Warsaw

by Richard Foreman

  "Your sister is right Kolya. It is late. It's also been a long day, for both of us. I'm sorry Miss Rubenstein. I got carried away in reading to Kolya," he said, attempting a conciliatory smile which was far from reciprocated.

  "You are also wasting the light," the woman replied, in reference to the candle still burning by their beds. Jessica then, without another word said, returned to her room.

  As a result of sleeping for a couple of hours earlier that evening - and being understandably restless - Jessica found it difficult to get back to sleep. On one hand she wished she could just blank the conversations out but on the other she amplified her hearing to catch what they were saying. Either way Jessica was tormented and kept awake from the whispers fluttering in from the adjoining room. Duritz appeared to be giving Kolya instructions on certain German words and phrases. He listened and repeated intently. Occasionally she would also hear Kolya laugh. Increasingly that night - and the following morning - Jessica dreaded the argument that would ensue when she would have to inform Kolya that the ex-policeman could not stay. But it had to be done.

  For a brief interlude that awful evening Jessica was tempted by the thought of handing the fugitive over to the authorities. It would but take a duteous word in someone's ear. She and Kolya might even receive a reward for it. Although she could do it to him she would not feel right in terms of Thomas. Mama would have been strong enough, Jessica reasoned however and achingly remembered her again. She did not get the chance to say goodbye. The ungrateful but loving daughter did not get the chance to say sorry or thank you - for so many things.

  18.

  Kolya's liveliness continued from the previous night into the next day. Jessica had to admit to herself that she had not seen Kolya this happy since before their parents were taken away. As soon as they left the apartment he tried to make the case for the advantage of Adam remaining with them. He possessed valuables and contacts that they could use. It would also be wrong - "Mama and Papa would not approve" - if they abandoned him. The ex-policeman had after all saved Kolya; the man was in trouble because of him in a way. And didn't Jessica want to defy the Germans, just once? Kolya subtly hinted too that the Corporal would now visit them even more because of his friendship with Adam.

  At first Jessica just attempted to ignore her brother's pestering conversation as they walked towards their meeting place at the gates of the ghetto, where they would be marched to the factory. She commented upon the weather - how cold it was - and if Kolya was wearing enough clothes. In response to Kolya saying how they might need Adam to be there should they ever be liberated Jessica merely asked if he had his ration of bread in his pocket. In the end though, Jessica had to address the issue.

  "I think you think that I should let him stay because he helped you Kolya. But what I have to do is help us by not harbouring him. If he's caught we'll suffer the same fate. He cannot stay," Jessica stated, her head vehemently shaking as she did so. Before Kolya could articulate the vehemence behind his own determined aspect however Jessica silenced him,

  "That's enough on the subject Kolya. We're here. I don't want anyone overhearing you."

  Kolya sulked and was hotly frosty towards his sister for the rest of the morning and afternoon. But ultimately he understood Jessica's decision. It was the right, or rather practical, thing to do. Strangely however, just as Kolya was submitting in his mind to his sister's authority to release Adam from being their responsibility, Jessica's resolve to do that exact same thing ebbed and waned. What with Kolya not speaking to his sister throughout the day she had time to consider the subject. The ex-policeman could indeed prove valuable in terms of his influence and possessions. The attraction of the power she would hold over her former tormentor - that she both knew his sordid secret and could damn him at any moment - also coloured Jessica's thoughts in an unassumingly dramatic moment as she worked fastening hinges onto aircraft tool boxes. Jessica considered giving him a stay of execution. She would allow him to stay for a couple of extra days should Thomas not be able to arrange an immediate alternative, partly because of her love and debt to Kolya.

  Thomas woke up late that day but still he was tired. His throat was sore and he felt groggy - symptoms which often presaged a cold for the Corporal. As briskly as he had travelled through the ghetto the night before to get to his unit's billet he had been drenched by the sleeting rain. The aroma of the pungent coffee and bacon which Oscar Hummel had made helped stimulate Thomas' senses however and overpowered his desire to go back to sleep.

