Warsaw

by Richard Foreman

  "Perhaps it's better this way. Absence can now make the heart grow fonder, instead of familiarity bringing contempt," he had sardonically remarked to Thomas whilst smiling, grimly. The Corporal felt for his young friend, but didn't wish to show pity or too much sympathy for fear of an abrasive reaction from the proud, sarcastic youth. Self-pity, in private, was fine however for the student. The Corporal still visited Duritz - though the atmosphere was often muted and strained - and supplied him with what little food he could, but both the visits and supplies had grown sporadic of late.

  The rain and wind hammered upon the pane, preventing sleep.

  Jessica kept her head down and rocked slightly as, holding Kolya's hand, she stood before the gates of the ghetto, waiting to be marched through towards the nearby factory which at present manufactured various Junkers 88 parts for the Luftwaffe. Thomas had organised the new positions and work cards for the brother and sister. So too he had arranged, through the requisite bribe, that the Rubenstein’s should only have to work a half day in the factory - as it was their task also to clean the Corporal's barracks (which Thomas freed them from doing, permitting Jessica and Kolya to return home early each day).

  Akin to Duritz almost, Thomas had taken it upon himself as a religious penance to save Jessica and her brother after their parents were evacuated - as if their survival would partly exonerate him of all those faceless faces who he had unwittingly helped "process" in the Umschlagplatz. But it was not just from a feeling of compassion which spurred the good Corporal on to visit and provide for Jessica. He was stimulated by her company and had grown attracted to her as a woman. She was different. There was something about her. Occasionally he was struck by feelings of guilt for some of his desires. He also justified himself in all manner of ways when he wrote to his wife requesting that she withdraw half of their savings from the bank and send the money to him. If it came to it Thomas would attempt to purchase Jessica's passage out of the ghetto. He was wary of doing so though out of distrusting in any plan's success, for he could well condemn Jessica and her brother to capture and death rather than salvation. So too it could be argued that the soldier tempered any zeal for such a plan because he just didn't want to lose Jessica.

  The fatigued young woman and her increasingly detached brother finally returned home. The morning in the factory had been routine yet arduous. Jessica felt relief, as well as a little shame at her privilege, when thinking upon how her fellow workers would remain in the factory for hours still. Three more people had been executed on the machine floor today. For what? No one did, or could, say.

  Kolya asked to be able to take a nap in their parent's old bed. He said that he was tired and wanted to just read for a bit and then sleep. The real reason however was that he had half a pint of vodka which he wanted to drink in secret. Kolya had drunk a little before he had lost his mother and father, but worryingly so after their sudden, wrenching evacuation. He missed them terribly and often cried in private. He grew resentful of his sister for trying to take his mother's place. He was suspicious and resented his sister for her friendship with one of them. Kolya was pronounced in his sullenness whenever Thomas visited the apartment. He despised the uniform so much, distrusted and condemning anyone who wore it. The drink made him feel better, or numb. The boy even began to take payment for some of his smuggling-runs and errands now in measures of vodka or wine.

  Jessica felt like crying, but couldn't. Partly she was too exhausted. An impenetrable isolation weighed heavily around her neck to the point where she put her head in her hands on the table. Her long hair splayed all around her and masked a singularly sorrowful face. It was as if life, the ghetto, had spooned out all of her innards - and then she had been stuffed with the black cotton wool of grief, which absorbed or annulled all other feelings, thoughts. Her heart fluttered not upon seeing Thomas, like it used to. Jessica looked through the eyes of her mother of the would-be relationship and realised it was wrong. She was grateful for all that he had done for her and Kolya. But her heart pulsated not like it used to when she was with him. She no longer dreamed or day-dreamed about the German in that way. Things were not the same between them. Jessica sensed he felt more of something towards her, but she now felt less for the German. She did - or could - not feel much about anything. Jessica Rubenstein felt alive but dead.

  She pulled out the crumpled up letter again from her faded red cardigan's inside pocket. She made a small fist and tried to smooth out the note and envelope, to little or no avail, upon the wooden table. Jessica had been forced to screw the letter up in a hurry. She had been reading the precious note again in a quiet corner of the factory when she heard someone coming.

