Warsaw

by Richard Foreman

  The rain slapped down upon the tarpaulin, creating one continuous sound punctuated by a thousand others. Like clapping. Both Yitzhak Meisel and Kolya could hear it equally. The policeman arched his spine backwards in an attempt to separate his soaking clothes from his freezing skin. He shivered, turning his nose up at the putrid stench. Fortunately it was raining for in the dry heat of summer such an odour would have choked the most unsusceptible of men. Meisel smiled, rain trickling in his mouth as he did so; partly he grinned in anticipation of finding the boy and avenging himself - yet Meisel grinned to himself for wouldn't he, as such a rascal, have cunningly chosen such a hiding-place?

  He would remove the boy's shoes and smash his feet first of all to prevent the rat from running again. He would beat him before asking any question in regards to the whereabouts of that treacherous bastard Duritz. A teeth-baring Meisel but poked the tarpaulin lying across the deck of the first two handcarts. It was the third and last cart that had so pricked the policeman's expectations. The bulge was unassuming to the casual observer but conspicuous to the observant constable.

  Kolya held his breath. Thunder rumbled in the distance. It must've surged like a tidal wave at its heart, but mere low ripples of sound washed over the boy. Kolya Rubenstein's face was that of a whimperer , yet devoid of the sound. A part of him expected to be caught - and it was this fatalistic portion of Kolya which also argued that fighting back was futile. Indeed was there not now a certain comfort in the feeling of submitting? There was something finite, substantial, in the idea. It would all finally now be over.

  The swiftness with which the black-hearted policeman whipped off the rain-soaked tarpaulin matched the ferocity in Meisel's gnashing expression. Kolya flinched at the sound. The policeman's worn cudgel was raised in the air yet it would've been but brought down upon a couple of bags of lime if lowered to strike the contents of the rickety handcart. Thwarted, Yitzhak cursed and kicked the nearest wooden wheel on the cart with his heavy, steel-capped boots. The spoke cracked. He cursed again. Turning his head left and right to stare down the length of the street Meisel noticed, for the first time since spying the slippery boy, how heavy and freezing the rain was. He wiped his corrugated brow again but the chill upon his forehead remained. He coughed, spitting out yellow phlegm from the back of his throat. The revengeful policeman, admitting failure but not defeat, finally stormed off - his mind thumbing through the files of the women who he could now visit to relieve his disappointment.

  The sweet-sickly stench was all but unbearable. The flesh from the corpse pressing down upon him was warm and sticky - but the torso unnaturally rigid - as Kolya gave a prayer of thanks, instead of hope, sensing that the policeman had abandoned his search. A potent cautiousness still coursed through his veins though and Kolya remained unseen, buried beneath the flameless pyre of bodies waiting to be disposed of. Most had been dispatched by being shot in the head. Rain water uncaked and diluted blood, streaking all over the crouching boy. Others had perished through tuberculosis, typhoid or "natural causes". Hollow cheeks. Dead-eyes. Pock-marks. Haunted expressions. The images were branded into the Kolya's consciousness like some medieval painting of Judgement Day. Nightmares would ensue. So too the sensation of lice dripping on his skin and in between his shirt like rain water would repeat itself. Some even worked their way inside his nostrils and mouth. Fear had suppressed panic, but not now. Kolya had burrowed like a rabbit to work his way under the lattice of limbs to find safety. Fortunately the street was all but deserted. No one wanted to be in the vicinity when the work-party was co-opted to remove the bodies.

  Kolya vomited, despite the lack of food in his stomach. He coughed and then tried to spit out the metallic taste in his mouth - and also extinguish the lingering sensation of having lice crawl in between his gums and tongue. His convulsions, which made him squeeze against the rotten corpses, only brought on more convulsions as Kolya unlocked one of the bodies above him and a bloodied face looped down upon his bare neck. He shuddered and his stomach turned even more. As if wanting to come up for air from drowning Kolya swam out from beneath the macabre sea of bodies. As polluted as the air was outside of Kolya's hiding-place he gulped down it down and let the cold, refreshing rain wash over his bloody face and through his matted hair - shaking himself as he did so as if to rid his bones of an invisible plague. Hyper-ventilating. Close to tears.

