Poland

by James A. Michener

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘When I first got to Majdanek, I drove the death truck, dragged the bodies of Jews out of the gas chamber and delivered them to the crematorium. You know, I suppose, that when a man had been doing that long enough, they killed him because his mind started to go bad. But I was lucky, I was assigned other work, and I survived. But then they put me on the concrete rollers, and one morning, when I felt that I was at the end of my rope, I witnessed the delivery of a batch of women and children from the dispossessions at Zamosc.

  ‘In that mass, some ten thousand I think, I saw this little girl, nine or ten perhaps, wearing a new overcoat and a Russian-style woolen cap. She was very brave. She was very brave. [For some moments he could not speak.]

  ‘I never saw her again, Father. Not really, that is. But I kept thinking about her and I convinced myself that I did, and always she had on that overcoat. And then I imagined that she was a grown woman. And I married her. And in my madness I used to see us sitting together by the fire in an ordinary cottage, me tired from work in the field, she mending her overcoat. I do believe my obsession saved me from dying.

  ‘I risked my life one day by quitting my work and following the death truck that carried her to the crematorium, but whether it was really she or not I cannot say, for I was so near death that I was not myself. But I was sure that I saw them lift her out as I used to lift out the bodies of children, and I waited until they threw her into the furnace. Into the ovens, that is, not the furnace. They wouldn’t throw anyone into the furnace, because there was no furnace, so to speak. [He stared at the table, a man with a burden too heavy to bear.] I never married, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ the bishop repeated, and then the two men sat in silence, veterans of the worst experience the women and men of their generation had known: Bishop Barski, a survivor of Auschwitz, that flaming hell of ingenious torture whose fires raged more intensely year after year; Szymon Bukowski, who had endured the ice-cold efficiency of Majdanek, whose terrors so methodically administered froze the soul. The two men may have triumphed over the fire and ice, but they carried scars external and internal that would never heal, and each man knew it, regarding both himself and the one who sat opposite.

  ‘How did you gain the courage to survive Auschwitz?’ Szymon asked, and the bishop realized that what the younger man had wanted to ask was ‘How did we gain the courage?’ and he answered:

  ‘Character is the sum of all we do before the age of twenty. You did certain things in those formative years which made you brave and durable. What did I do? When I was a student at Krakow, I used to go out into that glorious square at night and at six minutes to the hour stand silent and stare at the dark tower from which the trumpeter sounded the signal which saved the city from the Tatars.

  ‘For six minutes I stood silent, imagining myself to be that trumpeter who gave his life to save others, and I speculated on how I might have behaved in his place. As you know, on the hour, through all these centuries, a living trumpeter sounds from the tower once again that fatal call. The beautiful notes echo across the city, and at the moment when they sound the sweetest, they end. The arrow has struck home. The trumpeter is dead. But our city is saved.

  ‘I vowed then that if my testing time ever came, I would sound my warning. Without that boyhood commitment, how could I have survived the camp?

  ‘And Poland is bound by these same rules. The bold things it did when young have determined how it shall act when mature. Oh, critics in foreign lands laugh at us and say that our liberum veto was preposterous, allowing one man to negate the work of ninety, but I think we governed ourselves with more justice than either Germany or Russia, and if you look at their Nazism and Communism, we certainly turned out better.’

  The two patriots contemplated this truth in silence, after which the bishop cleared his throat and said: ‘God and brave men have saved our nation in the past. What do you and our friend Jan Buk propose to help us escape this time?’ His voice dropped a full register. ‘We’re in terrible danger, Szymon. You know that.’

  ‘Chalubinski has made the big decision. No farmers’ union. I’m making the decision almost as big. Every concession possible to restore some kind of balance. Buk has agreed to halt rural agitation and get back to the production of food. And from you, Bishop, we want one of the biggest concessions of all. We want you to appear tomorrow on the steps at the palace when we announce the agreements. All of us beg you.’

  ‘Even Chalubinski?’