  "If you are reading this my dearest Jessica and Kolya then something has happened to us. We love you very much, and do not despair if we have been taken away. We can take care of ourselves my angels, as you must now take care of each other. Jessica, I want you to make a promise to me and yourself to look after your brother. Kolya, you must take care of your sister. Your father and I will be able to suffer any fate as long as we know both of you are going to be safe. Do not be too sad. We have had our time. We have watched with joy being there for you when you were growing up. Your father and I are immensely proud of you, especially after we moved into the ghetto. Jessica, you will find a deserving husband when all this is over. Love him and take care of him, and he should love and take care of you. Kolya, it brings us so much happiness imagining the possibilities of what you will make of your life after the war. You must keep your faith, both in yourselves and God. The one will bring the other. Do not be afraid to see the Rabbi if you are in need of help. Do not look to the past. Do not grieve also, for we will be fine. We love you so much. Which is why we will get through this and all find each after this terrible war."

  Grief knotted the girl's stomach and the candle burned out, exuding darkness.

  16.

  Where once the rain had been cooling in the smelting heat of summer it now lashed down and chilled. Certain diseases (pneumonia, hypothermia, starvation) migrated back with the unsparing climate. Clouds smothered the sky and suffocated the sun, as smoke will drown out and conceal a fire, in an aegis of gloom. A feral species of stench was created by the death-breeding showers. The ghetto seemed colourless or, at best, sepia-tinged. Sunless. But the heavy rain did not, could not, stop the transportations.

  Something had been bothering Yitzhak Meisel for days. He all but ignored the rain coughing down, freezing his furrowed brow to the point of causing him a headache. Usually his eyes would be darting about the street, looking for a score, but today his aspect was filled with a troubled vacancy. His mood was irritable. He fidgeted. So too the policeman was suffering from the effects of a cold which he couldn't seem to shake off. He sniffed constantly from a runny nose and found himself forever licking his sore, chapped lips. Usually Meisel was a good sleeper but he had been up most of the night. The constable's anxiety was triggered from overhearing a conversation by two Polish rail workers. They had been talking about the retribution that the Germans would one day face for what they were doing in Poland.

  "Dead men tell no tales," his sage friend had replied, "How can there be any trial, they'll be no one left to testify against them. Besides, they cannot exactly punish every single one of them - although they're all as guilty as hell."

  The brief exchange had punctured something inside of the policeman and had eventually brought him to the crossroads. He reasoned that a window of opportunity, for him to try and use his position to escape, would only be open for so long. Else he would share the fate of the rest of them. And he was not going to end up like them. Yet fear and foreboding freely chimed through the constable's thoughts. Untrustworthy himself Yitzhak was deeply mistrustful of anyone who he would have to approach to help escape and hide him. Poles gave up Jews everyday. Getting caught would be an instant death sentence. At least if he didn't do anything daring or stupid in the near future he would still have a workable future.

  The
rain temporarily desisted. The tarry filth and grime which streaked along the curbs had turned to slush. Slate coloured clouds, tumour-like, still ominously draped themselves over the sky above. The weather brought a further portent atmosphere to the ghetto as it put the Germans and their Latvian lap-dogs in an even more brutal mood. Even though aware of this Duritz still decided to take some air and a walk. He didn't particularly know why, he just surrendered to the impulse despite the potential danger. For protection, as if it were some ancient enchanted buckler, Adam made sure he carried with him the cyanide pill in case he came across a selection party. At least he would take that away from them - teach them a lesson. Perhaps even a romantic slither of the self-styled Dostoyevskian student wanted to run into one of the devils so that his hand would be forced, his fate finally settled.

  His gait was purposeful but the direction Duritz took to get to no place in particular meandered somewhat. Deep in thought he dug his sweaty hands in his pockets, clutching the small tin which contained the cyanide pill in one palm and a crab apple in the other. He walked with his head down - not wishing to either be distracted or depressed by the harrowing sights around him.

