by Irma Joubert
At the top was a small room with a table, four chairs, and a bench. On a dresser stood a Primus stove and two mugs. There was a bed in one corner. A black drape covered the window.
An old man was sitting on a chair at the table, an old lady on the bed. Jakób sat down on the bench. “Sit here.” He motioned to Gretl. She sat on the floor at his feet. Now she saw nothing but shoes. And Jakób’s legs. They were hard and covered with black hairs and mud stains. Later two other men with dirty shoes and legs arrived.
They talked and talked. She was very tired, but she couldn’t sleep because Jakób had told her to sit quietly.
Then the woman gave her a storybook with pictures. It was hard to read because it was Polish. She struggled, yet managed to understand. It was the story of a man, Maslok, who was too lazy to work. But just as Maslok began to talk to a ghost called Skarbink, Jakób said, “Come, Gretz, we’re done.”
She looked up, disturbed. She couldn’t just leave the story.
“Take the book with you,” said the woman. “Jakób can return it later.”
She held the book close to her chest. When they had left the city behind, Jakób said, “Can you read?”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Jakób Kowalski?”
“No, but the story is in Polish. What’s it about?”
“About Maslok, who had to work in a mine but was lazy. But just as Maslok began to speak to Skarbink, you said we must go. Skarbink is a ghost,” she added, to make it clear.
He shook his head slowly. “You’re a remarkable little girl,” he said.
The radio whistled shrilly, then crackled to life. Jakób’s Home Army companions had found an English transmission. The circle of faces turned to Jakób, who was the only one who understood English.
“They speak too fast,” he said. “Look for a Russian broadcast.”
Stan sat with one hand on the dial, his ear close to the set. He turned the knob slowly, the sound leaping over the whistling airwaves but returning time and again to the English transmission. He looked up, shaking his head.
“You’ll have to translate,” Francis Rzepecki told Jakób.
Jakób listened carefully. “It’s something about D-Day,” he said. “I don’t know.” Frowning, he listened some more. “Normandy, in France. I think the Allied Forces have landed in Normandy.”
Everyone spoke at once.
“It means they’ve begun with the second front at last,” someone said excitedly.
“Did they cross the English Channel?”
“Did they break through the German lines?”
“Quiet,” said Jakób, a deep frown between his dark brows, “I can’t hear.”
But somewhere between the Polish countryside and the towering ruins of London the voice got lost. Stan turned the dial, Francis smacked the side of the radio set with his hand, someone cursed, but the set refused to give up anything more. After a while Stan said, “It’s no good,” and switched it off.
“Are you sure they’ve crossed the English Channel?” asked Jerzy Tatar.
“I’m not sure about anything,” said Jakób.
“What’s today’s date?” asked Jerzy.
“June 8,” Jakób answered slowly. He believed he had it right. “It must have taken place yesterday or the day before,” he added, stunned. What Poland had been hoping for for years was finally happening.
It was like Christmas. The woman who lived at Professor Sobieski’s house gave Gretl clothes her own daughter, Sonja, had outgrown. The clothes were tied inside a coat.
Gretl sat on the kitchen floor, carefully undoing the sleeves while Jakób’s family sat around the table. She unfolded the coat and took out a dress. It was blue with a white collar. She stood and held it in front of her. It was a little long.
“It’s true, Father,” said Jakób. “The Allied Forces have landed in France. They’re on their way to Paris!”
“Look at this dress, Jakób,” Gretl said.
He turned to her. “It’s pretty,” he said.
“General Eisenhower is in command,” said Stan. “Apparently there are thousands of American soldiers.”
“So you really think peace is within reach?” asked Turek.
“Before Christmas, listen to what I’m telling you,” said Stan.
Gretl put the blue dress down and picked up a skirt. It was red with a floral border at the hem. “Just look at the beautiful skirt, Jakób,” she said.
He turned again. “Lovely,” he said. “I hear Britain and the US are planning to send in a million troops.”
“I’ll believe it when the tanks are driving down the streets of Częstochowa, wiping every German from the face of the earth,” said Uncle Janusz.
Gretl shuddered and reminded herself never to speak German. She held up a blouse. It was white with puffed sleeves and buttons down the front.
“And every bloody Russian as well,” Jakób added.
Jakób was swearing. It was just as well she couldn’t speak Russian, she thought. “Look at the blouse, Jakób,” she said.
He turned. “Yes, pretty,” he said. “The time is ripe for the Home Army to make a bold move.”
“You don’t stand a chance against the Germans,” said Aunt Anastarja. “You might as well wait for the British.”
“No, Mother,” said Jakób, “we must do it ourselves. We must prove to our enemies and to the free world—and ourselves—that the Polish spirit has not been quelled. It’s the only way we can ensure complete autonomy for Poland.”
Finally Gretl held up the coat. It smelled of mothballs, like Oma’s trunk. It was bright red, with big red buttons down the front. She put it on. It was a little big but nice and warm. “Look at my beautiful coat, Jakób,” she said.
