by Joan Dempsey
Izaac pushed the button for the ground floor.
“I’m no less baffled about you, by the way, but I do thank you for an interesting morning. Leaf through my grandson’s Bible. I believe you’ll find it’s rather different than your own.”
Meck inclined his head, and then the doors were closed.
20
Ransom
“But you have to go, Dziadzio,” said Tommy. “We’ll be just fine. And you do know there are telephones and computers and fax machines in Warsaw, right? You won’t miss a thing. Besides, Babcia needs you there.”
On Friday night, to celebrate Ludka’s unexpected invitation from the Jewish Historical Institute in Warsaw to attend a retrospective of her wartime sketches, Tommy, Robert, Izaac, Marta, and Frank were all crowded into Ludka and Izaac’s kitchen, waiting for Lolek, a gathering Izaac had organized without Ludka’s initial consent. Tommy and Robert were orchestrating the creation of gourmet pizzas, made from scratch right down to the dough. Everyone had at first been surprised and then relieved at the normalcy of their insistence that they cook dinner—Tommy and Robert had always loved to cook—and if it weren’t for the drawn drapes throughout the house, the stitches on Tommy’s cheek, the bruising around his eyes, which had turned a sickly yellow, and the way he kept pressing a hand to his ribs, it might have been any ordinary get-together.
Tommy raised his voice and called out the pass-through to Ludka, who was setting the dining room table.
“Right, Babcia? You need Dziadzio to go with you, don’t you?”
“Dziadzio does as Dziadzio wishes, that is all. Need is irrelevant.”
Izaac, who at Robert’s instruction was sprinkling sautéed shi-take mushrooms on one of the pizzas, shook his head and rolled his eyes, resulting in general laughter. Ludka opened the silverware drawer in the sideboard and counted out the knives and forks. Marta left the kitchen and joined her.
“What can I do?” said Marta.
Marta had on far more makeup than usual, and the beige foundation, creasing heavily along the lines in her forehead, did little to cover her pallor. Ludka patted her forearm and thanked her for the help.
“Napkins you can lay out.”
“I don’t want to miss arbitration,” Izaac said firmly to Tommy. “Not even for this. Being there firsthand is a lot different than reading the transcripts after the fact. Maybe I’ll be able to join Babcia after the hearing.”
“It is one week only I will be there. Twenty-two hours one way. I don’t think you’ll be joining.”
“Pizza’s in the oven,” said Robert.
“Perfect,” said Tommy. “Come on everyone, out of the kitchen. Uncle Frank, can you bring the Sobieski? Robert’s got the glasses.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for your father?” said Frank.
“Only if you want to be here all night,” said Tommy.
Everyone followed Tommy into the living room. Marta laid down the last napkin and joined them, but Ludka stayed behind, continuing to lay out the silverware. Since she’d discovered Stanley’s theft four days ago, four days that had passed excruciatingly slowly, she had kept almost frantically busy, trying to appear ordinary while anxiety clamored constantly for her attention. Her shoulder was still sore, and her chest felt intermittently constricted. More than once she’d been surprised to realize that the Act of Contrition was looping through her mind. Each time she became aware of it, she had abruptly stopped her thoughts. At some deep and unconscious level, she knew that hoarding the Chopin was an offense against God, not just a venial sin but undoubtedly a mortal one, laden as it was with decades of intentional deception, and she knew that to confess was her only salvation. Her conscious thought, however, was that confessing to anyone—Father Skurski, Shelly at the police station, her old colleagues at the Commission for Art Recovery, the FBI, even Izaac—still seemed dangerous and impossible. It was not a rational thought but a visceral one, and her recourse was to do what she had always done: rush away with other thoughts and soldier on. Yesterday, though, she’d come close to sending an anonymous tip through the FBI’s website, thinking they could track down Stanley Brozek and rescue the Chopin. She stopped herself when she realized the FBI could likely trace the tip to her. Even if they couldn’t, she expected Stanley would concoct some story. She called his cell phone repeatedly, obsessively checked her voice mail at work, at home, and on her cell phone. It’s possible he was after a ransom. Or perhaps he had known of a reward—she repeatedly hunted online for some mention. She couldn’t imagine what kind of collector would want to buy it on the black market. A Rembrandt she could see, or a Van Gogh or Cezanne, but a Mieroszewski? Hard to imagine.
And now there was yesterday’s apologetic phone call from Director Mandelbaum at The Jewish Historical Institute, and the added whirlwind of complication about Warsaw. Even without this business with Stanley and with Tommy, she could think of plenty of reasons not to go—the travel alone would be far too taxing, her students were relying on her, her reveries could prove problematic—but at some largely unconscious level she knew they all boiled down to only one: fear. As the director had spoken to her in Polish, his accent rich with a lifetime untainted by foreign lands, a language that reverberated through her like a tolling church bell on a breezy November morning, her fear rose and billowed out and transformed itself into an anticipatory sense of something not unlike excitement. She didn’t acquiesce to the trip because he had shared with her his seriousness of purpose about showcasing her important work, or because he flattered her and appealed to her sense of historical significance, but because he told her about the anonymous letter they’d received that revealed her identity as the artist. Several people besides Oskar—had they survived—knew about the sketches, but Ludka was convinced Oskar had written the letter. He would be there, she was certain. Before she’d finished the conversation with Mandelbaum, her own accent sounding watered down and unwieldy, she understood with a sudden clarity that everything she’d ever done had led her to this inevitability, and just like that, she was going home.
Tommy was suddenly standing beside her. She laid down another fork, and then a knife.
“You okay, Babcia?” he murmured. “You are the guest of honor, don’t forget.”