  Kolya took off the sodden rags which he used to cover his shoes. They protected them from wear in the sewers and softened the steps of his hard soles. He hurriedly untied them, panting, shivering. He was late for his delivery. It had not been his fault, the manhole cover at which he was due to collect his bundle (which was filled with cigarettes) had been blocked by a truck. Thankfully the Polish courier on the other side of the transaction had, like Kolya, waited for the truck to move and the two parties concluded their black-market business. Also, thankfully, our Jewish Gavroche knew the sewers like the back of his hand and made good time back to the ghetto through the subterranean darkness and noxious fumes. But he was still late. He didn't want to be late, for the smuggler he was due to deliver to might reduce his payment (paid in the currency of bread and vegetables). Such a delay would upset him, for he was undoubtedly worrying about his merchandise.

  Such was Kolya's industry and talent for appearing to be everywhere at the same time that the youth couldn't fail to be noticed by some of the inhabitants of the ghetto. Yitzhak Meisel was one such inhabitant who had noticed the pint-sized rogue. Up until now he had ignored the courier and rascal. He was too low down the food chain for the policeman to bother himself with. But either Kolya had risen in the policeman's estimation of him or the troubled Meisel decided to track the lad in order to put certain other thoughts at the back of his mind. There was also the reason that the policeman sniffed a score. By the way the boy was clutching the satchel, which was hooked around his body, there must have been something valuable inside it. And so, keeping his distance, whilst at the same time preparing himself to make his move, the gimlet-eyed policeman tracked his victim.

  Kolya too was also aware of the value of his delivery. One of the reasons why he was so anxious about being late was the suspicion that would be heaped upon him. His tardiness might fuel their suspicion should they discover that one or two cigarettes were missing from a few of the packets (which Kolya intended to pocket for himself). He could of course use the scapegoat of the courier on the other side of the ghetto, but ultimately it might lose him future work. Nevertheless, such was the pittance in rations they were paying him (and the fact that just a few cigarettes could equal that pay) Kolya decided to make himself later for his rendezvous by ducking into an alley and transferring a handful of cigarettes from the satchel into the lining of his patched up coat (a converted Caftan).

  Frustratingly the sky began to spit down its greasy drizzle again, numbing his grubby hands whilst also wetting some of the cigarettes. The task was made all the more difficult in the narrow alley by the lack of light and the stench which polluted the air. Momentarily Kolya thought he lost even more light believing that a giant cloud had settled over the ghetto, but to his misfortune he realised that the cloud was really someone's shadow as he simultaneously felt warm breath chill the back of his bird-like neck.

  A short, powerful arm shoved the elfin child aside. Kolya's right shoulder blade slammed into the rough brick wall, to be followed quickly by the back of his head. Although disorientated a surge of adrenaline nevertheless propelled the boy forward to try and attack his assailant and retrieve the precious bag. Meisel was far too strong and remorseless though. He grinned at and relished the boy's pathetic retaliation and battle cry. Fists flailed from the youth, but not one of them connected as the policeman stuck out an arm and grabbed the urchin by the throat. Once locked in his unflinching grip the brutal constable brought his other fist down upon the terrified face as it were a hammer. The punch, blood-letting both Kolya's nose and bottom lip, knocked him to the floor. No sooner had the boy the chance to realise where he was than an agonising pain doubled him up as Meisel, fighting the only way he knew how - dirty and viciously - brought the heel of his boot down upon the young courier's groin. Sobbing and reeling upon the ground, a hot and heavy pain sitting upon his face - his innards seemingly mangled - the ordeal was still not over. As quick as the attack was it felt like it would never end. The horror swelled. Curled up in the foetal position, his thin arms covering his head, the constable ended his display of power and by kicking his victim in the ribs. A couple cracked. The boy's torso purpled soon after.

  Afterwards Kolya could not rightly recall whether he passed out but the next thing he clearly remembered from the episode was his attacker coolly smoking a cigarette whilst counting the number of packets contained in his bag. Things were a blur but Kolya must have stirred sufficiently for the policeman to notice and address him.