  He ran. His scrawny legs but carried him around the corner before he had to draw breath again. Grappling for air, his heart racing, Kolya nervously darted his head this way and that in case he should spot the policeman again. Lead-footed - his stomach aching from the pain of hunger - Kolya made his way home. For a brief moment during his trek through the echoing ghetto Kolya broke out into hysterics, the exhilaration of escaping the wicked policeman displacing the blind terror of the pursuit. Half-laughing. Half-sobbing.

  Dietmar sucked hard upon the square of Belgian chocolate inside his mouth, his face visibly relishing the taste. The youth had developed a sweet tooth of late, to the point where Christian had even chided his secretary for not sharing out his treats to his adjutant with the rest of the staff on his floor. Christian's second warning shot across his secretary's bow was less subtle, "Do you have to keep eating that rubbish? I don't want you rotting your teeth, or growing fat.” Suffice to say Dietmar heeded his advice - and the reproving glare which accompanied the words. Dietmar now kept his stash of chocolate, which he ordered under Christian's name, in a drawer by his bed. The secretary finished off the bar and then promptly brushed his teeth in order to wash the odour and taste of the dark chocolate out of his mouth, for fear of Christian finding out. Dietmar's addiction to chocolate was timely, as it had replaced his burgeoning smoking habit - which Christian had ordered him to cut out as he did not like the taste and smell in the adjutant's mouth when he kissed him. Dietmar obviously obeyed his superior officer. He also obviously thought the situation strange seeing as Christian himself smoked more than most.

  Perhaps we should not discount the power of the aphrodisiac chocolate bar but Dietmar lay in bed itching for Christian's return. The Lieutenant had returned to Berlin for a few days to visit his family and try to promote his career closer to home. Christian neither explained nor apologised to Dietmar as to why he would not let his secretary accompany him, which hurt the youth a little. Christian feared the nervousness and shame he would feel in his father's presence should Dietmar be by his side and introduced into society.

  The secretary sourly ordered the two Polish serving women away when they began to bring the bread rolls out which would accompany the asparagus soup that he had arranged. Yes he had told them to begin to serve at this time, but Christian had not returned yet. Couldn't they think for themselves? Idiots. A few months ago the youth might have cast a lustful, rather than scornful, eye at one of the Polish girls but it struck Dietmar a couple of days before how he had not thought that way about another woman, or man, since becoming the Lieutenant's lover. He was all he needed. Devoted, Dietmar looked up to Christian as both a man and soldier - Nazi. As the serving women retreated out of the dining-room the adjutant reminded the pair that they should, along with the cook, leave immediately after dinner was served. They could clear everything away in the morning. Excitement and anticipation lined Dietmar's face as he surveyed the table. The cutlery and crockery were gleaming, the crisp white table cloth pristine, the brandy and wine glasses set beside a bottle of Christian's favourite cognac and a bottle of Rioja. All that was left to do was to dim the lamps upon the walls and light the candles which stood erect and ornate upon the table. The secretary's heart fluttered a little as he caught the familiar sound of Christian's boots on the tiled floor in the hallway outside the luxurious apartment.

  A couple of years ago he had been his mother's "Cherub", but now as Kolya slowly ascended the apartment block's stairs - his tiny hands clasping the banister as he did so for support - his cheeks were cadaverous. The rims around his eyes were radish coloured. The rain had ceased - to be
replaced by a howling wind. Kolya entered the flat. Adam and Jessica's conversation ended immediately, mid-sentence. Duritz remained seated - worry creasing his features - his lips pursed as though he already knew what had happened. A softer yet equally fraught expression shaped Jessica's face as she immediately rose from the table. Kolya rushed towards his sister and embraced her. He buried his head in her stomach and freely unburdened more tears. As if from some maternal wisdom Jessica merely embraced the child at first; as much as she was desperate to know what had happened, she just hugged him back. She tenderly stroked his wet, sticky hair, tears welling in her own eyes.

