Mother and Me

by Julian Padowicz

  “Do you have a picture of your father in his uniform?” the colonel asked.

  “No, I had a beautiful painting of him in my apartment in Warsaw, but the Germans have probably blown it to pieces. It was such a beautiful apartment. We had a cook and two maids and Yulli had a governess.”

  Mother paused and gestured around the room. “And now look how I live,” she said. “Look how we all live, Mikhail Sergeiovitch. And my sister-in-law Edna had an even bigger apartment. We could all die here.”

  Col. Bawatchov laid one of his large hands on top of Mother’s. “Comrade Barbara,” he said, “I cannot give you a travel permit. I have sent my driver for aspirin, and I will see about some firewood, and you will not die. But you are a bourgeoisie, and in the Soviet Union we got rid of our bourgeois class. Some we sent for re-education, some we had to shoot. You are an intelligent woman, but you are a bourgeoisie. You are fortunate that I am your friend, but you will have to learn better ways. Yulli is a strong boy who will grow to be a hero of the Red Army some day. Now he will go to school, and I will get you a position teaching French. Some day you may teach at the university. You will be proud of what you do and Yulli will be proud of his mother.”

  “But, Mikhail Sergeiovitch, we will not survive that long. Look how thin Yulli is. Look at his little arms. Look at his legs. It is cold and damp here.”

  “I will take care of the cold and damp, Comrade, I told you so. And I have another idea. I will come here every Tuesday afternoon, and you will teach me French. And for that I will pay you with a ham or a chicken or something every time.” I could tell by the colonel’s voice and the bright expression on his face that he was very pleased with his new idea. I realized that I had never seen an adult who showed his feelings on his face and in his voice as much as the colonel did. “Next Tuesday, of course, we will be going to Lvow, and you can give me my first lesson in the car. And then the following Tuesday I will come here again.”

  “But my books, Mikhail Sergeiovitch. I don’t have any French books.”

  “I will get you French books. We have grammar books and reading books. We have the great authors from all the world and you can teach me Victor Hugo and Voltaire and Ibsen in their original language.”

  I already knew that my mother couldn’t read or write in French. It had been a disaster when she had tried to give Fredek and me lessons.

  Then Miss Bronia came home. “I found cabbage!” she announced before she noticed the colonel at the table.

  Mother introduced them quickly. “This is my friend Bronia who also lives here,” she said. “She doesn’t speak Russian.” The colonel stood up to shake hands.

  “How is Fredek?” Miss Bronia asked anxiously.

  “He has a very high fever,” Mother said. “The comrade colonel has sent his driver for aspirin.”

  Miss Bronia went into the other room to see Fredek.

  “Bronia is the only one of us who knows how to cook,” Mother said.

  “Soon you will learn to cook too,” the colonel said. “Even I know how to cook.” I had never heard of a man who could cook, and my admiration for Colonel Bawatchov went up another notch.

  Auntie Edna came out to report that Fredek was burning up. “Please tell your colonel that he’s burning up.”

  “She says her son is burning up,” Mother said in Russian. Then, to Auntie Edna, she said, “He has already sent his driver for aspirin.”

  Auntie Edna was wringing her hands. “Oh, I hope he comes soon,” she said.

  “Have her wash down his whole body,” the colonel said to Mother. He had stood up again and so had Mother.

  “Yes, I understood,” Auntie Edna said when Mother started to translate. “Bronia is doing that.”

  “Tell her to use vodka,” the Colonel said.

  “Vodka?” Auntie Edna said.

  “It evaporates faster and cools more,” the Colonel explained.

  We had a bottle of vodka that Capt. Boris had brought “Capt. Vrushin brought us some vodka,” Mother said to the colonel as Auntie Edna got it from the corner where it was kept on the floor with other supplies. We had used a wooden crate as a cabinet for a while, but had had to break it up for firewood.

  Then there was a knock on the door, and it was the colonel’s driver. He had brought a few packets of aspirin powder. Mother took them into the other room, then returned.

  The Colonel said he had better go back to work. He and Mother made arrangements to pick her up for the trip to Lvow the following Tuesday. He patted me on the head, told Mother she should start teaching me Russian, and then left. Mother went into the other room where Auntie Edna and Miss Bronia were attending to Fredek. I followed partly into the room since I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near Fredek when he was sick.

  “He wants me to give him French lessons,” Mother was saying. “I told him I was a language teacher in Warsaw. I don’t know any French grammar—I don’t know Polish grammar. He wants me to teach him Victor Hugo, Voltaire, and Ibsen.”

  “Ibsen was English,” Auntie Edna said.

  “Actually, he was Norwegian,” Miss Bronia corrected.

  “Why don’t you tell him that you teach conversational French,” Auntie Edna said, “not French grammar or French literature. Tell him that in Poland we have different teachers for that.”

  “That’s a good idea. He also wants me to go to Lvow overnight with him.”

  “Are you going to go?” Auntie Edna asked.

  Mother looked at me. “Yulek, go in the other room,” she said.

  The following morning, we heard a vehicle pull up in front of our house. “It’s an ambulance for Fredek,” Sonya said, looking between the café curtains.

  “Oh, my God!” Auntie Edna cried. “I don’t want them taking him to a Russian hospital!” Fredek’s fever was actually down, though his chest was now becoming congested.

  But the ambulance wasn’t there to pick up Fredek. Two soldiers carried bags of coal across the sidewalk and into our rooms, as passersby stood and watched enviously. Miss Bronia estimated that we had enough coal for the entire winter. Then, early Tuesday morning, the colonel’s driver knocked on the door to pick up Mother. She had on one of her nice suits, and she had packed her little suitcase. The driver dropped off a ham, which he said the colonel said was payment for the first French lesson. He carried Mother’s little suitcase to the car where the colonel was waiting.

  It took some time, but I noticed that our walls were beginning to warm up, and the bags of coal, our great black treasure, stood lined up against the wall.

  When Mother came back Wednesday evening, everyone was eager to hear about her trip. Except for Fredek, who had been in bed all day coughing, we all quickly sat down around the table. Auntie Paula, who earlier that day had unraveled a green sweater, was now knitting the yarn into what looked like another sweater. Miss Bronia and Auntie Edna had done some wash that day, and it hung on the lines that crisscrossed the room.

  “He was a perfect gentleman,” Mother said first, speaking, I presumed, of the colonel and telling me nothing. But I could see that she was very excited.

  “Lvow is alive,” Mother said. “It’s a beautiful city, you know, with wide boulevards, trees, parks…. But, listen, there are restaurants that are open and cafes that actually serve coffee, and half of Warsaw is there.” She stopped, and I saw her look at Auntie Edna and Auntie Paula, who seemed eager to hear more. “I met the Mitzins, Sasha and Irenka, right in the street. You’ve never seen Irenka like that. She was wearing a black wool peasant skirt down to her ankles, peasant boots, and a man’s fleece-lined jacket tied with an orange scarf. Sasha had found an army coat somewhere, and he had on brown tweed knickerbocker trousers with green socks. But it wasn’t just the funny clothes they were wearing—it was the way they laugh at themselves in their crazy clothes. They all dress crazy like that in Lvow because there’s no decent clothing left in the stores. But they all laugh at each other and at themselves. They sit in the cafes dressed like for a carnival
and they tell stories. They talk about who just arrived from Warsaw with what news. One man, they said, has been to Warsaw and back three times. He knows how to sneak past the Russian and German guards, and he carries messages. He says there is nothing left of Warsaw.”

  Auntie Edna gave a gasp. “My mother,” she said.

  “He was talking about the buildings,” Mother said. “And, of course, he was exaggerating. It’s an expression.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Did you hear anything about Morris or Artur or Lolek?” Auntie Edna asked anxiously.

