Warsaw

by Richard Foreman

  9.

  Adam smiled to himself, immersed and removed from the scene at the same time. The copper rays of the morning sun flooded into his usually tenebrous room. The air seemed sweeter and - perhaps Duritz just hadn't noticed him before - a robin or sparrow chirruped outside his window as if he were a herald to the new day. How pathetic Duritz momentarily thought to himself, that such material, immaterial, phenomena in nature should influence his mood so. But then the young lover evaporated such dry thoughts from his head in an instant. It was a good morning, the best he could remember for a while.

  Eventually, Adam and Anna had made love to each other. Firstly - awkwardly and quickly upon the bed but then, just as the woman was about to leave, up against the wall. Adam showered her with hungry, purposeful kisses, stroking and massaging her voluptuous body. Anna sighed sweetly, musically, with pleasure as the cherishing lover ran his warm hand up her skirt and stimulated her. Their feeling bodies, moans and her low purrs of satisfaction were all the communication that was needed between them. They made love, considerately, passionately. They pleasured each other. Her face, sweating, singing, contorted was almost comic as Anna orgasmed. Beautiful. As if in harmony, sensing his work was done, Adam heartily ejaculated in ecstasy and relieved himself. Both panted. Anna still had her arms around his neck as Adam gently kissed her stomach, breasts, nape and then mouth. The couple lovingly looked each other in the eyes, appreciative, grinning, a little giggly and embarrassed. For the next hour or so they just lay upon the bed, holding each other, until Anna eventually left to go upstairs.

  Duritz, unburdened and liberated, looked back not just on the sex though with a fond expression upon his flushed semblance. They had shared their thoughts and characters too. Anna had spoken of her plan to leave the ghetto soon. She had gained friends, customers, in relatively high places. She had saved up some money and could afford to go into hiding, or she could become the full-time mistress to one of the high-ranking officials in the Judenrat who she saw regularly. Adam agreed with Anna in that she could pass herself off as Polish with the right papers. Anna was "good" looking as the phrase went to describe a Jew who could pass themselves off as being a gentile.

  It was unclear who spoke first in regards to the topic - but Anna criticised Duritz and the ex-policeman apologised for his treatment towards the prostitute in their relationship before. She brought up how attentive and different he had been when they first met and were lovers. But then soon after he began to change, to be cold towards her and withdraw into himself. She thought that they were beginning to mean something to each other. He tried to explain that it was because he was feeling something towards her that he had changed. The ghetto was not the place for attachments. But then directly afterwards Duritz contradicted himself, as if it had dawned upon him at that very moment, that if the ghetto wasn't a place for attachments, where was? He told Anna how much he regretted his mistreatment of her - and the sadness he felt at losing her friendship altogether.

  Adam hesitantly asserted how he didn't want to now take advantage of Anna for fear of losing her friendship again. "Maybe it'll be the case that I'll be taking advantage of you," Anna replied with a pretty, saucy expression and bouquet of laughter. The vodka helped. It had been a long time since his chamber had welcomed such sights and sounds.

  Adam’s face broadened and glowed as he remembered that expression again, lying alone in bed with the striking woman on his mind. He had said to her that he wasn't jealous, or looked down on her because of her profession. Anna believed him because she knew he wouldn't lie. They decided to just take it one day, night, at a time. Both somehow knew the precious value of their second chance. Adam's pulse couldn't help but quicken, his heart leap with prospective pleasure, in painting Anna into his future - even if the future meant just another month. Finally Jessica was truly dead and thoughts of her would torment Duritz no longer. But she had been dead to him before.

  He stayed in bed for a couple of hours, uncommonly warm, comfortable.

  Yet, whether Duritz chose to hear them or not, the whistles still shrilled, the dogs still barked and the grumblings of trucks continued to resonate through the condemned streets outside.