  "By rights I should be arresting you for this - and you know what that means - but I'm willing to turn a blind eye towards this if you are. Eh?" Meisel said and laughed a little whilst taking a visibly pleasurable drag upon his cigarette. Feeling as if there were an anvil upon his chest and that parts of his brain and body had been unplugged all Kolya could do was absorb the misery and sob, weakly. His pitiable expression was part feigned though, as well as genuine, for Kolya realised that making the policeman feel sorry for him was the only card he had left to play. But it was all in vain.

  "You can tell your employers that the delivery wasn't made, or tell them the truth that it was stolen. Either way, I don't want this thing coming back to me. If it does, you and your family will not last the week. Are you listening?"

  Kolya nodded his head as best he could to show his compliance. As he looked up at the policeman though his eyes couldn't help but flitter at the figure behind him. As much as Kolya here served to warn Meisel of the presence of another it was still too late for him. Before the policeman had time to even recognise his assailant a fist, enlarged from it clutching an apple, violently smashed into his face - the bony knuckles crunching into the cartilage of his already crooked nose. The policeman stumbled back from the force of the blow and might have lost his footing but for him falling against the wall. Yitzhak winced in pain and shook his head a little as if to shake off his disorientation. The constable instinctively reached for his cudgel. Duritz should have followed up his initial blow, but didn't. He just stood with his fists clenched - his nostrils flared in indignation - and waited for Meisel's response.

  The policeman experienced a rush of blood but yet was immediately tempered by his instinct for survival. Even if it was not the case Yitzhak Meisel felt like a dove to Duritz's hawk - a bully, bullied. He grimaced and satisfactorily issued

  "That's it, you're a dead man."

  "Then we've finally got something in common Yitzhak."

  Without taking his eyes off the villainous policeman Adam helped the dazed and enfeebled boy to his feet, holding him up by clasping the jacket and shirt collar as a lion might carry its young by the scruff of the neck. Wary of not turning his back on the policeman, lest he attacked or made a sudden departure to find a fellow constable, Duritz and Kolya retreated back down the alley.

  The blood from his nose drippe
d down his face, diluted by the rain, and moistened Yitzhak Meisel's sore lips. The policeman suppressed any feelings of humiliation and pain by wading in the waters of revenge and malice. His other four would be but faceless shadows - just so long as Duritz made up the five. He pictured himself kicking down the arrogant student's door, torturing him and sending him to his death. Or a fate worse than death. Looking daggers at anyone who stared at him Meisel eventually made his way home with the satchel of cigarettes over his shoulder.

  Duritz and a bloodied Kolya breathlessly jogged a couple of blocks - or rather Duritz carried the boy - to make their escape. As a respite from their tiredness and the pummelling rain they took shelter in the entrance to a decrepit apartment block. Not particularly knowing what to say to the boy Duritz smiled awkwardly at Kolya. Both were unsure as to whether one recognised the other so they mentioned it not (Duritz, understandably, was nervous as to how much the boy knew of him - especially if his sister had said anything).

  "Thanks," Kolya finally said having regained his breath.

  "I should be the one thanking you. I've be waiting for a chance to do that to Yitzhak Meisel for ages. My only regret is that having disfigured him, he might now look handsome."

  Kolya laughed, albeit it hurt his ribs to do so, but then suddenly cursed himself for forgetting the bag and told his rescuer of the stupid mistake. Duritz eased the boy's anxieties by asking who the package was intended for. Duritz not only knew them but the smuggler owed him a favour (yet still Kolya would receive a rebuke and have to make his next run for nothing after the ex-policeman had spoken to the black-marketer about the theft). The shower refused to abate so the unorthodox pair found themselves getting to know each other. Adam couldn't help but be impressed by the youth; he was confident, intelligent, and brave. Kolya too couldn't help but open up to the rebellious ex-policeman. He found comfort in the strange friend, or friendly stranger, when he unburdened himself about the injustice, grief, of the evacuation of his parents. He tried to console the boy by saying that his mother and father were now in a better place. When Duritz said it to Kolya he believed it.