  ‘Especially Chalubinski. He says no government can rule unless there is a perception of legitimacy. And he says that in Poland, legitimacy is conferred by the Catholic church and by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, although he said the names in a somewhat different order.’

  ‘He’s right about legitimacy. That should be the first concern of any government, and if he needs my support to keep his shaky system functioning, I have no option but to oblige with what little I possess.’

  From the floor he lifted a cheap fabric briefcase which had served him for many years, and as he placed it unopened on the table he said in a completely different voice, as if he were an older professor endeavoring to instruct a favored student: ‘I’m sure you realize, Szymon, that any bold act you perform could place our nation in grave peril?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘But I wonder if you appreciate how grave?’ Before Bukowski could say that he understood the danger of Soviet intervention, the bishop opened the case and took out three books, one published in London, one in Stockholm, one in New York. Szymon could not read the titles, of course, but from the lurid covers he determined that they dealt with Nazi concentration camps.

  ‘Remarkable books,’ Bishop Barski said, touching each in turn. ‘Written by men of ability. Look at the figures they’ve assembled.’ Taking the London publication, he riffled the pages, showing Szymon tables of persuasive data.

  ‘What are they about?’

  ‘They prove that places like Auschwitz and Majdanek never existed.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘They prove to the satisfaction of those who wish to believe, and millions do, that the camps where you and I lived in hell never existed.’

  Szymon stared at the books, afraid to touch them. ‘What else do they prove?’

  ‘That Auschwitz was a fable invented by lying Jews. That Majdanek was a great lie perpetrated by Poles who wanted to discredit Germany.’

  ‘So Otto Grundtz never existed?’

  ‘No. You invented him.’

  Bukowski gasped, whereupon the bishop produced a single sheet on which the conclusions of the London book had been translated into Polish, and when this was placed in Szymon’s hands he was stunned by the bold assertions:

  1. No concentration camps ever existed. They were lies created by Jews and Poles.

  2. If any camps did exist, they were detention centers such as are used by all nations to imprison criminal types who have committed specific crimes against society in general.

  3. It is preposterous to claim that six million Jews died in these supposed camps, because there were never that many Jews in all of Europe.

  4. It is equally ridiculous to claim that two million Poles died, because the Germans have never borne animosity toward the Poles and have always treated them well.

  5. The total number of criminals who died in the detention centers, either through legal execution for specific crimes or from the epidemics which occasionally touched the camps, could not possibly have exceeded three thousand.

  6. If concentration camps did exist, Adolf Hitler knew nothing about them.

  7. In the long light of history, Hitler will be seen as a generous, wise, considerate and constructive leader who took bold steps to save Europe and the world.

  When Szymon reached the final item he could think of nothing rational to say, for his mind went back to the November day when he stood by the trenches as some eighteen thousand Jews were slaughtered, and he could see both them an
d their assassins. But then his finger drifted to Item 5, which conceded that in all the camps taken together, perhaps three thousand criminals had died, and he stared at this figure for a long time, mumbling finally: ‘I used to handle three thousand corpses in a week.’

  Overcome with rage at the indecency of the books, he pushed them away and demanded in a harsh voice: ‘Who wrote that manure?’ and Bishop Barski replied: ‘Some of the most persuasive men and women of our day. They believe what they say. And they convert others with what they preach.’

  In silence these two graduates of Auschwitz and Majdanek contemplated the staggering fact that in the future it might be believed that their camps had never existed. There had been no electrified barbed wire, no little room into which sixty had been crowded at dusk and from which fewer than twenty had emerged at dawn. And after a while these survivors began to laugh—ugly, convulsive laughs which turned at last into robust guffaws at the idiocy of the world, and when they had purged themselves Bishop Barski thrust the books contemptuously back into his briefcase.