  An old classroom. Grey-green pieces of chewing gum were still stuck in between some of the floorboards. Clusters of rhythmic, random knocks and clicks sounded out across the room as small armies of chess pieces were moved and taken. Privates and officers alike played, for recreation and money. The men were off duty, tense and relaxed. Cigarette smoke strummed through the air. The odd bottle of beer clinked or was guzzled upon. Collars were undone. Conversations were as loud as it they were incoherent. Laughter chugged out like smoke from a steam engine. A couple of fellows yawned, one because he was tired, the other pretending to be exhausted to cover up an ignominious defeat.

  Thomas Abendroth and Oscar Hummel were in between games. The last had been won by the Private. Oscar had sensed his friend had been preoccupied throughout most of the match. The seasoned soldier had noticed the increasing self-imposed isolation and black moods of his Corporal. He was not just now worried for Thomas himself but also the effect on morale his behaviour was having on the platoon.

  "A bottle of beer for your thoughts."

  "I fear that they're not worth that much."

  "I hope then that you're not thinking upon your wife. Remember that, more than any Reich or Fuhrer, you're fighting to get back to your family. And for this platoon."

  "I still can't quite decide whether I'm fighting for everything or nothing. I'd kill for another beer though."

  Oscar handed over another warm beer from their dwindling supply. Thomas bit off the top and tossed it into the ashtray, already over brimming with previous metal caps. He used to keep them for making the wheels on the toy trucks and cars he produced - but not anymore. The Corporal cocked his head back and, in two gulps, finished half of the bottle. His thirst was quenched and left unsatisfied at the same time, half-soused and half dehydrated. Increasingly drink was becoming the good soldier's vice, medicine. It took the edge off of things.

  Laughter burst out of a corner of the room from a trio of SS personnel. They had just been told about the scene from the morning. Hans Free, the self-appointed jester of their troop, had been up to one of his tricks again (or at least everyone named him as the likely culprit). During the night he had dressed one of the Jews up, who had been hanging in the old market square, in a bowler hat and black jacket in imitation of Charlie Chaplin. He had also fastened a cane over his stiff hand and coloured in the signature moustache with boot polish. The singular piece of hilarity though and talking point was the dry punch line written upon a wooden placard which hung around the dead Jew's neck - "Gallows Humour".

  Thighs were slapped and beer bottles clunked upon the table. The young bacchants squealed with amusement. Oscar pursed his lips and made a face in thinly veiled contempt. But what did the young know of manners, restraint and virtue? They couldn't even remember what life was like before the Reich, never mind what Germany was like before the Great War.

  Their exuberance subsided when the numbers in the room increased, as Lieutenant Kleist and a handful of his SS cronies made their entrance. Sartorial in his uniform, handsomely tanned and clean shaven, the officer seemed to have taken particular care in his appearance. He smiled and nodded in appreciation at some of the men, instructing bottles of beer to be given out by one of his entourage as he made his way through the room. A good General should be conscious of morale - Caesar realised. He was glad to see the men entertain themselves. It helped relieve the strain of the day's exertions. Kleist approached a slightly bemused Thomas and Oscar. Dozens of heads appeared to be on pivots as they traced the infamous officer's path down the room to where Thomas Abendroth was sitting. What did he want with him? Had Thomas gone too far in interacting and helping the Jews? Had someone informed on him? But the platoon's unofficial commanding officer wouldn't be intimidated by the ruthlessly efficient SS Lieutenant. It was no secret that Thoma
s, along with a number of his fellow comrades from the Wehrmacht unit, was far from impressed with some of the SS's methods and sadistic foot-soldiers.

  "Heil Hitler," Christian equitably exclaimed as he reached the pair, though it was clear he was addressing the Corporal. Thomas and Oscar returned the salute and stood to attention. Both would feel acute regret and the unease of cowardice for giving the salute later on that evening, but they were wise enough not to wish to antagonise the fanatical SS officer. Thomas met and tried to discern the Lieutenant's intentions from his expression.

  "Please, sit down men," Christian said and smiled pleasantly, politely allowing the men to sit first. Without having to ask for one a chair was found and placed around the table for the Lieutenant. Christian carefully removed his cap - handing it to the same duteous youth who had found the chair - and smoothed his already well groomed hair before sitting. On others Thomas thought that the Death's Head insignia looked ridiculous, a child's badge, but upon Kleist the demonic skull exuded a more menacing portent. The officer grinned, although his cold bright eyes remained discordant from the rest of the amiable expression on his face.

  "Sorry to interrupt gentlemen. Would you be so kind - Oscar, isn't it? - as to excuse us? I wish to have a word with your Corporal in private."

  Oscar darted a look at Thomas, as if to receive instruction from his Corporal to say he was okay with the situation. His friend replied by smiling reassuringly at him and nodding that he was fine. Although Christian was a little rankled by this old soldier's subtle gesture, that he should need the authority and sanctioning of a Wehrmacht Corporal to question the request of an SS officer, he refrained from showing it. He was pleased however to see a couple of his SS comrades show their displeasure and superiority over the Private by offering him certain disdainful looks. An awkward moment occurred as Oscar got up and the horseshoe of the SS entourage blocked the Private's exit. Yet, through the brawling look in his eye and his heavy-set figure, the SS line gave way and Oscar earned a minor, petty victory. The old soldier smirked, not only to display his satisfaction and further goad his despicable counterparts - but so too Oscar pictured the enjoyment he would have experienced in teaching the sick-minded bastards a lesson. Stripped of their uniforms they were just spoiled brats or psychotics.

  "That'll be all. You know your duties," Christian issued sternly, disappointed in the backbone of his men and the way it reflected upon himself - that an old grizzled Private could have shown them all up. Nevertheless, as his unit departed, Christian again smiled at Thomas and glanced at the chess board.

  "I hear you are an accomplished player."

  "I wouldn't go that far. I've been known to snatch the odd draw in the face of defeat, but also the odd stalemate in the face of victory."

  Modesty was not one of Christian Kleist's strengths, the afore he didn't particularly value it in others. Nor was he ever a fan of self-effacing humour - but the Lieutenant could admire the swift originality and wit of the reply. It served to remind him of Thomas Abendroth's history, that he was no ordinary Wehrmacht soldier.

  "To play for a stalemate should never be an option. One must either win or lose. Chess is like war in that respect is it not Corporal?"

  "In that it can be a long drawn out affair when I play, yes. But I can see your point."

  Both men smiled, albeit differently, to themselves. They both enjoyed the verbal sparring. Any open animosity shown would be ungentlemanly. Both men were confident. Both were holding their own inner dialogues, as well as being considerate in their conversation. Thomas knew that any ill-judged word or piece of insolence could play right into the hands of the combustible SS officer. Ultimately Kleist, his rank, held the upper hand. Yet how, perhaps fuelled by the drink, Thomas wished to walk the tightrope and tarnish the image of the monstrous Lieutenant - not only for his own personal satisfaction but so too for the honour of his unit, who devoured the scene from sipping glances and focusing their bat-like hearing in their direction.

  "I do believe we have a meeting of minds here Corporal. Would you like a game? I must ask you that you give me your best game, despite my rank. Should I lose however I will then of course advise you to throw the second match."

  Thomas raised a corner of his mouth in a smile at the officer's joke, but inside he was marshalling his resentment and wits to commence battle with the Nazi. He still wondered about Kleist's intent, as Kleist himself wondered if the intelligent Corporal would be able to discern his true purpose in regards to their meeting. Christian was white, Thomas black. After a few moves each and on Thomas' turn the Lieutenant commenced to question - and distract - his opponent.

  "I feel somewhat guilty Thomas - if I may call you Thomas? - for I have a slight advantage over you I warrant. I attended the same University as yourself when younger and, of course to only a small extent, I feel like I know you already from reading your file and knowing of your reputation through the college."

  But for a moment Thomas paused and felt a shard of vulnerability and disadvantage, but then replied.

  "I fear that we've both changed - for good or ill - from our University days, have we not Lieutenant?"

