His next visitor was the district health officer who demanded to know why he hadn’t registered yet and ordered him to do so immediately. My father had avoided registering for fear that once his registration form was circulated to Dental Boards around the country, one of his former colleagues would be bound to recognise him, but now he had no alternative. When he arrived at the office at Biala Podlaska, however, the health officer was away, and Henek got chatting with the talkative young clerk who complained that it was hard to obtain good country butter these days. When Henek returned a week later he brought the clerk a big pat of yellow butter wrapped in muslin. On this occasion too the boss was away, and he and the clerk chatted away like old friends. Suddenly the clerk changed the subject. ‘You know, the district officer wants you out of here. I heard him say that Boguslawski has to get out of this district.’ Henek’s chest tightened. So the district officer already suspected that he was Jewish. But the clerk continued, ‘Don’t worry. He and I are both members of the A.K., only there I’m his boss, so nothing will happen to you!’
Piszczac was a hotbed of resistance activity with cells all over the region. Because of its location, trains carrying German soldiers travelling to the Russian front were frequently sabotaged by local activists. They were so successful in derailing carriages and delaying troop movements that a Gestapo unit was brought to Chotylow only three kilometres away, which made train travel especially dangerous in the area.
Now that he’d organised a house and started up in practice, my father arranged to meet my mother and me at Lukow Station and from there we were to travel to Piszczac together. Waiting on the platform, he consulted his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Not long now. Four minutes to go. Suddenly there was a commotion. Truck motors roared, tyres screeched, and helmeted German soldiers with rifles drawn were swarming over the station, blocking all the exits. With harsh voices and angry motions they began herding everyone in one direction. Craning forward, Henek could see the waiting trucks.
His heart was banging against his rib cage. Any moment now Bronia and the baby would arrive and he wouldn’t be there to meet them. He could picture her scanning the platform, not knowing what to do or where to go. The thought of his wife and child being herded at riflepoint into a truck and deported to a concentration camp jolted him like an electric charge.
He never understood how he managed to hover back and forth between the waiting room and the platform and to evade the soldiers who were now rounding up the last of the people waiting for the train and pushing them into the trucks. Then the ground vibrated, a high-pitched whistle pierced the air, and Bronia’s train was chugging into the station.
As her train was pulling into Lukow Station, Bronia’s heart was thumping. She craned her blonde head anxiously up and down the platform but it was deserted and there was no sign of Henek. Just outside the station building, she could see German soldiers pushing people into trucks. She felt sick. They must have taken Henek away. What am I going to do now? she thought, holding Danusia tightly.
At the far end of the platform, Henek was hiding behind an untidy stack of wood and masonry when one of the soldiers spotted him, gestured threateningly with his rifle and yelled at him to go with the others. Suddenly Henek heard himself yelling back to the German, words he didn’t know he knew, loud, commanding and guttural. He pointed at the oncoming train and kept uttering unintelligible words which were intended to sound like German. The German stared at him for a moment in disbelief and looked towards the exit. Everyone was already crammed into the trucks, and the rest of his unit was ready to leave. He turned on his heel and strode towards his companions.
As she climbed down from the train, my mother looked up and saw one lone figure standing on the platform. It was my father.
CHAPTER 21
Snowflakes glistened on the black cassock of the young priest perched on the edge of the cart which clattered towards his new parish. Squeezed in amongst villagers who had reluctantly made room for him, he watched the wheels spray slush from the dirt road. His boyish face looked unusually serious. He knew that he was supposed to be humble, but he couldn’t help wishing that the bishop hadn’t sent him to this distant village. As he flicked specks of mud off his soutane, he thought moodily about his unfortunate predecessors, both of whom had been arrested by the Gestapo and sent to concentration camps.