  He then rose and went to the map of Poland, which served as the sole decoration in this bare room. ‘Our task, Szymon, is not only to preserve the integrity of our history but also to defend the integrity of our terrain.’ With a broad-sweeping hand he indicated those eastern territories which had once belonged to Poland but which Russia had grabbed in 1945: Lwow, Brzesc Litewski, Tarnopol. ‘Areas of vast extent,’ the bishop said. ‘People of Polish heritage kicked out, bodily. Expelled. Hundreds of thousands. So that the area could be made Russian.’ The land thus wrenched away had been enormous, about half of what was then Poland, and Bukowski mourned its loss.

  ‘And where did the displaced Poles go?’ the bishop continued. ‘You know well’—and he indicated a large area to the west which had once belonged to Germany but which Russia had awarded Poland in compensation for the lost eastern lands: Szczecin, which the Germans had called Stettin; Wroclaw, which had been Breslau; Opole, which had been Oppeln.

  ‘Do you think, Szymon, that this map of Poland is fixed? Has our map ever been fixed? If the two Germanys are allowed to unite, can’t you see that they’ll march again to recover their lost lands? If the Soviet Union becomes more irritated with us, don’t you see that they’ll send their tanks rumbling in, and once more our lands will be ripped away from us?’ The two patriots studied the fragile map that contained so many correctible errors, and they could visualize the sweep of armies across it, the sound once again of hobnailed boots. ‘We must all of us be so careful of what we do … not to alert the sleeping tanks.’

  Throwing his arm about Bukowski’s shoulder, he led the Communist leader to the door. ‘It seems to me, Szymon, that our situation today is precisely what it was in 1791. Then some patriotic Poles conceded that the nation must have a liberal, free form of government. And they drew up the finest constitution Europe had yet seen. And do you remember what happened?’

  ‘I do. My mother taught me that along with my alphabet. Prussia and Russia were so terrified by the prospect of a free modern nation on their borders, they swept in and destroyed us.’

  ‘Even the children know that the Forest of Szczek is filled with Russian tanks. Waiting to destroy us again.’

  ‘They’re everywhere. In carefully concealed positions. All over Poland, I mean.’

  ‘Do you see the analogy, Szymon? Today the patriotic men of Poland, like Janko Buk, are struggling for a better society, and once more there are nations who fear her, want to destroy her. I’m sorry to see you allied with the tanks in the forest.’

  The bishop, recognizing Szymon as wise and patriotic, did not wish to end his conversation on such a somber note, so as he walked Bukowski to the door he said: ‘Szymon, clear your mind of torments. Put the ghosts to sleep.’

  ‘That is not so easy.’

  ‘Think of it this way. The little girl from Zamosc died to save you. The little Jew from the synagogue died to save me. But Jesus Christ died to save us all.’

  When Bukowski neared the village on his way back, he stopped his car so that he might look at the ruins of the old castle, and he stayed there for more than an hour, just sitting in the dark, allowing images to flash through his mind: Bishop Barski and the little rabbi; the girl in her overcoat; the grinning Otto Grundtz; the grinning Nazis Under the Clock; the bowl of hot, fatty soup at Pani Tomczyk’s; the big head of King Jan Sobieski torn to shreds by Nazi bullets, then miraculously restored to life by women’s fingers and a painter’s brush; and that long row of noble men in the dark gallery whom he had brought back to existence by his patience and his love of things Polish.

  Violently he started his car and whipped it with screeching wheels up to the palace, where he rushed past the guards to go down into the gallery to see once more the restored faces of his friends, especially the two who had worked so diligently and with such superior ability for the welfare of Poland, Czartoryski, who had struggled to bring the nation into modern times, and old Zamoyski, who had done so many wonderful things.

  ‘Brothers!’ he cried to the stately figures. ‘All of you, we owe you so much.’ He went especially to old Mniszech of the big beard and bigger belly. ‘You old son-of-a-bitch! We could have done business together.’ He stood on tiptoes but failed in his purpose, so he looked for a box, and when he found a rickety chair he brought it to the portrait of the old tiger, stood upon the seat, and kissed Mniszech on the forehead.

  ‘Give me your blessing!’ he shouted to them. ‘I need your blessing this night!’

  And then he ran from the palace and down the beautiful lanes to the village and crept to the cottage of Janko Buk, where he tapped softly on the window. After a moment he awakened someone inside, and cautiously the door was opened. It was Janko’s wife, Kazimiera, the country girl, and she was perplexed, for it was still two hours before dawn.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered, for the others were still sleeping.

  ‘I came here before like this,’ he said. ‘Let me in.’

  ‘I’ll fetch Janko,’ she said.

  He grasped her arm. ‘It is not Janko that I seek.’

  He brushed past her and went into the house, where he awakened Janko and his mother. When they stood before him he said: ‘Years ago I came into this room at this time of night to beg you with tears in my eyes, Biruta, for food to keep my men alive.’

  ‘We gave you what we had,’ she said, drawing her nightdress about her.

  ‘And I asked your husband, Jan, to help me fight the Nazis.’

  ‘And he did. We both did,’ Biruta said.

  ‘Tonight …’ He was trembling violently and in the dim light sweat showed across his face. ‘Tonight I have come on a much different mission. I have been alone … I am still a prisoner in Majdanek … I can no longer fight them all.’

  They stood in the near-darkness, exactly as they had done on that night when Biruta had worked the stones of her quern, making the forbidden bread for which other women in this village had given their lives. And Biruta and Szymon were as frightened now at the dangers which assailed their country as they had been then, but finally he found courage to say: ‘I can no longer bear the burden of these days alone. Biruta, will you marry me?’

  Next day, 5 December 1981, at one in the afternoon, when the discussions ended and Szymon Bukowski stood before the television cameras to explain what had been achieved, he finished his terse announcements with generous praise for ‘your neighbor and good farmer, Janko Buk.’

  Buk took the microphone, and with a bow to Chalubinski, said: ‘Our little village has been honored to have such a distinguished visitor. Our talks have been amiable, which was good, because they dealt with vital subjects. I am pleased with what has happened here. It bodes well for our nation.

  ‘I close with two personal announcements. I have been asked, as you heard yesterday, to leave you and go to Warsaw to serve in the government. I shall not go.’ He turned to face Chalubinski, who gasped. ‘I am a farmer, fighting for farmers’ rig
hts, and here is the battlefield.

  ‘My second announcement is one which gives my heart joy. My mother, Biruta, who fought the Nazis for so many years and who bears scars to prove it, has agreed to marry Szymon Bukowski, who fought them in his own way and who bears his own scars. In these meetings I have found him to be a resolute man of honor and I am proud to have him join my family.’

  On the wedding day Jan Pawel Drugi from Rome sent a telegram conveying his blessing, but Tytus Chalubinski, brooding in his Warsaw headquarters, did not. He was outraged that a member of his team should be marrying this Biruta Buk woman who had so scathingly attacked him during the palace meetings. Now, from his desk, he took out a pile of index cards, golden-yellow, on which he had for some time been listing the names of those Poles who would have to be arrested when the inescapable crackdown came. The people named on those cards that were marked with a black cross would be sent to the concentration camps which would eventually be needed—and to this growing list he now added Szymon Bukowski and his wife, Biruta.

  But for the time being the Russian tanks remained well hidden, deep within the Forest of Szczek.

  Acknowledgments

  In 1977 a television company invited me to go to any exotic place in the world to shoot a documentary, and I astonished them by choosing without hesitation: ‘Poland.’ When they asked why, I replied: ‘If you look at its geographical and ideological position, you’ll see that it must become a focal point within the next decade.’

  In succeeding years I visited Poland some eight times, traveling to almost every part of the nation. Private sources provided me with a helicopter for the better part of a week. I used it to fly at a very low altitude over all of Poland. I was encouraged to visit schools, universities, laboratories, art centers, historical sites, and at one point I said that what I needed most was to spend some time with a devout Roman Catholic clergyman who spoke English. By good luck I was taken to see the Bishop of Krakow, Karol Wojtyla, with whom I had a series of productive conversations. Later I spent time with Cardinal Wyszynski and Primate Glemp, and through them was allowed to see the workings of a church within a Communist country.