  "Morning. That smells nice."

  "It tastes even better," Oscar replied, his face screwed up with childish delight as he spoke whilst chewing a piece of fatty bacon. The Private proceeded to dish out a couple of rashers onto an empty metal plate and pass them to his Corporal. He also handed over a steaming cup of treacly black coffee.

  "Thanks. What time is it?" Thomas asked, and then yawned. There were rings around his usually sociable eyes. He stretched his stiff joints beneath the blankets of his bed.

  "It's nearly midday. Late night?" Oscar intoned, his eyebrows arched. Oscar all but winked. Thomas couldn't help but note the suggestion in the Private's expression.

  "It's not what you think."

  "If it was, I don't think I'd want to know. I just hope that the soaking you got last night has cooled you off and brought you to your senses. All it needs is if for some SS - or worse one of them Gestapo bastards - to find out about a German soldier and some Jewish girl and then you really would be fucked! The rest of the platoon probably would be as well. I'm being serious Thomas. You've been conspicuous by your absence of late. I've covered for you a couple of times but there have been things said in the unit. If one of your Privates shirked his duties and distanced himself from the men you'd want to know why, or you'd want to straighten him out. It's not as your most senior Private that I'm telling you this, it's as a friend. You should also think of this girl. Every time you see her you're endangering her also."

  Only afterwards did the Corporal fully appreciate how Oscar had pre-planned the scene. He had never prepared breakfast for his Corporal before in such a way; so too his reproaching speech appeared rehearsed. Both men were a little uncomfortable during the pause which succeeded Oscar's short lecture but so too both men realised that it needed to be said. As much as Thomas knew Oscar to be right however, a sense of irritation mingled with his tiredness and the Corporal's expression displayed not the gratitude and graciousness his heart would later feel towards his friend.

  "I thank you for your counsel Private - and also the coffee and bacon - but it's somewhat difficult to feel shame and moral inferiority in the face of men who disapprove of me visiting the ghetto and helping out a Jewish family - whilst they say and do nothing in the face of the SS sending thousands of innocent people to their deaths everyday."

  Thomas stopped eating. Oscar got up and left, upset by his friend's reaction. Yet the old soldier still felt better for having saying what needed to be said.

  Not having anyone he could call a friend, Meisel had to bribe a couple of his fellow policemen to help apprehend Duritz on the evening of his attack. His nose was still swollen but what smarted most was the humiliation he felt in the eyes of the sheep of the ghetto (who reported his injuries with understandable glee to each other). Yitzhak quickly licked his wounds however, in the shape of soaking his nose in cold water, and resolved to pay the cowardly Jew back as soon as possible. The man's revenge fired his imagination - and so too his imagination fired his ire - as the trio of thuggish constables marched towards the ex-policeman's building after finishing their rounds attending to curfew. They missed their quarry by two hours.

  Restless, Yitzhak Meisel rose with the sterile dawn and took himself around to Duritz's building the next day, his unwashed hands buried in the deep pockets of his cloth overcoat - wrapped around a cudgel and a kitchen knife respectively. He was not expecting his enemy to be there. The state of his room last night suggested that the fugitive would be gone for good, b
ut still the policeman was compelled to re-visit the quarters, if only to satisfy the urge and re-heat the trail in terms of finding the cur. He knocked upon the doors of the rooms on the same floor. A few answered and the policeman brusquely asked them if they knew or saw anything (stealing the breakfast of an ailing widower on one occasion as he did so). Again Meisel left the lice-ridden, condemned building frustrated. He snorted. The bruising ache of his nose served to remind the policeman of his mission and spurred him on. Such was the power and rage of the inner dialogue that plagued the constable that it forced itself to find release through open, audible speech. Meisel mumbled to himself like a man possessed, or one cursing his luck.

  "I'm gonna enjoy it. You've even given me something to live for. I'll fucking find you. Yeah, you had to attack me from behind. Piece of shit. I'm not gonna even fucking kill you now. No, there are punishments worse than death."