  “No, I didn’t,” Mother said. “I did ask, but nobody I talked to had heard anything. They did say, though, that a lot of the men escaped to France where they’re forming a Polish army, and, of course, many were taken prisoner. The people I spoke to didn’t know any more.”

  There was another silence, except for the clicking of Auntie Paula’s needles.

  “But Lvow is alive,” Mother said again. “They have movies and there is a night life. Yes, there are shortages of things, but you can also find things if you know the right people. And they laugh at everything. They laugh at what they don’t have and at how they make do.

  “They laugh at the Russians. When the Russians first came, you know, they bought up all the wristwatches in town. You would see Russian soldiers with watches up their arms. When the stores ran out of real watches, they would buy children’s toy watches and wear them too.” Mother laughed.

  “That must look stupid,” Sonya said.

  “That’s right. The whole town is like a carnival. They tell one story about a soldier who bought a pepper mill and then brought it back the next day because, when he turned the crank, it didn’t play. And they also tell about the two officers who both wanted the same Persian rug … so they had the storekeeper cut it in half.”

  “They’re so stupid,” Sonya said.

  “Russia used to be such a cultured country,” Auntie Edna said. “Pushkin, Chekhov, Tchaikovsky.”

  “Yes,” Mother said, “and guess who else I saw.” She stopped again and looked around, but nobody guessed. “I had a lot of time while Bawatchov was in his meetings, so I went to the autobus station to see what I could find out, and guess who I ran into. Lupicki. Remember Lupicki?”

  I remembered him well and fingered the washer inside my pocket.

  “Would you like to know what he’s doing now?” Mother continued, “he drives … an autobus … between Durnoval and Lvow.” Mother said the last part very slowly and distinctly. Then she added, “He says he can smuggle us onto his autobus without a travel permit.”

  “Who is Mr. Lupicki?” Auntie Edna asked.

  “The little man we picked up on the road outside Lublin,” Auntie Paula told her. With her glasses pushed to the end of her nose, she was counting the stitches on her needle. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “Oh, yes, Herman Lupicki,” Auntie Edna said. “A disgusting little man with a gun.”

  “He didn’t have a gun,” Auntie Paula said. “Fredek only said he had a gun.” She added one more stitch, then switched the needles around to start the next row.

  “He had a gun.”

  “All right,” Mother said, “he had a gun, he didn’t have a gun—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he drives to Lvow every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and he says that they check who gets on the autobus in Durnoval, but not who gets off in Lvow. If we wait at a certain crossroads four kilometers out of town, he’ll watch for us and pick us up.”

  “I have to care for Fredek,” Auntie Edna said, getting up from the table.

  “Edna, this is important,” Mother said with annoyance. “You can tend him in a minute.”

  “I’ll go check him,” Miss Bronia said.

  Auntie Edna ignored them both and walked into the other room.

  Mother looked at Auntie Paula.

  “Fredek is still congested,” Auntie Paula said. “He’s still coughing.” With her bent wrist she pushed the glasses higher up on her nose.

  “But he’s better than he was, isn’t he? Now that the place is warm,” Mother said.

  “He’s coughing less today,” Miss Bronia said.

  “Bronia found goat’s milk today,” Auntie Paula said. “Of course, we had to almost force it down his throat.” I didn’t know that goats gave milk.

  “He’ll be able to travel soon,” Mother said. “And once Edna sees some of her old friends and doesn’t have to stand in queues all day, she’ll pull herself together.”

  “I know someone with a wagon who can take us to the rendezvous point,” Miss Bronia said.

  “Rendezvous point,” Sonya repeated. “How romantic.”

  “Romantic is right,” Auntie Paula said. “How much does your Mr. Lupicki want to be paid for this little service?”

  “He didn’t mention money. I’m sure that whatever we want to give him …”

  “And when you and Yulek are standing at the side of the road,” Auntie Paula interrupted, “in the snow, four kilometers outside of town, he suddenly mentions money.”

  Mother gave a sigh. “Paula, why do you always look at the negative side? Look, in Lvow there are also people who will take you over the mountains into Hungary. They are local peasants who know the woods and the mountains like their hand, and they hire out as guides.”

  Auntie Paula looked at Mother over her glasses. “And you want to go?”

  “Yes,” Mother said.

  “That’s insane, Basia.”

  “What do you mean it’s insane?”

  “Insane,” and Auntie Paula laughed as she said it. “You’re going to drag us over the Carpathian Mountains, across an armed border to Hungary? That’s pure craziness. If the border guards don’t get us, the wolves will.”

  Miss Bronia had gotten up from the table and begun taking clothes off the lines and folding them. “Hungary doesn’t border with Poland,” she said.

  “It used to be Czechoslovakia before Hitler marched in,” Mother explained. “But he gave a piece to Hungary who had a long-standing claim to it.”

  I knew that if it weren’t for Fredek’s cough, I would have been sent into the other room. I pretended to be very busy with my book, something about a train full of circus people and animals.

  “Why are you laughing?” Mother said to Auntie Paula. “The guides have guns against the wolves, and they know where the guards are. People have done it, you know.”

  “Who?” Auntie Paula was counting stitches again. I wondered at the way she could speak and keep count at the same time.

  “People. I don’t know their names.”

  “Women and children?”

  Mother took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, then stood up and crossed the room to the stove. Lifting the round lid by its handle, she stuck a cigarette tip part way into the hole. In a moment she pulled it out glowing. Mother took a drag and turned to face us again. She spat a flake of tobacco off her tongue.

  “All right,” she said, “at least there is food in Lvow and civilized people. We could all die here in Durnoval before spring. Bawatchov is our friend now, but he could be transferred any day, he told me. That’s the way they work. They’re not trusted to stay too long in any one place.”

  “And what’s the punishment for trying to go to Lvow without a travel permit? Do they send you to Siberia, or do they just shoot you?” Auntie Paula had switched needles again and was starting another row.

  “They won’t know.”

  “Look, Bawatchov already knows you want to go to Lvow. Now, thanks to you, he’ll show up for his French lesson and find us gone. He’s not stupid.”

  “He won’t do anything.”

  “Won’t do anything?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t he already tell you that we’re bourgeoisie who should consider ourselves lucky we weren’t shot like in Russia? You, of course, had to tell him. You had to show him pictures of your apartment and your visit to the pyramids.”

  “Mikhail isn’t l
ike that,” Mother said, but her voice was quieter. She didn’t sound so sure of herself now. “Under that Communist propaganda, he’s a human being…. And I think he loves me.”

  “Loves you?” Auntie Paula was laughing again. “Barbara, what are you talking about?”

  “I think he does,” Mother said. Her voice was quieter still.

  “Because he told you so?” Auntie Paula was still almost shouting and still laughing.

  “I can tell these things.”

  “Like you could tell with the Village Census Committee on the farm or with that grunting pig Boris with his hands all over you? Who was it that was going to establish a salon for Russian officers?”

  “All right. So I was wrong.”

  “Bawatchov doesn’t love you, whatever he may have said.”

  “It’s not that he said anything—I just feel these things.”

  “You feel these things. He’s attracted to you, like every man in Warsaw was. You’re ‘Beautiful Basia,’ and you attract men. But you have absolutely no idea of what goes on inside their heads.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. You make up stories about swords and your father the general and you think you’re controlling the men somehow, making them do what you want. But it all ends up hitting you in the face. You dream about how you would like things to be, and then you make yourself believe that’s the way they’re going to turn out. Now you’ll go wait for your Mr. Lupicki in the middle of nowhere, and won’t you be surprised when he doesn’t show up or doesn’t stop? Then where will you be?”

  “For heaven’s sakes!” It was Miss Bronia speaking now. “Two grown women … the children!”