At thirty-two, Roman Soszynski was sharp, bright and ambitious. His dreams of a distinguished career didn’t include a backward village of drunks, peasants and Ukrainians which had already proved unlucky for two priests. Bishop Sokolowski’s warnings had done little to ease his apprehension. ‘We live in dangerous times,’ the prelate had cautioned. ‘It’s impossible to know which side people are on, so don’t call on your parishioners. Let them seek you out. And don’t get involved in resistance activities. Those villagers like their vodka, and while they’re drunk they’ll open their mouths too wide, as your predecessors found out to their misfortune.’ The more he thought about this parish the more discouraged Father Soszynski felt. ‘I feel like a naked man about to walk through a field of nettles,’ he thought.
It didn’t take long for the news to spread around the village that the new priest was friendly, young and good-looking, a big improvement on the others. The young girls blushed when they described Father Soszynski’s twinkling blue eyes and bantering manner, while the young matrons cast their eyes down to conceal thoughts that were definitely not spiritual.
Henek listened with growing interest to village gossip about the new priest’s sense of humour, keen intellect and passion for chess. Father Soszynski sounded like a kindred spirit. Ever since my father had arrived in Piszczac, the problem of making friends had been on his mind. Being newcomers made him and Bronia too vulnerable, because all new arrivals were suspected of being Jews until proved otherwise. He’d noticed that all the other newcomers in the village, who were Catholics, soon found mutual friends or church connections which made them accepted, but neither he nor Bronia could claim such links. He’d already asked the church organist to enter his certificate of baptism into the parish records. Although it was a false certificate, once it was entered it would appear genuine and he’d be able to make copies if he ever needed proof of baptism.
It was vital to make friends and become part of village life as fast as possible. The contact with the Bultowicz family had been helpful but it wasn’t enough. They’d already befriended some of the other newcomers, most of whom had arrived here after being forcibly evacuated from Silesia when Germany incorporated their coal-rich region into the Third Reich. Amongst them was Jurek Zawadzki, a likeable young pharmacist, and his merry wife Danuta who soon became so attached to Bronia that she didn’t go anywhere without her. Henek was delighted that the sociable Jurek played a good game of bridge, as did Dr Forycki, another refugee from Silesia, and the bridge game he organised became a weekly event which they all enjoyed.
A few weeks after the new priest had arrived, Henek was heading towards the post office. Fresh snow creaked under his shoes and flakes melted on his thickly quilted fufajka. He was about to post yet another letter to his sister Slawa. From what people said, he could see that it was important to receive regular mail from friends and relatives, but as most of his family were in hiding or on the run, regular correspondence was impossible and he and Bronia hardly ever received any letters.
Although he had to let his sister know how vital it was for them to receive frequent letters, he couldn’t say so directly because it was rumoured that the postmistress read the mail. He hoped that this time Slawa would read between the lines and sense the urgency behind his words. He was about to walk into the post office when he heard a cart rattling along from the direction of Chotylow. The driver tugged the reins, the cart stopped, and out stepped the new parish priest, brushing the sleet off his black soutane. His heart beating at his own audacity, Henek hastened towards him and apologised for accosting him in the street. ‘On the contrary, my dear Dr Boguslawski,’
replied Father Soszynski with a disarming smile. ‘I’m the one who should apologise for not having called on you, but I’ve been following the bishop’s orders. What can we do, we live in such dangerous times!’
Heartened by the priest’s friendly manner, Henek pressed on. ‘This evening my wife and I have invited some friends over to our place. If Reverend Father would come and have a glass of tea with us, we’d be very honoured.’
Roman Soszynski looked with interest at this greying man whose neatly trimmed moustache and slight limp added to his air of distinction. He’d already heard about the new dentist from the organist, who’d reported the conversation about the baptism certificate with a look which had implied some doubt. But he liked Dr Boguslawski’s sincerity and his direct gaze. ‘I’ll be delighted to come tonight and meet your good lady,’ he replied.
When Henek told Bronia the good news, her forehead crinkled like a washboard. ‘How do I know what to say to a priest?’ she fretted.
‘Don’t worry about anything, leave the talking to me,’ Henek said. ‘Anyway, he seems very approachable.’ As it turned out, the evening proceeded better than either of them could have hoped. Roman Soszynski was an entertaining raconteur with an easy flow of conversation, and although his observant gaze missed nothing, he knew how to put people at ease.
