Warsaw Requiem (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  Poland has three hundred tanks, Germany has two thousand . . . .

  “Just the sort of thing suitable for wrapping fish,” Mama said lightly, as if the black print did not send a shiver through her as it did though Rachel.

  “It will be all right,” Rachel agreed, turning to wash the plums. “Nothing will happen here, Mama. That is why people like Peter Wallich have come to Warsaw from Danzig, isn’t it? The German Gestapo would not dare to come here. And as for the tanks, Papa says German tanks cannot outmaneuver the Polish cavalry. We are safe in Warsaw.”

  Mama heard her. She nodded but did not reply other than that. German Culture Week in Danzig! Battleships in the harbor—over the Poles’ dead bodies! Maybe it would come to that. Over their dead bodies. Maybe Hitler would also come to Warsaw and sleep in Pototzki Palace as he had slept in the castle in Prague.

  All these fears were evident in Mama’s eyes, although she did not say them to Rachel. And Rachel suddenly felt angry at the priest for wrapping the fish in such an ominous herald of the current events! Had he done such a thing on purpose, to frighten Mama into sending Rachel and David and Samuel and baby Yacov away? But where would they go? Was not one place the same as any other? At least here they had a roof over their heads. Why had the priest been so cruel?

  Rachel could see that her mother was very pale. She looked ill. She looked afraid, just as she had the night Papa had been arrested.

  “Go tell Frau Groshenki we are bringing the boys home now, tonight,” Mama said, and Rachel saw that her hands were shaking.

  “But what about our charade? No one will believe Papa has typhoid if we bring the boys home.”

  Mama gazed at her sadly, as if the illusion did not matter anymore. “We should all be together. Here. Home. Under the same roof.”

  Rachel stared silently at her mother as the implication sunk in. In times of trouble, in desperate hours, the family must stay together as long . . . as long as it remained possible. Did Mama believe the Germans were coming to Warsaw too?

  Mama stared out the kitchen window as a bee buzzed and bumped against the glass pane. In that tiny hum, could she imagine the drone of airplanes overhead?

  “Go on, Rachel,” Mama said, wadding up the paper and throwing it angrily into the rubbish can. “Bring the boys home now. We have fine fish for supper. A feast.”

  Rachel left the house reluctantly, feeling as though the sky might tumble down before she got home with her brothers! Was the feast, in reality, about to end?

  ***

  “It is not typhoid fever,” Rachel told Frau Groshenki. “Rheumatic fever. Not catching, and so Mama wants us all to be home together.”

  With this simple statement of truth, Rachel felt a sudden relief. Perhaps the Poles were too busy now worrying about what the German hornet’s nest was up to for one little rabbi to matter anymore. And why would they come again to arrest a man as sick as Papa? He would die if they took him. The doctor had said he must not be moved farther than from his bed to the bathroom. No physical exertion. Certainly the Polish police would know that they could not move the rabbi, because then the state would end up having to pay the cost of a burial, and no purpose would be served by it.

  And so the charade had ended. Frau Groshenki praised the mercy of the Eternal that the beloved Rabbi Lubetkin only had rheumatic fever instead of typhoid! “A miracle!” she exclaimed as she helped Rachel pack the boys’ things.

  This was the first time Rachel had heard of anyone praising the Eternal that someone had rheumatic fever instead of typhoid! “A miracle!” she exclaimed as she helped Rachel pack the boys’ things.

  This was the first time Rachel had heard of anyone praising the Eternal that someone had rheumatic fever! Ah well, it was the Jewish way of life, nu? Things could always be worse . . . And when things could not possibly get any worse, it was time to think of possibilities so terrible that one could still declare, “Things could always be worse.” From there it was a short step to long recitations of how things were much worse for this cousin or that uncle. Such conversation made people feel better.

  “You hear that, David?” Frau Groshenki said to David as he gratefully hefted his valise. “Your father the rabbi only has rheumatic fever. God be praised. Not typhoid. Or worse, like my cousin Mordechai, paralyzed from the neck down and living like the living dead! Oy! Now that is the worst.”

  Rachel gathered Little Yani in her arms. The baby nuzzled her face in slobbery kisses of infant gratitude, as if to tell her that nothing could be worse than being cooped up in Frau Groshenki’s house!

  David and Samuel thanked the Frau properly for her hospitality and then, when they were out of earshot, they railed on her for everything from her endless gossip to her piggish table manners.

  “She talks with her mouth full of gefilte fish, Rachel!” David declared.

  “She dips her pound cake in her teacup,” Samuel added with five-year-old disgust. “And then she slurps up the soggy crumbs.”

  “Sometimes she brushes her teeth . . . but not usually.” David wanted to be fair in his reporting.

  “And she says the Nazis are going to come here to Warsaw and kill all who are Jews,” said Samuel. “Even the baby!”

  Rachel could tolerate the fact that Frau Groshenki ate like a pig and did not brush her teeth. After all, things could be worse. But this repetition of the worst fears in her own heart made her angry. “She is a nebech! She is nothing!”

  “What is rape?” David tugged his earlock thoughtfully.

  Rachel stopped in the street and whirled to face the Groshenki house. She was furious. Did her brother see how that word angered her?

  Little Samuel said in a serious voice, “Frau Groshenki says that when the Nazis come, they will rape the women.”

  David added, “She says she will die rather than be raped.”

  Rachel’s eyes narrowed as she pictured the fat, wrinkled face of Frau Groshenki looking up at German soldiers and begging them to kill her rather than rape her. “She won’t have to die,” Rachel said in a haughty tone. “The Germans are not coming, and even if they did, I can promise that they would not be interested in Frau Groshenki!”

  “But what if they come here?” Samuel asked as they walked slowly across the square.

  Rachel looked up into the linden trees. She pointed to a nest of twigs where a family of sparrows lived. “The little birds would know if Nazis were coming. They fly everywhere, you see. And if they heard that the Nazis were coming to Muranow Square, would they build a nest and raise their children here?”

  Samuel gazed somberly at the nest. He studied the birds and listened to the persistent peep of the babies. “I suppose not.”

  Rachel gestured toward the big yellow house on the corner. “There is the nest our father built. Would he keep us here if he thought the Nazis would come?”

  At this logical explanation, David and Samuel both seemed greatly relieved.

  “So the worst will not come.”

  “Frau Groshenki is nothing but a yenta who sees a cloud around every silver lining, nu?” Rachel had heard this saying on the BBC radio. The priest had explained it to her, and now she explained it to her brothers. By the time they reached the front steps, everyone was quite relieved. By the time they reached the embrace of their father, they had almost forgotten the terrible things Frau Groshenki had said.

  12

  The Warsaw Link

  Allan regretted that he had insisted on having his bed linens changed once a week. The thought of a maid entering his room even for that was now a matter of concern and annoyance. What if she opened the bottom drawer of his bureau? And if she stumbled across his material, would she know what she was looking at?

  That thought motivated Allan to travel to the luggage shop in Chelsea. Stacks of luggage took up nearly every square foot of floor space in the little shop. Steamer trunks formed the foundation on which skyscrapers of smaller cases and valises rose to the crown molding of the high ceiling. Allan wondered how tho
se pieces on the bottom could ever be taken out without the whole pile coming down in an avalanche.

  “And what size would you prefer, sir?” asked the pretty young shopkeeper.

  “Personal size. For a cruise. Waterproof.” Allan eyed a pyramid of hard-sided cases in the back of the store. “Like that, Fourth one from the top.” A poster of a passenger ship was taped to the display.

  It was perfect. Of medium size, the case was light aluminum covered with plain tan leather. The corners were protected by metal to match the lock. The sign on the stack read: THE LATEST FOR YOUR CRUISE. WATERPROOF.

  “Ideal for ocean travels, sir. And for rainy weather too.” She moved the ladder and climbed up fearlessly. “No need to worry with the Deluxe World Traveler grip. If your ship goes down, you could simply paddle back to Southampton with all your things quite dry inside.”

  Allan did not bargain with her about the price. He would keep the receipt, and when everything was accomplished, he would present the bill to Colin for reimbursement.

  In the meantime he would keep his things locked inside. With both keys around his neck, the hotel maid would not be able to get into it even if she were the curious sort.

  The shopkeeper deftly removed the case from the stack like a magician pulling a tablecloth from beneath a set of dishes. A cloud of dust filtered down, causing Allan to cough convulsively. The young woman eyed him remorsefully. She should have dusted, she told him. By way of apology she lowered the price of the purchase by two shillings.

  “Voyaging for your health, are you then?” she asked sympathetically. “With this model we will stamp your initials on the handle free of charge.”

  “Thank you. No time, I—”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “I may wish to sell it later,” he replied, feeling pleased that he thought of an excuse so quickly.

  “Well then,” she whispered conspiratorially, “if you do, send the buyer back here. I’ll stamp it for him all the same. Sometimes we have customers come in for initials, and they buy another piece of luggage from us.” She winked and passed her card to Allan. “My name is on the back. Carol, you see?” She extended her hand. “You’re American?”

  “Allan Farrell,” he answered, instantly sorry he had said his name. Could she guess what he really intended to do with the purchase? No, of course not. Still, he had a sense of intrigue he never would have had if he had remained merely a sideline errand boy.

  “Well, Mr. Farrell,” she said, gazing at his forehead and his mouth and his eyes, “if you change your mind and decide to keep the case, you know where I am. The offer will still be good.”

  She was speaking of things other than initials, Allan knew. Some other day he might have been flattered, might have made plans to drop in another time. Not now. Maybe never again.

  ***

  Peter Wallich was early. Rachel watched him walk down the street with his shambling gait. He looked like a scarecrow that had jumped off a post and was now hurrying to escape over a furrowed field.

  This morning Peter did not wear the heavy coat. The warm sun gleamed against his red hair, which was still partly wet from a shower. The already dry part of his locks had pulled up into a wild briar-bush curl to tower over the stuff that was too wet to stand up. The trousers Peter wore were too short at the cuffs, revealing brown socks that drooped around the tops of his worn shoes. The belt was pulled tight around his waist, gathering up both trousers and baggy shirt like a sack cinched in the middle. His long skinny arms protruded from short sleeves. He was very pale, and the freckles on his arms were a shade lighter than his hair. His mouth turned down slightly at the corners. His head and eyes were never still. He looked to the right and the left and back over his shoulder, like a little puppy turned loose in a garden.

  All this taken together made Rachel think that Peter Wallich would have made a remarkably fine clown in the Imperial Warsaw Circus. Add a little makeup (very little), extend the length of the already big feet, give him a big stick with which he could swat rival clowns, and Peter would be quite at home in the center ring beneath a canvas tent. Only one thing did not fit into this comic appearance; his eyes seemed to contain all the sorrow in the world. Beyond the pale skin and the red hair and the long thin neck were those eyes—the reflection of a tragic life, a soul that had aged and hardened far beyond the gangly body in which it dwelt. Flashing at the perimeters of all that sorrow was the steel edge of bitterness and the glow of smoldering anger.

  Those emotions could not be crammed into the resume of Peter’s clownish appearance. There was no joy in him, no youth; nothing left behind those eyes that could enjoy laughter or a good prank.

  Rachel had instinctively known all these things from their first conversation in the soup kitchen. This young man, not much older than Rachel herself, had seen firsthand in Vienna what the Saturday people could do to Jews once Hitler had declared Jews to be fair game. He had survived the first days of hunting season, but he bore the smell of death away with him. This frightened her, and yet she pitied him with her whole heart. Along with that pity, however, she carried the fear that he might hold up a mirror and show Rachel her own future. What would I do without Mama and the boys? What if Papa had died in Warsaw prison instead of simply getting sick? What if I were left alone and lost like Peter Walich? And what if the Nazis came here to Warsaw?

