The Legacy

by Melanie Phillips

  A spasm gripped his torso, making him gasp and double up. Too much stress, he thought in agitation, all this upset, one thing on top of the other, this is the kind of thing that kills you. Now he had this pain. What was it? Heart? Gut? Which bit of the gut? Ulcer, or lower down? He staggered to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Packets and tubs of pills promptly tumbled out once again onto the floor.

  He poured himself a Scotch. His hands were shaking. Think, think. He scrolled back in his mind to where he had first met Kuchinsky. In the synagogue, of course. He was there praying. He remembered the veins standing out on the hands gripping the seat back, the tears that were wiped away when Rabbi Daniel had talked about a parent’s love for a child.

  But he had not actually been praying at all, had he. Oh God!

  But then, neither had Russell himself been praying, he said to himself. So that could hardly be conclusive, could it. Kuchinsky had not been wearing a prayer shawl. Well, so what? He wasn’t married to a Jew. That hardly made him a war criminal, did it. And what on earth would such a person have been doing in a synagogue at all? It made no sense.

  With his heart in his mouth, he rang Rabbi Daniel.

  “This guy Kuchinsky who was at your synagogue…”

  “Yes, yes, terrible, shocking, a dreadful breach of our security. So embarrassing. I am mortified, just mortified. Rest assured we are now reviewing all our procedures.”

  Russell went cold, and his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  “He told me he was interested in learning more about Judaism, that he knew a lot of Jewish people and wanted to understand the ceremonies and rituals…”

  ‘What? You…you knew he wasn’t a Jew?” Russell stammered.

  “Well of course; that much was obvious. But we pride ourselves in making our synagogue an open space where we welcome the stranger. Now I suppose we’ll have to be more careful. Such a pity. But really, a war criminal, I mean, who on earth would have imagined such a thing…”

  Obvious. Of course. Only he, Russell, had believed he was a Jew. Kuczynski hadn’t pretended any such thing to the rabbi because he knew he could never have gotten away with it. But he had understood somehow that Russell was easier to dupe. Indeed, he was possibly the only person in that entire synagogue who could have been duped in this way. That was why he had made such a beeline for him.

  “He only came along from time to time, but even so…When I think of what he did to our people, and then actually to offer him our hospitality—well, we must all learn from our mistakes, mustn’t we.”

  If only he could confide in him, Russell thought dully. If only he could tell someone and thus relieve the burden. But with a sinking feeling he realized he could never tell anyone. His reputation! If anyone should ever know…He would become an instant laughing stock. At a stroke he would be judged for all time as sloppy, careless, credulous. He would never again be taken seriously. He would always be the idiot who had been duped.

  But had he been? Even if he had been taken in by Kuczynski, it didn’t follow that the manuscript was not authentic. He could have genuinely come by it somehow in Poland, stolen it like so many other priceless artifacts were stolen from the Jews during the Holocaust.

  He lay miserably on his unmade bed. All the certainties of his world were going down like bowling pins. He had somehow lost his broadcasting touch; it turned out that he had failed to understand both his parents and his sister; and now he had managed to mistake a Nazi war criminal for a Jew. How could all this be happening to him? Why was he being picked on in this way?

  There was no relief from his thoughts. The whisky bottle was now all but empty. If only smoking was an option—but he had always been far too worried about getting cancer ever to try it. He had once accepted a cannabis joint but had been too terrified to inhale.

  He rifled among the pill packets on the floor, found some Valium and downed two tablets with the dregs of the whisky. Finally, he dozed off.

  When he awoke, it was with a single, very clear thought in his mind. He had to finish the translation. He could do nothing with a half-translated manuscript. If he finished it, at least he would have something he could publish. And who knows, maybe in the wake of the arrest the original manuscript would become public property. Or maybe, given what had happened, Kuczynski or his wife could now be persuaded to part with it. After all, he had almost certainly stolen it.

  Stolen. Now the ghost of a plan began to formulate in his mind. What if Eliachim of York’s story was indeed the genuine article—looted by the Nazis from some Jewish library, as so many valuable artifacts were during that period—and then somehow ended up in Kuczynski’s house in Cockfosters; and what if he, Russell, were to…to rescue this stolen masterpiece from its illegitimate custodian and offer it, if not to the descendants of its rightful owners then at least to some Jewish museum somewhere…

  But how would he get it from Kuczynski, who wasn’t even answering his phone? He would somehow have to get him to let him into the house, and then Russell would either persuade him to give it up or even…well, he would just have to take it.

  That couldn’t be theft, could it, since taking something from someone to whom it didn’t belong in the first place couldn’t be stealing. And if anyone asked him why he hadn’t discovered Kuczynski’s true identity earlier, he could say something vague about always suspecting he wasn’t quite as he seemed, or something like that.

  Yes, yes, that would be by far the most elegant solution. His mind returned over and over again to his first meeting with Kuczynski, the sullen hostility of his wife, his first sighting of the manuscript.

  Now Russell felt a righteous anger beginning to burn inside him. He was the victim in all this; yes, this Kuczynski, this imposter, this thief had singled out Russell as merely the latest of his Jewish targets. Why, surely anyone would have fallen for such an elaborate and infernal ruse. Nazi. Murderer. Monster.

  He could wring his neck.

  20

  HE STOOD OUTSIDE Kuczynski’s house, ringing the bell continuously. No reply, but deep in the house Russell thought he heard a door slam. He had that familiar, disconnected sense of having been here before. His head swam. Not now, he thought, no panic feelings now, please, no. He had to do this. Had to.

  He wondered about shouting up from the street; but that would only draw attention to himself. He rummaged for a notebook in the shoulder bag he habitually carried, wrote a note, tore it out and put it through the letterbox. Then he sat on the garden wall to wait. Breathe in, slow, slow; now out, slow, slow.

  She must have been standing just inside the door all the time, because within a couple of minutes the door opened. Veronica’s face was red with anger and hatred.

  “After all you’ve done, you’re now blackmailing us?”

  “I’ve done nothing other than help your husband. If he really is your husband. And I’m certainly not a blackmailer. I’m not the criminal round here.”

  She thrust the note at him. “Threatening to tell the police about that book is blackmail.”

  “So why do the police frighten you? Surely the book can’t be stolen property?”

  She glared at him, but then dropped her eyes.

  “Your husband owes me an explanation.”

  “He owes you nothing,” she spat. “You brought us bad luck. You brought us the police.”

  “Nothing to do with me, I promise you. Your husband brought me here. Now I want to know just what he was playing at.”

  “Go away and leave us alone.”

  She started to shut the door but he stuck his foot inside it. He yelled in pain, but pushed the door back against her. She was very slight and it jammed her against the wall. In the gloom of the hall, he saw Kuczynski hovering.

  “If you don’t let me in,” shouted Russell, “I’ll make sure this whole shitty street hears all about you. If necessary I’ll
knock on every door and tell them myself.”

  Afterwards he marveled at his own sangfroid.

  Kuczynski motioned to his wife. She stood still, radiating hostility, as he shuffled into his front room and Russell followed.

  “I know what you want from me,” said Kuczynski, breathing heavily.

  “Just explain all this to me. I’m totally bewildered.” Russell spread his hands and adopted an expression he hoped suggested he was pained but listening.

  “Vot they saying, I didn’t do. The Germans did it all. They make me scapegoat. I vos Polish patriot.”

  He sat crumpled in his armchair like a used banknote. He looked down fixedly at his knees. Try as he might to see him in a new light as a war criminal, Russell could only see instead a very old man.

  “They say you took part in a Nazi massacre.”

  “I never Nazi. Is filthy lie. Poles wictims of Nazis. Wictims of communists as well. This massacre, communists said Poles did it, put Poles through political trial, beat Poles until they confessed to stop torture. They said Jews burned in barn. I never burned nobody.”

  “Burned in a…They put you on trial?”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No trial, I vos in hospital when trial happened. I had breakdown because of all that happened to us, all I saw. But vos nothing left here.” He put his hand to his head. “Nothing I remembered. All wiped out.”

  All forgotten? “So how do you know you weren’t involved?”

  “I remember later. When I recover and come to UK.”

  Convenient, he thought.

  “No life in Poland under communists after vor. England wery good to me but now they make terrible mistake.”

  “You…You lied to me. You tricked me. Made me believe you were a Jew.”

  “No lie. But you brought police.”

  “What are you talking about? I never said anything to the police. How could I? I knew nothing about you, never heard about this massacre.”

  “British police not like communists. British police wery polite. But they just doing what government tell them. British government want to show they tough against immigrants, Polish pipple. Want to show also they nice to Jewish pipple because so much criticism of Israel. They got rich donors, got to keep them happy. So this win-win for them. But I never do what they say. Some nasty person gave wrong information. Maybe communist. Police don’t tell me vot evidence they have, don’t tell me nothing. You know police, you put them on TV, you friends with them.”

  It was of course preposterous from start to finish. Persecution of Poles, indeed. Russell hated the whole anti-immigration thing, of course; but this arrest was obviously nothing to do with that at all. And was Kuczynski suggesting that Russell should somehow intercede with the police on his behalf?

  You’ve got to be kidding, he opened his mouth to say; but then it dawned on him. A bargain. Kuczynski was making an offer: Eliachim’s story in exchange for a quiet word in the ear of the police and the charge then dropped.

  Well, if that was the way he thought it worked, then clearly he had never really left Poland at all. But what Russell now had to do was play along with him, to suggest that he did indeed have this kind of influence so that he could get the manuscript in return.

  “Well yes, I do know a number of police officers.”

  “So it was you.”

  He swiveled in his chair. He hadn’t realized Veronica had followed him in and was sitting tensely at the table on the other side of the room.

  “I didn’t say that at all. I just said I knew some officers. Very different.”

  He glared at her and turned away. Kuczynski was now looking at him steadily. Russell took a deep breath.

  “You’ve first of all got to tell me why you pretended to be a Jew.”

  Kuczynski sighed deeply, shifted in his chair and closed his eyes.

  “Is painful for me. You see, I swear to God, I love Jews. What British police don’t know, we all got on wery well together, Poles and Jews, no problem at all until communists come.”

  Russell was confused. “The communists? You mean, in 1945 after the war? But we’re talking about during the war, 1941.”

  Kuczynski sighed again. “Now I have to teach you history of Poland. When war started, Soviet Union and Germany made deal…”

  “Yes, I know that, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact…”

  “…so Poland diwided, communists on one side, Germans on other. My town went back and forward like blessed yo-yo: first German for few months, then communist, then German until end of war when communists took over again.

  “My country…she went through much suffering. Many families destroyed: millions were killed. Poland wictim twice over, by Nazis and communists. But Bolsheviks were worst. They were…real devils. They decided who was to live or die on basis of how you made living. Those marked for liqvidation were businessmen, priests, rail station managers. Peasants on the land, these vere protected, although they too liqvidated if showed were loyal to family, to church, to Poland.

  “Russians sent many, many thousands of Poles in cattle trucks to Russia, to Siberia, to labor camps, to prison. Deportations started vinter 1940. First to north Russia. Many died, old people, babies, because of extreme, extreme cold.

  “Second deportations started April 1940 to Siberia, Kazakhstan. My own father, he vos farm manager, he vos sent to Kazakhstan, my brother and my mother, all sent to prison camp. Russian soldiers, they came with bayonets in night, dogs started barking, soldiers broke down door. I ran out back door, hid inside vell. No one come to help, all neighbors too scared, if help they too deported. I never see family again.”

  He blew his nose loudly. Veronica sprang up and hurried over; he waved her away.

  “Jews were Bolsheviks. When communists marched into our town, we see Jews welcoming them with open arms. The baker, he was Jew, he put out for them table with red cloth with bread and salt. But the Poles, we hated communists.”

  “So you hated the Jews too.”

  Yes, thought Russell, that figured, hadn’t the Jews always been called commies, just like his own father. But they’d only joined the party to fight the fascists.

  Suddenly, he understood. The Nazis had wanted to do away with the Jews but had been indifferent to the Poles, other than those who resisted them. So the Poles had no real issue with the Nazis. But Stalin had deported the Poles to populate the empty Russian wastes, just like other troublesome ethnic groups. So the Poles hated the communists with a passion—and the Jews were caught in the backwash. As usual.

  “They talk about killing Jews, massacre. But Jews help massacre Poles. Bolshevik Jews. Jews vorked for NKVD, Bolshevik secret police. They helped Bolsheviks kill thousands of Polish partisans, Polish patriots.

  “I vos partisan fighting Russians. Ve hid in forest. The Bolsheviks, they vere devils. They kill thousands of us. They arrest partisans, promise them to go free, then arrest them when they lay down arms. They torture them in prison, kill them, send hundreds of thousands to Siberia. In Katyn forest in 1940, 15,000 Polish officers shot dead by Bolsheviks in one single action. Another 10,000 the Russians shot in other places in Poland.

  “That vos massacre. But covered up for years, said Germans responsible. No one brings Russians to justice. But British now try to arrest me, claim I guilty of killing Jews. Vy they do this? Maybe because of Jews in government. Jews always vanting to say Polish antisemitism. Jews alvays vanting to make black name of Poland. Vy else accuse me?”

  A sinister Jewish conspiracy. Of course.

  “In 1941, I vos seventeen when Germany vent to vor with Russia. Was great relief to us when Germans arrived. No more deportations to Siberia. Pipple gave Germans flowers as they marched into our town. And they helped Germans uncover all who helped communists.”

  He paused, and wiped his face. It glistened with sweat. He sat silently for a while
, lost in his thoughts. Then he looked at Russell, pleading with his eyes.

  “Ve had to do votever we could to surwive. Votever it took. You have no idea. you cannot know vot is like, not you do just to keep alive another day, another week.”

  He looked away again. A tear glinted as it rolled slowly down his cheek.

  “It was Germans who killed Jews. Not Poles. There is monument in town that says so. Is carved there in vords in stone. You can go see it with your own eyes.”

  He swallowed hard, several times, as if there was a constriction in his throat. Russell glanced round at Veronica, but she just stared back, grimly.

  “That day…the day that this…this thing happened, this thing in barn, they make me do something, but not that, not that…”

  “Who made you? And do what?”

  “They threaten me with gun…the Germans would kill me if I didn’t do it. Every Jew they rounded up in town square. We had to make young ones pull down statue of Lenin that Bolsheviks had put up. I only gave communists taste, small taste, of what they did to us.

  “I vos afraid of these German murderers. I had good reason, believe me. When communists first came in, I hid in woods six months among partisans. But then communists found me, accused me of being part of anti-Soviet underground. So I did deal: they let me stay on farm, and I gave them…information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  Kuczynski’s eyes were expressionless. “Details of area they found useful. I don’t know vy,” he shrugged. “When Germans came in, communists did not destroy all their documents. So I wery frightened Germans think I vos Soviet collaborator.”

  Russell stared at him. How many people must this man have betrayed to the communists? Of course, he would have been terrified that the invading Nazis who swept into his town would have thought he was a Soviet collaborator. Because he had been.

  Now he understood. Fascists, communists—the Poles were under the thumb of both. Both had tortured them, jailed them, killed them. The Poles did what they needed to do to survive. Kuczynski had collaborated with the hated communists to stop them killing him. That had made him terrified of the Nazis when they arrived.