in your university gap year, when you’re backpacking around the world, you may want to go to Israel and, with big smile, shake hands with Herman Solomon’s grandkids. Maybe visit Tobruk and Monte Cassino. Maybe even – this is hard for me to say – when in Western Europe, you may want to shoulder your knapsack and turn east to see Lwów and Bóbrki. I could never bring myself to go back there, for reasons that by then you’ll understand. I could never reconcile the thought of giving money to the people that had sold my wife’s and son’s lives for a few miserable zlote. Go to Lwów and check out the legal office where I worked if it’s still there, and the university where I studied law. Take the train to Bóbrki and find if our hotel is still standing. Then travel to London and find Jan Bielatowicz’s family. Take his White Eagle article and his London letter with you. They are a connection to them. I know that poor Jan died around 1965.
As I said, I could never do it, but you are a new generation and perhaps it’s time for a reconciliation. Go find Jan’s grandchildren, and build on this dialogue. You also need something to pass on to your grandchildren.
It’s morning now, I’m watching the sun come up over the desert, the kibbutz, Tobruk, Monte Cassino and Milano. Maybe you will one day see the sun rise over Bóbrki and Lwów.
Your loving granddad,
Tolek (Ted) Naftali
* * *
Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived an old soldier called the Miracle Typist, who, before the birth of his grandchild, recorded his war story so that when the child grew up and asked, ‘What did you do in the war, Granddad?’ his grandfather could hand over the story and the waterproof envelope full of documents and the grandchild could decide whether to work that story into a new beginning or dump it into history’s forgotten archives.
Tolek’s wife, Klara, and their two-year-old son, Juliusz, in August 1939.
‘We well give sign of life we trouble’: The telegram Tolek received in Palestine, sent by Klara on 29 December 1940. This was the only direct communication Tolek received from her throughout the six years of war. He deemed it a miracle, since the telegram was sent from Russian-occupied Poland, in the German war zone, to the British Mandate of Palestine.
Tolek relaxing on his cot during training in Palestine with the British army, circa 1940.
A portrait of Tolek taken during the African desert campaign 1942–1943.
Tolek (standing, fifth from right) in Egypt with the Polish army. At the time, the brigade was attached to the British army.
Tolek (front) posing with local children in Cairo during the war.
This photo of Klara, together with that of Klara and Juliusz, lived in Tolek’s breast pocket throughout the war, close to his heart.
Tolek gazing at Klara’s photo in the Sahara Desert, May 1942.
A break from the war: Tolek is second from right, holding a mug. Sahara Desert, circa 1942.
Drinking beer with mates, Sahara Desert, 1942. Tolek is third from left.
Tolek with his second wife, Bruna, and his younger brother, Ijio (on left), in Milan, 1946.
Tolek with Bruna and their daughter, Lauretta, in the Piazza del Duomo in Milan, 1952, just before leaving for Australia.
Tolek with Lauretta and his son-in-law, Leon (the author), outside his Melbourne knitting factory in 1967.
Anzac Day, 1981. Tolek is proudly wearing his campaign medals for the march.
Tolek Klings’ war medals. Top row (L–R): Bronze Cross of Merit with swords (Polish), Polish Army Medal, Cross of Monte Cassino No 7344 (Polish), 1939–1945 Star (British), Africa Star (British; 8th Army, North Africa 1942–1943), Italy Star (British), Defence Medal (British), War Medal 1939–1945 (British). Bottom row: Tobruk Siege 1941 Medal (unofficial) and Rats of Tobruk association pin, as well as assorted emblems and Tolek’s set of dress medals.
Acknowledgments
This incredible story would have never made it out of history’s archives and into today’s spotlight had it not been for the following Indiana Jones-like path-finding explorers.
Lauretta Silver – who (wearing a pith helmet and the appropriate explorer gear – Indiana Jones, eat your heart out) jumped in boots and all to sign on to unravel 70 years of history, and to dig, highlight, edit, seek and note – never thinking of signing off.
Bruna Klings – for invaluable historical contribution always underlined with a smile and that charming Italian touch.
Jessica Perini – my Master Editor (second book with Jess), worked with me on this true story for many years and taught me writing technology. Thanks, Jess.
Selwa Anthony – my Miracle Agent, for loving this story from her first read, and working enthusiastically and tirelessly to get it published.
The super-talented Simon & Schuster team for bringing this amazing true story to the world. With special thanks to Roberta Ivers for her detailed, heartfelt editing work and her emotional-depth connection to Tolek Klings.
Rod Morrison – Brio Books publisher, my friend and mentor who never tired of reading drafts and giving invaluable advice for the past fifteen years.
Ada Moshinsky, QC – my ever-reliable first-cab-off-the-rank reading muse. Not shy about giving honest opinions.
Sam Moshinsky – Second World War knowledge expert and buoyant sense-of-humour friend.
Rose Raymen – for the diligent family research, never tiring, never giving up.
Jamie and Cameron Silver – Tolek’s grandsons, for never-ending endearing love
Finn Silver – Tolek’s great-grandson, for drawing up Tolek’s war campaign map for me.
Charlotte Silver – Tolek’s great-granddaughter, for diligently swapping over my back-ups during the Coronavirus lockdown.
Sid Buchbinder – for the author photo, never happy until having tried all poses to get the best results.
With deepest love to Klara, Juliusz, Ijio, Lonek, Lieba and Mendel… the snuffed-out candles from the Klings’ family Menorah.
With gratitude to all the Polish Righteous gentiles who helped save lives during World War II by risking their own and their families’.
About the author
SID BUCHBINDER
Leon Silver was born in Shanghai, grew up in Israel and in the mid-1950s came to Melbourne, where he still lives. In 1965 he married Lauretta, the daughter of Tolek Klings. He became fascinated by his father-in-law’s moving stories of his life during the Second World War, and this book is the result. Leon is a full-time writer. He has published two novels, Dancing with the Hurricane and Sweeties.
SIMON & SCHUSTER
simonandschuster.com.au
www.SimonandSchuster.com.au/Authors/Leon-Silver
Novels by Leon Silver
Dancing With the Hurricane Sweeties
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THE MIRACLE TYPIST: The powerful true story of one soldier’s long journey home
First published in Aust
ralia in 2020 by
Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited
Suite 19A, Level 1, Building C, 450 Miller Street, Cammeray, NSW 2062
A CBS Company
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Visit our website at www.simonandschuster.com.au
© Leon Silver 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
Map p.xiii: Roy Chen, Xou Creative
Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork
Cover images: (people) Arcangel; (plane) D. Miller; typewriter is author’s own.
Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia