Wolf stands amid a sea of matzevot, a pile of rubble that was once the Jewish cemetery of N, and begins to recite the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. He knows there should be nine other men standing with him, but it doesn’t matter today. Those nine men are lost in the ashes of a forgotten world. They are scattered in Bełżec, Auschwitz, Birkenau, Treblinka, in the forests near Zabłotczyzna, names that will occupy his mind for a lifetime. He sings for them, for his mother and father, for his sister, Leye, and for Olga, who burns bright inside him. She died trying to save them. Who will save her now?
*
Wolf, if only you could see me now. “Olga,” you would whisper, saying my name the way no one else can, but I know you would be afraid. My face is so pale, I cannot recognize my own reflection. How I missed you during the war, but how grateful I was that you were not there to see me anymore. How I thanked the heavens that you could not witness the anguish and fear that ravaged my face and body, leaving me a remnant of myself. I clung to the image of myself in your mind. I remembered that girl, too, that beautiful me.
In the distance, the lights of Kraków look like fairytale lanterns decorating the pages of a storybook life. They remind me of a story I used to read as a child before I went to sleep at night. It was about a Swedish family that celebrated Santa Lucia every year at Christmastime. They knew well how to illuminate the night. I see those lights and how they want to sparkle bright, keep hidden the stories that passed through those Wisła River waters in recent years. Who is it who wants to tell of how the world was divided into parts; of how if you could not adhere to this division you would lose your life; and even if you did adhere, you might lose your life anyway? Those parts still remain. That separation will stay. This game of lottery took from you first what you loved, and then your beloved. Who wants to tell the story of how the Jews were taken first from their homes and led into a ghetto, and then pulled and pulled, heart at its seams, those walls that separated the world of color from a realm of gray despair? And who chose which world on the inside? Don’t ask me again why I chose to abandon my freedom. For me, love was always more important.
Oh Wolf, how this train does hoot and howl as it pulls into the Kraków station. Not the station you know of, not the one that takes you into town, but the one that took us away. To where the track ends, leading nowhere. This is where my train comes in, where the duchy, the spirits, get on and off. Those little fairy lights can only distract for so long. If only I could go into the Jewish cemetery and bury myself in the earth, praying that it accepts me at last. May some great force of life take pity on me and let me be free.
*
This prayer offers freedom from pain for the one still living: Even though I walk.
Even though I walk, I shall not want.
In this prayer there is a valley and a shadow and someone to guide.
People need to believe that there is always someone there to comfort, even on the other side.
Sometimes Sarah and I like to imagine which movie star we would marry if we could. We found a silent movie magazine on an old dusty bookshelf in the library, and when we are happy and gay we all agree that it is the most fascinating thing in the world. All of us but little Sarah, who sits above us perched on top of the stuffed velvet chair at the corner of the room reading St. Thérèse of Lisieux’s book l’Histoire d’une me. She is stubborn and curious, and I love her all the more for it. If only I could soothe her heart just a little more, then mine would feel lighter as well. But I am bound just like everyone else to the uniform, to the dress. I am bound to be, I am bound to love, I am bound to Sarah.
*
The Wisła River may be of comfort to some, but not me. Would drown myself in her waters and die a second death if I could. I see her as a silent truth teller, a witch’s brew leaking the fires of Smok, Wawel Castle’s dragon, down through Kraków’s riverbanks, swollen and pregnant with pain and regret. Behind this sixteenth-century hand-carved icon of Madonna and Child lies a secret you’ll know one day. How many Jews converted in this very chapel? I’ll tell you: many. Behind this door, a relic of dreams left behind. This doorstep. This candle. This whisper, this vestment hangs in perfect order. Some say we Poles were ordered by God to serve as martyrs for all humankind. “The Christ of all nations,” our beloved romantic poet, Mickiewicz, once called us, but I say, let’s spare ourselves that title once and for all.
There are no forests in Kraków to remind me of you. No birch trees to stand naked and witness what passes them by, so I close myself to the world and hold that image of us entwined against a tree in my mind as I walk. Here there are only cobblestones lining the streets. They amplify the cacophony of horse and carriage, of human footfall as it passes, even of butterfly wings as they brush the ground, but I can assure you that my feet don’t make a sound.
*
A thick blanket of moss covers the ground beneath Wolf’s feet. The prayer for the dead moves inward, the words, the letters retreating down his throat. Drops form a puddle at his feet as a stream pours from his face into the earth. He has the thought that he is participating in creation. This water will help the flowers and grass to grow, and they will crowd the pile of rubble, ultimately covering it. Nature will bury the buried and swallow the lost. Why would I wish to contribute any life to this place that has taken so much life from me? Why would I smile at the sight of one petal blooming on account of my tears? Wolf drops his prayer book and lifts his hands to cover his face, wanting to stop the water from flowing and hide himself from the world.
Wiktor steps a few meters away from Wolf. They cut two lonely figures in this forest where all of the local peoples have mixed at one point or another: Russians, Poles, and also Jews. Slight Wiktor with his dark skin, cropped hair, and loose pants stands with his once clean, now invisible worker’s hands thrust into his pockets watching Wolf as he tries to stop his own tears.
Or maybe the salt from my tears will kill all life within reach? Perhaps my pain will be transmitted into the earth, and caterpillar skulls will soon line the route taken by ants and spiders, and everyone who passes will know that death lived here.
Wiktor looks around at this forest in the prime of spring. The ground is still wet with mud, but in the air trees transition from bud to blossom in an instant. Tiny white puffs of pollen are carried on the wind, transported from tree to tree, from flower to flower, and eventually down to earth. Wiktor wishes he could breathe once again and smell the sweet dampness of springtime. Now he knows there is no stopping this world from continuing without the ones we love, and even without ourselves that we have also loved. This is our bittersweet destiny, to love and build a world, a house, a body of our own, and then to discard it all.
*
Wolf stands to retreat from the pile of stones. Tears, like words, move back down the throat and into the heart. There is such a thing as an ache in the heart. The breeze picks up and a flood of pollen floats through the air. If my daughter were here, I would tell her that this is a kingdom of fairies coming to greet her. What will I tell myself? Is this a sign that they hear me now? And now? And for just a moment, Wolf can almost detect their whisper in the wind.
Wolf knows that it is time to go. He wipes his face, turns away from the rubble and from the remaining stones, gathers his book and his bag, and whistles for the little dog to come. The dog comes running eagerly, a clump of old leaves stuck to his back.
It is time for Wolf to leave town. But leaving town is not as easy as it might seem. First, there is the pull of memories and the knowledge that after today he will likely never see this place again. It is so tempting to walk back through the streets, to stand at the corner that looks out over the remnants of synagogues and homes, to find something to remember them by.
A rose from my mother’s garden. I could wrap the stem in wet paper and try to keep it alive until I get back to America. I could replant it in the backyard in Brooklyn. And the rose bush would blossom every spring.…
Church services are letting ou
t and people are strolling through town, ice cream cones in hand. Young and old, every Pole loves ice cream to assure them that summer has arrived at last. The townspeople have not yet made it over to the back streets, where Wolf is already walking, Wiktor and the dog in tow.
Wolf considers going back the way he came, but instead decides to take a different route, one that will get him in and out of town more quickly. He passes a row of old houses on Ulica Nadrzeczna, all of them completely quiet, their lights dim, except for one. From an open window, the sound of a somber piano can be heard. Chopin études mix with the smell of boiling potatoes and the aroma of freshly chopped parsley and dill filling the air along with the sounds of romantic heartbreak, and for a moment, Wolf can close his eyes and recall another life: Mama standing in the kitchen, dinner waiting on the table, Leye sitting at the piano, Papa at his desk, an open book before him, his mind traversing the world. The only thing separating Wolf from his past is a closed eyelid. A closed eyelid has the capacity to usher in another world.
Cloud cover is drifting into town, and though the sun is still visible on the horizon, a cool breeze stirs the air, lifting dried leaves and shuttling them across empty streets. The sweet damp smell of rain penetrates the air, and Wolf pulls his collar up around his neck to shield his throat from the wind. If it isn’t really cold, then why do I feel so chilled? A black crow flies overhead as a shiver runs up the small of Wolf’s back. Wiktor stands behind Wolf, scanning the misty landscape.
They now come to the dim alleyway that leads the group back to number eleven Ulica Nadrzeczna, the location of Wolf’s childhood home. Equidistant from the forest and the market square, this house was the perfect place to grow up, but it was also one of the first homes to be searched for liquidation when the Nazis arrived.
“How lucky we are,” Wolf’s parents told one another from their quiet hovel in the attic apartment provided by Wolf’s friend, Olga. What good fortune they had that Olga was such a kind woman. Jew or no Jew, she knew what was coming before it came and was willing to risk her life for them. Hiding a Jew meant your entire family (and sometimes even your neighbors) could be killed, and yet many Poles did it anyway.
Every afternoon Olga would climb the stairs and bring them bread and cheese, a bottle of boiled water, and sometimes even a jug of cold coffee. She would also carry a bucket of water for them to wash in, and then to use as a toilet. She would then deposit the bucket in the outhouse while her mother was at church. At the start of the war Olga’s father was sent to a camp in Siberia, but because of the family’s prominent standing in the town, Olga and her mother were lucky enough to remain at home. Her mother believed that prayer would keep her husband safe. She would not discover, until six months after the war, that her husband had died in transport on the way to the Soviet Union. Before hard labor and devastation could destroy him, he was taken by dehydration and starvation. “Better to die that way,” she would say as she cried herself to sleep. “My beloved,” she would whisper into her husband’s pillow, “better that you did not have to destroy those beautiful strong hands in the cold harsh winter of that labor camp. It may be better, but I will never be the same.” By the time she received news of her husband’s death, her house was empty and she was alone. The war took from her everything she loved, and she would whisper to the photographs on the wall, the lace trim on the cuffs of her blouse, the candles lit on the pyre, “See what life stole from me in the night?”