He turned to her. “Yes, very nice,” he said. “We must start in Warsaw.”
“We mustn’t even try without the help of the Red Army,” said Stan.
“I heard there’s not much left of Warsaw,” said Uncle Janusz.
“There are at least fifty thousand men in Warsaw ready to take up arms,” said Jakób.
Gretl folded her new clothes neatly. There were two pairs of underpants as well, but she didn’t show them to Jakób. When he took her to Switzerland, she would wear all the clothes on top of each other. Like Heidi.
“You must teach the child to milk the goats, Jakób,” said Monicka. “It’s getting too much for me.”
“Fine, I will,” said Jakób.
Gretl was too excited about the new clothes to sleep, so she took the latest book the old lady had given her and read a story. Reading the Polish stories was easier now, but before she had finished, the lamp was put out and she lay in the dark, wondering, Where is Warsaw? What if Jakób went there and they shot him dead too? How would she get to Switzerland then?
The big lump was back in her tummy. It pushed up, into her throat.
I’ve got new clothes, she thought. It didn’t help.
Cinderella also slept in front of the fire. The good fairy came and she found a prince, she thought. This didn’t help either. She didn’t want a prince.
She was cold. She wanted Mutti and Oma. And Elza, though she knew about Elza.
On Sunday Aunt Anastarja said, “The child has clothes now. She can come along to mass.”
“Fine, Mother,” said Jakób.
She put on the blue dress with the white collar and shoes and socks. Her feet felt strange, because she hadn’t worn shoes for a long time. She looked at herself in the broken mirror in Aunt Anastarja’s room. Her hair had grown long, and it curle
d around her head in an unruly mop. Oma would tie it with a ribbon when she got to Switzerland, Oma didn’t like messy hair. In the ghetto Oma had cut her hair short because of the head lice. Don’t think about the ghetto, she told herself.
They walked to the cathedral, everyone except Stan, because he had to work. After a while Monicka and Turek slowed down. Monicka was getting a baby soon, Jakób had said when he taught Gretl to milk the goats.
The cathedral was big inside, with high walls. It was different from the synagogue she used to go to with Oma when they lived in the ghetto. But it smelled the same, of furniture polish. And it felt the same, as if God lived here too. The windows were very pretty. She suddenly remembered how Mutti had taken Elza and her to church every Sunday before the ghetto. The windows looked the same. She hadn’t really listened to the pastor, just stared at the beautiful windows and made up her own stories.
When Jakób’s priest began to speak, she understood nothing, just like in the synagogue. He wasn’t speaking Polish. Maybe it was Russian. Or Hebrew. The priest’s voice sounded just like the rabbi’s—a falling-asleep voice. She looked carefully at what the other people were doing so that she wouldn’t make a mistake and made up her own stories to stay awake.
Sunday lunch was always good, with boiled potatoes, a green salad, and meat, if there was any. After lunch everyone lay down for a nap. Except Jakób, who sat up, doing sums.
“Those are difficult sums,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Can I do sums too?”
He looked at her with his stern black eyes. Then he picked up an exercise book and showed her the back cover. “Okay,” he said. “But first you have to learn these multiplication tables.”
She looked at the page for a long time. It made no sense to her. “Jakób, I don’t understand,” she said.
He sighed and got up to fetch a few carrots from the shelf. “Watch carefully,” he said. He made two piles of three carrots each on the table. “How many carrots are there?”
“Six,” she answered at once.
“Right. Two times three is six.” Now he made three piles of four carrots each.
She counted. “Twelve,” she said.
“Right. Look at the book, there.” And he pointed with his finger. “Three times four is twelve.”
She understood. A new world opened to her. She read and read the numbers. After that she worked everything out—the people’s ears, the goats’ legs, the squares in her knit blanket, the carrots and beets and potatoes she washed.
Two weeks later she said to Jakób, “Do you know you’re three times my age? You’re really very old.”
His dark eyes looked straight at her, as if he really saw her. “And you’re really very clever,” he said.
“I’m joining the PPR,” said Stan out of the blue a week later when he and Jakób were walking through the moonlit landscape after a Home Army meeting.
Jakób stopped. “You’re doing what?”
“Joining the Polish Labor Party,” Stan said loudly and clearly.
A choking disbelief grew inside him. “You want to get into bed with the Communists?” He did not disguise the loathing in his voice.
“Not get into bed, fight,” said Stan, walking on.
His own brother couldn’t possibly be so shortsighted to fall for the Labor Party’s pious talk! He grabbed Stan’s arm. “They’re Communists!” He spat out the last word.
“The PPR isn’t pro-Russian,” Stan said firmly, removing Jakób’s hand from his arm.
“The PPR is as Communist as the Soviet Union itself,” Jakób argued, feeling despair. “You can’t trust the Reds.”
“I suppose you’re referring to the Katyn massacre?”