He loved to hear what was going on in the parish and laughed at jokes as loudly as anyone, but with his Jesuit training he also enjoyed arguing, debating and exchanging ideas. One of his regrets about coming to this sleepy hollow was that there would be little opportunity to sharpen his wits, so he was delighted that the dentist was a thinking man, well read and cultured. It was stimulating to find a parishioner with whom he could discuss the ballads of Mickiewicz, the epic canvases of Matejko, and the poems of Slowacki. Before leaving that evening, Father Soszynski told Henek that he’d welcome a game of chess in the presbytery. While they washed the glasses after their guests had gone home, Henek couldn’t help smiling. ‘Just imagine, the son of Reb Danil Baldinger playing chess with a priest!’
Year later, when my mother talks about her double life in Piszczac, I marvel how she managed to appear so cheerful and keep up a flow of light-hearted conversation when every single day situations arose which made her blood freeze with dread. ‘Sometimes I wonder myself how I managed,’ she tells me. ‘There wasn’t a day when I wasn’t terrified in case I said the wrong thing and gave us away.’
While we talk about those terrifying days, sunlight dapples the ground beneath the bamboo palms in my courtyard and the scent of star jasmine fills my head. As she watches me spiking the lamb loin with garlic for our dinner, she comments, ‘In Piszczac even cooking was risky. The first time that the Zawadzkis and Foryckis came to dinner, I served them chopped egg mixed with onion!’ She puts her blonde head to one side and spreads her small hands in a gesture of wonder. ‘It just didn’t occur to me that this was a typically Jewish dish!’ When she served roast goose rubbed all over with a garlic clove, the odour made one of her guests sniff suspiciously. ‘Isn’t that the way Jews prepare goose?’ she asked. Bronia didn’t hesitate. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I learned to do it that way from one of my neighbours.’
Not a day passed without some traumatic incident which threatened to reveal their secret. One day their inoffensive landlady Mrs Bogdanowa held up something she’d found in the street. ‘I’ve scrubbed it over and over but that funny writing won’t come off. If I can clean it up, I’ll use it as a doormat.’ My father’s face froze as he recognised the faded letters. It was part of the Torah scroll which must have been ripped up when the Germans had razed the village synagogue to the ground. With a voice that he tried to keep steady, he replied, ‘I wouldn’t bother. It’s too flimsy for a mat.’
As if they didn’t have enough to worry about, a few months later I became ill. In his memoirs, my father wrote, ‘Poor little girl, she sat on the potty for hours, holding her stomach and moaning: “My tummy hurts, my tummy hurts.” I’ll never forget that sight. Her face was as red as a beetroot. All she could pass were tiny red drops which resembled blood cells under the microscope.’
Dr Forycki diagnosed gastroenteritis. ‘It’s raging through the whole district,’ he said. ‘Some of the children have already died.’ The blood drained from Henek’s face. ‘There’s an injection which might help, but we don’t have any in Piszczac,’ the doctor was saying. ‘They might have some in Biala Podlaska.’
As soon as Dr Forycki left, Henek wired his brother Izio in Krakow and Mr Bultowicz in Warsaw, asking them to send the medicine immediately, even though he knew that it would take at least eight days to arrive and that I wouldn’t last that long. While scrawling the messages with his neat, slanted writing, he noticed the postmistress glance up sharply when she saw the address on the telegram he was sending to Izio was Syrena.
She’d seen that strange name somewhere before, it was on the tip of her tongue. Then she remembered. Months ago, before they took all the Jews away, someone from that shop Syrena had sent parcels to one of the Jewish women who’d been transported here. So Syrena must be a Jewish firm! She gave Henek another searching look. She couldn’t wait to share her suspicions with her family. Perhaps the new dentist wasn’t what he claimed to be.
Although he was aware of her puzzled expression, Henek didn’t have time to worry about the postmistress. He had to figure out how to get to Biala Podlaska which was twenty-six kilometres away. Travelling by train was too dangerous, but one of the villagers was setting out next morning by truck and agreed to drive him there and back.