  Snivelling, traumatised, Kolya told his story. Adam made the boy a strong cup of coffee and buttered some bread, as well as forsaking his own soup to give to the stricken child. Jessica was patient, strong, wonderful. After eating she washed her brother's hair and face, warming water up upon the small stove provided by Thomas. Either too tired to resist, or he craved the comfort, Kolya allowed his sister to cosset him. When she put him to bed he went to sleep almost immediately. Implicit that they could now no longer continue their now regular evening chat Jessica quietly (flirtatiously?) whispered "Good night" to a charmed - but also troubled - Adam.

  Duritz lay awake. He did not reveal his fears to Jessica but he was worried about Meisel. Yitzhak had pursued Kolya in hope of catching up with him. Also, if he was clever - and as possessed by revenge as much as Duritz knew a man could be - Adam saw no reason why the policeman could not eventually track Kolya down. And therefore him. And Jessica. To save them, he would have to leave. No, he could not do that. Whilst Jessica had expressed relief and even gratitude at Kolya's ordeal - that he was all right and it could have been worse - Adam had sat there that evening and seethed. She hardly spared a thought for the villain of the piece. His victim was her concern. For Duritz, the opposite was true.

  Adam smiled to himself, ironically, darkly. He remembered how in his youth he had been seduced by Dostoyevsky's Crime And Punishment. Raskolnikov. Should one, an extraordinary man, be allowed to murder another man? Was he extraordinary? Could he kill? Was the one linked to the other? As an adolescent Duritz was not beyond being amused or plagued by such thoughts. Part of the attraction of the experiment for the conceited student was that should he kill he too might feel such guilt that it would prove he possessed a conscience - that there was a God. During parts of this summer had Duritz not also fancied himself as Piotr Kirillovich from War & Peace, wandering the streets of a burned out Moscow, wanting to murder Napoleon - or in Duritz's case Kleist or Klum.

  But the smile was struck from the philosophical Jew's face when reality impinged on his thoughts. His conceit would have to become reality this time to save himself - and more importantly to save Jessica and Kolya. Sleep, nor the melancholy morning light, acquitted Duritz of his spectral thoughts. He would have to find Yitzhak Meisel, before he found them.

  21.

  The morning was milder and sky clearer than it had been for weeks, but Duritz selfishly wished that it wasn't so as he stepped out from the tenement block. It was the first time for a while that he had ventured out. Despite squinting heavily - and instinctively putting his splayed hand up to the sun - the light strained the back of his pupils.

  His eyes still half-closed, half-throbbing, Duritz tottered out into the street. No sooner had he turned the corner than his jack-hammer heart nearly stopped as the fugitive all but bumped into a policeman. The pugnacious constable, a former civil servant, took the nervous-looking youth in but then merely shoved him out of the way.

  After walking a few more blocks southwards, away from the Umschlagplatz and in the direction to where the rapacious policeman once procured a flat for himself, Duritz began to feel good about being outside. He drank in the winter air as if it were a cool glass of lemonade in summer and felt the bracing breeze enliven his skin. Duritz had no intention of murdering the policeman as soon as he found him. No, like Raskolnikov he would too stalk his intended victim first. Wait for the right opportunity. This procrastination, or carefulness, may also have been borne from indecision and cowardice however Adam himself opined.

  And so Duritz waited - but as our would-be avenging angel had suspected before setting out that morning the policeman was nowhere to be seen. There would be a transportation soon. Meisel would be in his usual place in the Umschlag, hungrily watching for any fortuitous situation with which to line his pockets. Adam knew, because he had once done the same. Instead of forming a plan as to what he would do when he finally caught up with his enemy Duritz sat down upon a bench and suddenly laughed to himself, his face broad with a wry smile. Duritz realised that he was sitting upon the same bench that he had occupied all those years ago, pretending to read Pushkin whilst waiting for Jessica to walk, captivatingly, by. Who could have imagined it all those years ago what would come to pass? He grinned at the conceited egoist of his messy past self. How could he not admit that Life was bigger than him? Yes he had admitted to a Socratic ignorance of the universe, but had he not done this to give himself an air of Socratic wisdom? He had been a know it all. He had been a wrong-doer who could never admit to himself or others that he was in the wrong. A nihilistic, philosophical (semantic) strain of argument could always prove him right - from a certain point view. A feeling came over Duritz, drunken, baptismal; if the tortured youth would have died at the moment, he would have been happy. Adam laughed out loud, not quite knowing why. A passer-by thought him one of the last of the holy fools or madmen who still somehow, inexplicably, occupied the ghetto.