“Yes, Stan, that’s what I’m talking about!” Jakób was angry now. “Fifteen thousand Polish officers in a mass grave, buried by the Red Army. Don’t tell me to let that go. That and all the other atrocities they’ve committed!”
“The PPR is at the forefront of anti-German resistance in Poland, Jakób. They’re more successful than the Home Army, you know that.”
“Because they’ve ingratiated themselves with Russia.”
The two brothers stood facing each other, dark, broad-shouldered, of equal height and fire. Stan spoke in a measured voice. “The Soviet Union is presently the only liberator of smaller nations. Without their help, we’re lost.”
“The Soviet Union,” said Jakób spitefully, “is the puppet master pulling the strings! And you want to let them pull yours!”
“It’s the only way, Jakób,” said Stan. “Listen to what I’m telling you—the only way.”
“Step by step the Communist parties are taking over the political power in Poland,” Jakób said to Professor Sobieski in July.
“And the Home Army is allowing it?”
“We’re in a difficult position, Professor. We’re not getting any real support from Britain or the US.”
“What are you telling me, Jakób?”
“The way I see it, Professor, we don’t have much of a choice. The first thing we have to do is shake off the German yoke once and for all. After that we’ll have to see how we can get rid of the Russians as well.”
“So the Home Army is going to collaborate with the Red Army?”
“To free Warsaw. Yes, Professor.” As he spoke the words, he knew he had not made peace with the idea himself. “Rokossowski’s tanks and infantry, and the Cossack cavalry are advancing on the city already.”
“Very well then.” The professor removed his spectacles and polished them carefully. “May God be with you, Jakób.”
“Will you fix us some provisions to take along?” Jakób asked his mother.
“You’re wasting your time,” Anastarja grumbled. “You play war games while we work our fingers to the bone.”
Nevertheless she baked extra bread and wrapped up some salted ham and cheese.
Gretl trailed after Jakób and Stan and Jerzy Tatar as they walked to the train station. The station evoked strange memories, vague images of a journey to a ghetto, and clearer memories of a journey during which her grandmother had pried loose her fingers so that she could escape.
“Will you come back, Jakób Kowalski?”
“Yes, Gretz, I will.”
“And will you take me to Switzerland then?”
His black eyes looked into her blue ones. “As soon as there’s peace, we’ll try to find Onkel Hans. In the meantime I want you to look after the goats and read your stories.”
The train disappeared along the track. All the way home she could taste the acrid blue smoke at the back of her throat.
3
When Gretl returned, Aunt Anastarja was annoyed. “When are you going to milk the goats?” she scolded.
“I’ll go at once,” said Gretl, picking up the wooden bucket.
“Wash your hands,” said Anastarja crossly. She tied a scarf around her head and spoke to Monicka. “I’m going to light candles for Stan and Jakób. Are you coming?”
Monicka shook her head. “You go. I don’t feel up to the long walk.” Monicka no longer worked at the factory. She was waiting for the baby to come.
I really hope it’s only one baby, Gretl thought as she walked across the damp grass. A few days earlier one of the sows had a litter. Gretl shuddered. She knew now where babies came from. But if Monicka had that many babies, the screaming would be simply awful.
“I don’t want to have babies when I grow up,” she told Bruni, the friendliest goat. “But you will have to, or we won’t have any milk to make cheese.”
Back at the house, she poured the milk into the pot and swept the kitchen floor. Then she went to Jakób and Stan’s bedroom on the porch. Jakób had said she could sleep in his bed while he was away.
The room smelled of Jakób. There was a hollow in the pillow where his head had rested. She pressed the soft pillow to her chest. It was warm and comforting. She wished Jakób hadn’t gone away. Her father had also gone away. What if . . .
Maybe she should also light a candle for Jakób. She didn’t really know how it worked, but she knew it had something to do with God. She vaguely remembered the Weinachtskerzen at Christmas, in the time before her father was shot—the lovely candles and the silver Lametta and brightly colored Kugeln on the tree. They hadn’t celebrated Christmas in the ghetto. Jews don’t believe in Christmas, Mutti had said.
Gretl put on her blue dress with the white collar, combed her hair, and followed the footpath to the cathedral at the foot of Jasna Góra. She was about to climb the steps to the church door when she realized she had forgotten her shoes. She considered going back, but if she went home now, Uncle Janusz would tell her to wash the vegetables and feed the leaves to the pigs, as he did every day. She pushed open the big door and entered.
It was quiet inside. The sunlight fell through the windows and made colored blotches on the long rows of wooden benches. The ceiling was almost as high as the sky. She shut the door softly and tiptoed down the aisle. The red carpet was soft under her bare feet.
A man in a long white robe was kneeling at the front of the church. She knew he was praying. A few women were also kneeling at a kind of counter, on which there was a multitude of flickering candles. She didn’t see Aunt Anastarja among them.
Gretl looked around but couldn’t find a candle to light. Maybe she should have brought her own. She decided she would just pray.