  Halina Rubenstein's hands ached, as if someone had plunged her bones into boiling - or freezing - water. Rheumatism. And there was nothing for the pain. She had just finished, or amended, writing yet another letter to her children. It was the one, kept beneath the floorboards with what little valuables the family had left, which said goodbye to her darling Jessica and Kolya and instructed them in what they were to do should she and their father be taken away. More and more over the past week or so Halina had obsessed over the contents and tone of the note. Re-writing. Re-writing. Sentimental. Practical. Authoritative.

  The dull rheumy eyes of her husband rested upon her as Halina wrote and talked to herself while drafting the letter. Halina often asked his advice on what and how to put something, or if he too had anything special he wanted to say in the letter, but for the most part Solomon Rubenstein remained inexpressive or at best monosyllabic. He shrugged his shoulders or occasionally nodded in assent when his wife read parts of the note back to him. But his pebble of a heart wasn't in it. The once active doctor - a member of the Warsaw Liberal Club, keen angler, devoted husband and father - only became animated now in his fits of coughing or when he compulsively scratched his scalp or skin rashes. He would scour till the skin would break and bleed. Halina even had to trim his nails a day or so ago to prevent the doctor from further doing harm to himself.

  Both players were schooled enough in the game to desire to control the centre of the board - and both had been willing to sacrifice pieces to do so. Christian Kleist however had proved himself the more successful and aggressive player in achieving the upper hand, to the point of ignoring or dismissing his opponent's superiority along the sides of the board. Partly to put Thomas off, and partly from intrigue, the Lieutenant was confrontational in his conversation as well as in his play. Out of the blue he unassumingly exclaimed

  "Do you still write? I think I still might even have an old copy of your book of poetry somewhere on a shelf back home."

  "I'm too busy writing out cheques for my wife to indulge in writing anything else nowadays I'm afraid."

  A thin smile laced Christian Kleist's smooth features but internally he was frustrated with the Corporal's glib humour. Not a single bead of sweat was dotted upon the Corporal's countenance whilst the Lieutenant grew increasingly hot and uncomfortable in his tightly worn uniform. In between moves he began to blow cold air out of the side of his mouth to cool his sweat-glazed face, or he would shuffle in his damp chair. Questions were deflected. Attacks nullified by a strategy which was almost deliberately designed to engineer a draw. Yet at least the officer had now been gifted an opening in terms of a certain subject he wished to broach.

  "I can certainly sympathise with being too busy to have any leisure time of late. I feel like I am as much a clerk as a soldier sometimes. Actually, I'd be grateful for your advice Corporal o
n a related topic. To help me with my administrative duties I'm toying with the idea of employing a secretary. For reasons of security I'd rather recruit someone from our ranks, rather than from the civilian population."

  The Lieutenant noted the slight change - the inquisitive narrowing of the eyes - in the Wehrmacht Corporal's expression. Thomas Abendroth was indeed curious and suspicious as to the sudden change of subject. For a second or two Thomas was worried that Kleist might have been trying to recruit him for the position.

  "You have a young Private in your platoon, a Dietmar Klos. What are your thoughts on his suitability and character?"

  "It's a shame that sometimes his ability and judgement do not match his enthusiasm for things, but I cannot give him a poor reference - if that's what you’re asking."

  "If, as you say, he possesses enthusiasm and a willingness to please then the correct abilities and forms of judgement may be moulded into him I dare say. The position could ultimately prove advantageous to the youth, not only from the experience he will glean - but so too his position will secure him exemption from any transfer to the Eastern Front. Should he have a fiancé, or even sweetheart, this would be an incentive would it not for him to accept the post? Do you know by chance if indeed the boy does have a girl back home, or is engaged to be married?"

  "I've heard him talk of his family back home occasionally, but no, I do not believe he's seriously attached."

  Something inside of Thomas, the itch of suspicion or strangeness, began to stir. Something was amiss. Although the position could indeed prove advantageous for the lad Thomas grew afeared that he might have sealed the decision for Dietmar to be recruited onto the dangerous officer's staff.

  "Are you not worried that Klos might be too inexperienced for the post?"