  A spurt of refreshing laughter, a rare and dangerous occurrence in the ghetto, punctuated the street. It emanated from a couple of musicians, one Henryk and his cousin Samuel, who were on their way to the cafe where they worked. They both played the violin. Intense with animus, scowling and furnace-eyed the policeman took his frustration out on the two insolent Jews (partly just because he could, and partly because Meisel imagined that they were laughing at him - and imagining it was motive enough).

  "Where are you two going? Or do you want me to decide where you're heading?"

  "We're musicians. We've got work cards. We play at the cafe in the square," Samuel issued back, a little too assertively for both Yitzhak Meisel's and his cousin Henryk's liking. Beneath his lank hair and withered face Samuel appeared to be in his late-thirties, but his tone (and laugh earlier) betrayed his twenty-two years. The policeman grinned, sneering at the youth as if he were amused by the Jew's impudence or thankful for his provocation.

  "I've heard you both play. In putting you out your misery I'll be doing others a favour too,” the policeman exclaimed, pleased with his display of cruel wit.

  The rumble of the engine and its tires upon the gritty road was distinct from the usual bass snarling of the trucks which serviced the ghetto. The sound was more refined, smoother, but not as unfamiliar to the policeman's ears as he first supposed. It dawned upon Meisel what it was as the vehicle crept around the corner and into view. A black limousine. Gestapo. A debilitating fear thudded into the policeman's chest. Meisel remembered the terrifying weeks when they seemed to be ever present (omnipresent) in the ghetto. Partly to line their own pockets through confiscating valuables, partly to ensure that their machine and its cogs were well greased, they descended upon the ghetto like vultures, or demons. Even now they were unreal, unholy apparitions - arbitrary judges, juries and executioners who even the SS feared.

  It was him, sitting in the back of the car. Like before he was slowly swivelling his head from side to side. Like before he looked bored, or tired - as if he had just finished a large meal and he was due to sleep. But like before those dull eyes behind thick, tortoiseshell glasses could spring to life and his expression could become as hawkish and unforgiving as a Priest's. Meisel's heart pounded as the car glided towards him. He would not make eye contact, but yet the policeman was, head bowed, still compelled to track the funereal vehicle. Meisel had witnessed the Gestapo officer, Klum, coldly execute a policeman as if he were no more than just another Jew. It was a hot, sticky afternoon at the start of the summer. The Gestapo officer, sweat glazed across his long vulpine features, emerged from out of his pristine car flanked by two fellow Gestapo officers, Lieutenant Kleist and a young SS Private who accompanied the SS officer. Klum mopped his brow and Kleist, who seemed to be familiar and comfortable with the Gestapo man, led him over to a table at a cafe in the square. The two officers and their staff quenched their thirst with some lemonade. The proprietor of the cafe then fetched the last of his cognac. The party seemed to be in a good mood and laughter often emanated from the table. Meisel watched them all from across the square. Such was the lack of intent and threat from the group that the area even tentatively became populated again. Suddenly however Klum whispered something into Kleist's ear, smiling wickedly. Not two minutes later three Jews (two men and a young woman) had been commandeered by their staff and a Jewish policeman. By this time Meisel had moved closer, half hidden behind some rusty railings and a large shrub in the square. No sooner were the three Jews stood in a row before them than Klum rose to his feet, slowly removing and cocking his pistol (as if to alert his victims to their fate and torture them more). He methodically shot each of them at two second intervals. The shots echoed around the ghetto but few souls flinched (it had become the norm by then). Klum turned around and nodded to his party after the shots were fired, making a face as if to say, "was that fair, are you happy?" The reason why he did so Meisel would learn was that Klum and his party were conducting an experiment - and also gambling. The Gestapo officer had deliberately shot the Jews in three separate, distinct places; one bullet he fired into a man's groin, in the next instance he shot a man in the stomach and lastly he fired point-blank range into the girl's chest. Klum and Kleist were conducting an experiment and betting upon which victim would bleed to death soonest. Before the Gestapo officer sat back down however he spoke to Kleist again. The conversation but lasted a moment or two, during which the Lieutenant pointed at first to his chest and then at the policeman who seemed to be standing on sentry duty to the party - in case his employers needed anything else. They did. Klum nodded in assent to something his friend said and he turned around and shot the young constable in his left shoulder. For the next hour or so the party sat in the square drinking and laughing, only really taking an interest in their victim's fate when one of them believed that a death had occurred. Meisel could not remember who won the wager - but money definitely changed hands. Only the policeman failed to bleed to death during the sweltering afternoon. The party finished their drinks and got up to leave as if the fly-infested bodies strewn in front of them were invisible. Meisel believed that the policeman would have survived, if only he had played dead. Yet as Klum was leaving he dumbly spoke to the Gestapo officer. Ironically, he begged for his life. Insulted by being dared spoken to by the policeman, or maybe Klum was just irritated from losing the wager he coldly dispatched the grovelling Jew by first shooting him in each of his limbs - and then twice in the face.

  Meisel dreaded the limousine stopping now. Klum only took an interest in Jews he wanted to execute. The Gestapo officer would not differentiate between a policeman and a couple of musicians. A chill ran down the constable's back as if a millipede was crawling along his spine. Meisel even offered up a comic prayer that the "black angel" (Klum wore a black suit, black polished shoes and occasionally a black fedora hat) would disappear and ascend back up to heaven - or rather descend back down to hell. Klum yawned and then picked the remnants of his lunch of cold hams out of his teeth with his tongue. Sometimes he looked like an intellectual - but in a sadistic flash he could then resemble a heartless gangster. In truth he had once been that species of humanity in between - a lawyer.

  The black car purred by. The trio literally breathed a sigh of relief. Their blanched faces betrayed the common knowledge of how close a call it had been. Maybe because of the shared experience with the musicians - the gladness of a sense of a reprieve - Meisel was no longer in the mood to deal with the Jews. He went home and lubricated his bitter thoughts towards Duritz over a bottle of red wine.

  A week later an SS officer, not in the mood for a bribe (or maybe the bribe was not significant enough), ordered the Polish proprietor of the cafe that he only needed one violinist. Having had a long day - and not one for sentiment or drama - the owner told Samuel and Henryk to sort the situation out between themselves as to who would stay and who would volunteer to be selected. They drew straws, not having a coin to toss. Henryk won, or lost - depending on which way you looked at it.

  Hunger filled his belly but Duritz vowed that he would not help himself to any of the
food in the household. His masochistic discipline was borne from the fact that not only did he want to create a good impression on the woman of the house - but so too he wanted to prove to himself that he had the character for such abnegation. Duritz also suitably denied satiating the curiosity he was filled with in going through Jessica's things (did she have a diary?). He picked up a book and read the closing soliloquy of Richard II ("love to Richard/ Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world") and began to read As You Like It but found himself distracted and put the book down. There are no happy endings Duritz mused to himself. He crossed over to the window. For ten minutes he sat upon a chair and stared out of it, absorbing the new view. At one point Duritz couldn't help but smile with bewilderment as he witnessed a man pushing a empty handcart - which had oval shaped wheels - along the street. As he watched the man struggle however with the contraption, nicknaming him "Sissyphus", Duritz was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of admiration and compassion for the old man. Tears welled in his young, doleful eyes.

  Duritz desperately wanted to stay in the house, because of Kolya and Jessica. His thoughts raced at the possibility of finding sanctuary with the family he had once sworn to protect and save. Was this not more than just coincidence? Was there a divine plan for things? Also, Adam had nowhere else to go. At first he drafted in his mind a begging letter so to speak, filled with soulful gratitude and promises of repaying his debt. Moreover, although he felt bad about it, Duritz was willing to instil a sense of guilt in his hosts to get his way. But shouldn't they fill guilty if they betrayed him? Shouldn't he be pitied? But a gnawing part of the ex-policeman knew that any and all of his arguments would be in vain - even if he had not done what he had done to Jessica. He would be a burden to the household. He was a stranger. He was a death sentence.