  Fury and compassion vied for dominance in the soldier's gaunt features. Thomas, partly out of guilt for relieving himself of his duties at the train station for so long, acted as one of the guards in the Umschlagplatz for the afternoon. Like most of the soldiers Thomas hung his rifle over his shoulder so as to be free to thrust his cold hands into the soft warmth of his greatcoat pockets. By the very fact however that he was in his greatcoat and trousers and felt cold - and the hag-ridden people before him were clothed in rags and some even shoeless - his heart went out to them. A couple of shots rang out. Whips cracked. Screams spliced the air. The whorls of various sounds ultimately vapoured up into the ether though, disappearing, lost. The stream of people boarding one of the carriages was buffeted and split, as if a boulder had fallen into the middle of a river. From a distance he could see Kleist shake his head upon the wooden platform in the square he had erected in order to survey the smooth running of his operation. Christian's mounting impatience was exacerbated by him being conscious of his afternoon's busy schedule. His tailor was due, he had to renew his subscription to an Arts magazine and most importantly Christian needed to catch up on some personal correspondence - paramount of which was writing to his favourite Aunt whose birthday it was in a week. Against the background of a sudden burst of machine gun fire Kleist made a mental note to send flowers on the day of the occasion itself. Orchids were her favourite. They were damnably expensive and difficult to get hold of but Christian reasoned that they could be seen of more of an investment than expense. Such was her grand age she would not be long for this world - and such gestures would cement his place in the affections of the childless widow, who would soon be writing her will.

  Upon witnessing the Lieutenant the Corporal felt the card within his pocket - the invitation. The party was tomorrow evening. His immediate reaction was to tear it up, repulsed as he was by the idea of having anything to do with the SS. In a hand written note accompanying the card the Lieutenant had mentioned how he wanted a few choice representatives from the Wehrmacht and lower ranks at the party - and that he had enjoyed his company during their last encounter. Thomas had shown the invitation to Oscar and his friend had offered him some pointed, practical advice. He had warned Thomas not to earn the Lieutenant's displeasure, especially now since more and more Wehrmacht units were beginning to be transferred to the Russian Front. Kleist was a powerful - and erratic - character. Albeit conscious of how much his Corporal was averse to atte
nding the party the old Private encouraged his friend to show willing for the good of the platoon. Not only might he glean news of how things were really going on the various fronts (including that of home), but if nothing else Thomas might be able to smuggle back some drink and food from the party. And so the Corporal would attend, reluctantly.

  Disgusted by the sight of the murderous SS officer Thomas shifted his focus onto the voiceless throng of people before him. Each one looked the same, each one looked different. Pockets of animation and life but arose when family members were separated from each other. Over the murmurings, shuffling feet and authoritative German voices Thomas could hear the anguished cries of the people inside the wooden carriages. His attention was dragged back onto the immediate faces before him when a young woman passed by. She was the same age as Jessica and underneath her dirty grey shawl she had the same fair hair. The girl shuddered. Her green eyes increased in terror as the soldier's gaze rested upon her. Her bony fists scrunched and tightened the shawl around her even more. Thomas tried to smile reassuringly at the once pretty girl but he merely looked like all the other soldiers who were smiling that way in order to placate and herd them into the trains with as little trouble as possible. Upon a second glance Thomas realised that the woman barely looked like Jessica at all, but the scene still sufficiently stirred the soldier's imagination to make him question what he would, or could, do should the woman have been Jessica? His heart sank and emotions welled in his inner eye imagining her in the line and him, powerless, watching the girl go to her death. But yet no sooner did his heart sink than it emerged again in a determination - that Jessica dying this way was too awful to countenance. Thomas thought again upon the money that arrived from home, with which he would try to purchase Jessica's escape from the ghetto He did not want to promise either himself or Jessica that his plan would succeed - he had not even told the woman of his intention for fear of generating false hope - but Thomas vowed to himself that he would save Jessica and her brother. And Adam. Something good would come from his posting here.