“How lucky we are,” Wolf’s parents would whisper to one another when the silence was booming. Young Leye had begun to experience moments in which she felt that she could not breathe, times when a ringing in her ear would become deafeningly loud, and she would then hold her head beneath the pillow, trying to drown out the sound. The walls and the world were closing in on her. Maybe she knew more than her parents that there really was no chance of escape. Maybe having lived less made her believe less in the world.
“Just think, my little darlings,” her father would say, in his most delicate and caring voice, “just think how lucky we are that we will survive this terrible time. Wait and see, things will be set right in this world.”
Were there smiles that also broke through the clouds and cobwebs of their faces on those dark attic days? Yes, of course there were. There were howls of laughter emitted during the church-going candlelit hours, and there were yelps let loose into the lumpy old down pillow when silence was a necessity and tiny white feathers poked out through invisible holes, getting caught in Leye’s long black hair. Were there tears that formed puddles on the floor? Small pools of water with nowhere to go that you swept into the deep grooves of old planks of cherry wood? Were those tears absorbed by the grains of wood? Were they absorbed and later reborn, coming to life as pale moth’s wings? And how did you feel at the sight of Papa, always strong and wise, the backbone of our life, as he cried just like the rest of us, destroying your image of a solid and perfect world?
“How lucky we are, my darling,” Wolf’s father would say to his wife as he stroked her face and hair. But luck was not on their side. Olga’s family home was just steps away from the market square. Her house could not be overlooked for long.
Yes, they were lucky, Wolf tells himself, looking up at incoming clouds. At least they died in each other’s arms.
Wolf wonders if the only happy time in your life is when you are a child. Your mother holds you in her arms, gives you milk and bread, and bathes you as tenderly as if you were still in her womb. You are no more than caterpillar legs, a sun-kissed heart, and still your hand is always held tight.
As if it were yesterday. As if it were yesterday that we were sitting together in this garden beneath the gentle sky. Mother made apple cake and compote, and we sat in the shade of the big cherry blossom tree laughing and talking as if we had all the time in the world. Night would come, and we continued to sit, enjoying each other’s company in the dark.
The stray dog with dark eyes gives out a small sigh and rustles through a trash can, pulling a pile of vegetable peels across the ground, dragging them along the gnarled roots of the old cherry blossom tree. Wiktor stands beside the rose bush as Wolf reaches to break off a stem, his eyes closed, as if he is remembering the most beautiful and quiet dream. There is a faint whisper, a shout, and then a door swings open. Wiktor turns to look back at the house, and just as the door opens, a stone flies through the air.
There is a thump like a knock on the brain, and then nothing.
Beneath the cherry blossom tree lies a crumpled rose.
There are so many ways to encounter blood. There is the blood that comes from pricking one’s finger with thorns, the blood you tasted when you were a curious child and you wanted to know. You needed to understand intimately the taste of tears, the taste of blood, how people make love, why the clouds look that way, and is God there, and what (on a coldest darkest night, you would ask) happens when we die? Where do we go? Is it just black and then nothing? Nothing? Nothing? How can there be nothing?
What exists in this nothingness? Is it black and is it silent? Do wild flames encircle bodies tortured by impure thoughts? Does a white light beckon you forward? Are you freed from the earth’s shackles, and like Dante at last encountering his Beatrice, do you rise up and go into the petals of that brilliant white celestial rose? Do you want to go? Do you let go? For Wolf there are no white lights. He is the last spark of light in this lonely place. There is no mirror to reflect his beauty back to him anymore.
Wolf awakens to water rushing onto his face. Rain is pouring down and the ground is wet, mud rising like a tidal wave around him, as if nature were protesting his defeat. Struck by nauseating pain and by an unbearable ringing in his ears, Wolf instinctively touches his face.
There is red and there is shouting.
“You’d better go fast, żydku (little Jew), otherwise you’ll join your family in that forest sooner than you think.”
These are words taken from the atmosphere, from the world, from the mind of a man on the
run. Wolf stumbles toward the train station, a stream of blood dripping down his face and through his fingers, bag hanging loosely from his shoulder. His limbs feel disjointed, his heart races and his mind screams, You won’t get me. Never!
The train leaves the station.
Wiktor holds Wolf’s aching head tenderly in his arms.
*
In the dream he comes for me at night. Sarah and I spend the day building a small wooden house for little Sarah’s toys, and we lose track of time as the sun grows huge, settling in the west. The room is aglow. We feel as if we are sitting in the belly of the sun.
Sarah throws back her long, shining black hair, and she stares at me with those slanted blue-gray eyes. “Let’s walk up to the roof,” she says, smiling wickedly, raising her left eyebrow the way she always does whenever she has an idea. I find it impossible to say no. The day is warm enough to shed our sweaters, and we sit on the hot tin roof overlooking the factories of Łódź. I always enjoyed the rolling hills of the Polish countryside, but this is our landscape now. Sarah can name more than half of the companies and point out what each factory produces and what kind of machinery it uses. Before the war her father owned the biggest factory in town, and she used to spend school holidays helping his secretary to address letters in his office, which is why she had such perfect penmanship at a young age and also how she learned to walk in high heels.
The Upright Heart Page 5