It was late summer and clusters of tangerine rowan berries hung off the mountain ash trees which lined the dusty road. They passed wheat fields and barley fields, and orchard after orchard where large pink apples hung off the boughs. Brindle cows grazed beside sluggish streams, and every few minutes there was yet another wayside shrine garlanded with wreaths. Twenty-six kilometres had never seemed so long.
As soon as they arrived in the town centre, even before the driver had come to a complete stop, Henek jumped off the truck and rushed into the shop which displayed a mortar and pestle under the sign Apteka. Inside the pharmacy he blurted, ‘I need to buy an injection for my daughter no matter how much it costs.’ The woman in the white coat behind the counter raised her eyebrows so high that they almost touched her hairline. ‘I wouldn’t put it that way,’ she admonished him, but in spite of the rebuke, he sensed some concern in her manner. She was warning him. Only a Jew would express himself that way.
The pharmacist was shaking her head. ‘I don’t have any of that medicine but there’s another pharmacist in town, a Jewess. She’s not allowed to work any more, but she might have some left. Otherwise, your only other hope is the hospital.’
The home of the Jewish pharmacist shocked Henek with its austerity. All they had left was a couple of old chairs and a crooked table. The woman was looking at him with frightened eyes. She wasn’t allowed to sell medicine and was obviously afraid that he’d report her. Shaking her head, she quickly closed the door.
Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. It was almost time to return to Piszczac but he still didn’t have the medicine. He rushed to the hospital, cursing the stiff knee which slowed him down. ‘My little daughter is terribly ill and our doctor said that without this injection she’s going to die. She’s only three years old. Could you let me have one phial? In a few days I’ll be receiving some from Krakow and I’ll let you have it as soon as it arrives,’ he pleaded. After thinking it over, the hospital superintendent nodded. Tears of joy sprang to my father’s eyes.
Henek heard the town hall clock striking noon as he rushed to the meeting place, clutching the precious medicine. He looked up and down the street, crossed the road, turned back and looked around again. No sign of the truck. There was no point waiting any longer, the driver hadn’t waited for him. He’d have to catch the train after all.
The train wasn’t leaving for several hours. Bronia would be frantic with w
orry, and Danusia would have to wait for her injection, but there was nothing he could do. Resigned, he bought a ticket and waited. Time seemed to stand still. He looked down so that the others in the waiting room wouldn’t see the anxiety on his face. Finally it was five to three. Any minute now the train would arrive. Only one more hour and he’d be able to fetch Dr Forycki and give Danusia the life-saving medicine.
An unexpected noise made him look round. German boots were clattering along the platform and soldiers were ordering everyone to show their Kennkarte. Henek gripped his ID card tightly so that his hands wouldn’t tremble, holding his breath while they scrutinised the photograph and stared at him with faces which seemed to be cast from steel. Then, without saying a word, they handed back his card and walked off.
Luckily the Germans were only looking for saboteurs. High-ranking German officers and troops often travelled along this line to the eastern front, and their train was about to pass. Relief at not being detained now turned to dismay as he realised what that inspection had meant. The train Henek was waiting for would be full of soldiers and wouldn’t be picking up any passengers, and the next train wasn’t due for another five hours. By the time he walked the three kilometres from Chotylow station to Piszczac, it would be too late to call Dr Forycki. Would Danusia be able to hold out until next morning?
As he sat in anguish in the waiting room, trying not to sigh or draw attention to himself in any way, he noticed that the others were all staring at him with such intent expressions that he had to look away. Perhaps it’s because I’m a stranger, he thought. Or maybe they sense a Jew in their midst. To add to his apprehension, a Polish policeman in a navy uniform was coming straight towards him. He walked past all the others without even looking their way, but stopped in front of Henek and demanded to see his papers. Fortunately the light in the waiting room was dim, so no-one could see how white Henek’s face was. The policeman checked his Kennkarte and walked on, but Henek couldn’t even allow himself the luxury of breathing out in relief because all eyes were still fixed on him.
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