  Just seeing Peter brought all those terrible questions to the front of Rachel’s consciousness.

  She drew back from her place at the window, as if she did not want him to turn his sorrowing gaze upon her and pass the infection of tragedy to her life.

  Peter, seeming to sense the fact that he was much too early for his appointment, stopped and leaned against the streetlamp on the corner of Muranow. He had no watch, but he stared a long time at the clock tower set at the far end of the square. He crossed his arms and waited for the minute hand to slide into place. It did not move fast enough to suit him, so he turned impatiently and stared up at the big yellow house where the rabbi lived and where Rachel watched him from behind the screen of lace curtains.

  She stepped back farther, half wishing she had not offered her father as counselor and advisor to this lost sheep. And then a rush of shame followed quickly as she considered that if she were in Peter Wallich’s place, she would long for someone to advise her, to help her find a way back home.

  With a shudder, she left the window of her bedroom and scurried downstairs, shouting her superstitious dread away. “Papa! Peter Wallich is standing outside on the sidewalk! Mama! Should I let him in?”

  “He is early.” Mama poked her head out of the kitchen as Rachel reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “He has nowhere else to go, I suppose,” Rachel said.

  “I suppose not.” Etta looked toward the front door as though she also sensed something. Wiping her hands on her apron she said, “It is hot. I imagine the boy would like some apple juice. Your father is awake. So let your friend in, already.”

  ***

  Agent Hess poured himself yet another glass of schnapps as he decoded the dispatch from Berlin. He did not need to complete the work; he knew the message before he was halfway through the jumble of words.

  London agent reports Ibsen children in contact from Danzig Stop All steps being taken by family in London to obtain visas for Lori and James Ibsen to immigrate to England Stop No Danzig address given thus far Stop Suggest you place an agent at British Embassy and check steamship schedules Stop

  Hess had already hired a man to watch the British Embassy. The fellow was a Jew, a former bank clerk from Bremen who had managed to slip out of the Reich shortly after Kristal Nacht. Hess had spent two days milling around outside the British compound as though he too were desperate to escape. He had struck up a conversation with the Bremen Jew, explained that his injuries had come as the result of a confrontation with the Gestapo, and won the fellow’s confidence. It was only a short step from there to enlisting the Jew in his hunt for the Ibsen chil
dren. He presented himself as a member of the German resistance who was concerned for the welfare of a fallen comrade’s family. That lie, combined with a promise of a room and regular food, was enough to win the Bremen banker’s services as watchdog at the gates of the British Embassy. The fellow had only to keep his eyes open. When and if the lost children arrived, he was to observe them and then follow them back to their living quarters and report to Hess immediately at the Deutscher Hof.

  Hess had learned early in his career that it was easy to enlist even the most ardent anti-Nazis on the payrolls of the Gestapo as long as they believed they were working for a righteous cause. Germany and the Western democracies were crowded with such unknowing betrayers. There were almost as many anti-Nazis on the payroll of the Reich Ministry of Information as there were Nazis. Hess had no doubt that if the children should arrive at the embassy, the banker from Bremen would follow his orders to the dot of the Nazi i.

  ***

  Peter Wallich held his glass of apple juice in both hands as he sat in the straight-backed chair across from the bed of Rabbi Aaron Lubetkin.

  Rachel thought how much her father looked the part of a great rabbi, in spite of the fact that his hair and beard had been shaved and now bristled at the same length on head and face. He was propped up among the pillows on his bed. The black skullcap was exactly in place, giving him an air of dignity that the unruly red locks on Peter’s head did not have.

  Here was wisdom advising the sad fool. Here was age and experience assisting the young and inexperienced. And yet . . . there was something in Papa’s eyes that matched the sorrow behind the eyes of young Peter Wallich. In the comprehension of tragedy, both were equal. But Papa’s expression held none of the bitterness the boy’s displayed.