The white of Tommy’s left eye was still pink, and the Steri-Strips were ragged at the edges, due off any day. The stitches should come out soon, too. He had to wear his glasses lower on his nose than usual, and the upward tilt of his head gave him a slightly arrogant air. He was smiling, but weariness haunted his eyes, and all at once she recognized the effort it was taking him to be there. She rallied herself and carefully set the rest of the silverware on the table. In an exaggeratedly animated fashion, Tommy offered Ludka his elbow, and she slipped her hand into the crook, careful not to bump against his ribs.
Ludka laid a hand on the back of her wing chair and faced her family. Frank and Robert had poured and passed the vodka shots, and Frank handed one now to Ludka and Tommy before moving in front of the fire to stand next to Marta. Quietly, he said something to her and she smiled. It had been years since Ludka had seen Frank with beard stubble, and this was several days old, dark copper red shot through with white. The fire was dizzyingly hot and the glass, chilled from the freezer, frigid enough to burn. She hoped the toast would be brief.
Just then, Lolek came into the back hallway and stomped his shoes.
“Am I too late? Sorry. The governor held me up.”
“They are making unnecessary fuss,” said Ludka. “But Frank brought Sobieski and so I am tolerant.”
Lolek padded in his black dress socks into the kitchen. He came right back out with a shot glass and smiled around at everyone as he loosened his tie. He moved purposely to stand in front of Marta and Frank, and Frank stepped aside. Lolek clapped him on the back and held out his glass. Frank, holding the vodka bottle by the neck, set down his shot on the mantle, unscrewed the cap, and poured a full measure for Lolek, who raised his glass as if he were about to present the toas
t himself. He caught himself just in time and slowly lowered his arm, trying to appear as if he’d been merely waiting for the toast to be offered.
Izaac stepped up onto the hearth.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about your mother, your grandmother.”
Ludka groaned.
“For this I must sit.”
Gratefully, she put down the shot glass and sat in her wing chair. She rubbed her cold fingers, crossed her arms over her stomach, uncrossed them, and crossed them again.
“You’re right, Matka,” said Frank, “we might need fortification.”
He threw back the shot.
Lolek laughed and followed suit, and while Izaac said “hey now, hey now,” the rest of them, including Ludka, tossed back the vodka. There was general laughter, and Frank reached around to refill the glasses.
“If you need to get comfortable, then, by all means,” said Izaac. He took a sip. “I think you’ll want to hear this.”
He patted at the air for them to sit down. Something in his tone made them comply with no further shenanigans. Tommy knelt on the floor next to Ludka and rested his forearm on the arm of her chair. Robert sat on the hearth and stretched out his lanky legs so his feet were touching Tommy’s knees. Marta took Izaac’s wing chair, Lolek and Frank continued to stand in front of the fire, and Izaac stood slightly above them on the hearth. Ludka touched her hair, feeling frail in comparison to even this tired bunch. She could hardly fathom she’d given birth to these two substantial men. She was grateful they blocked out some of the heat.
“You might wonder,” said Izaac, “what business it is of the Jewish Historical Institute to want to put on a retrospective of sketches by a diehard Catholic. And even if you’re not wondering, you know damned well I’m going to tell you anyway!”
He raised his eyebrows and smiled around at each of them.
“This show isn’t really about art. Our Ludka didn’t sketch for pleasure, or for practice. She was part of an effort organized by Emmanuel Ringelblum, a great man, a Jew who had the foresight in 1939 to understand he was living through a singular moment in history, a moment he knew should never be forgotten.”
“And so begins lecture,” said Ludka.
She forced a laugh, trying to diffuse her own mounting emotions. Her attempt sounded strained, even to her.
“Isn’t it time they knew?” Izaac had asked yesterday, when he told her he’d organized this gathering, and she had protested. “What possible reason is there to keep silent any longer?”
Stupidly, still reeling from her conversation with Director Mandelbaum and worn down by Izaac’s frustration and calm pride in her work, she’d capitulated, regretting it almost immediately. Once the stories were told, the questions would follow, and she didn’t know if she could bear to think about the answers. There was only so much pot stirring she could handle.
“I’ll keep the lecture brief, kochanie, both to keep you happy and to get the rest of you back to your Sobieski. Emmanuel Ringelblum was a social historian, a friend of my parents, may they all rest in peace.”
The heat of the fire had gotten too much for him, and he moved to the edge of the hearth, away from the open firebox. Lolek stepped up and took his place.
“Ringelblum and a team of people he put together organized an archive of materials that detailed life in the ghetto. Our own Ludka—or Apolonia, as she was known to them—was an unusual member of the archival team, an anomaly: she wasn’t a Jew, she was female, she was young, and she lived outside the ghetto walls. But she was also known through her art circles to Gela Seksztajn—you know her, she painted that sullen boy we have in the study—and Gela’s husband, Izrael, was part of Ringelblum’s team. The only reason Gela’s work is known today is because of what was preserved in the archives. And because Gela liked Ludka—she said her drawings were exemplary and necessary—Ringelblum asked her to contribute. She was one of a select few.”
“So I sketched.” Ludka stared into the fire. “It was not so much.”
“It was crucial,” said Izaac. “Crucial!”
Gela’s face came to her vividly then, a face Ludka hadn’t thought of for years, and she pressed her fingers over her mouth and closed her eyes. A bilious taste of vodka backed up in her throat and she swallowed hard. From the kitchen came a slightly rancid smell of old oil burning off the oven racks. Next to her, Tommy changed position so he was leaning gently against her calf.
“But you weren’t in the ghetto, were you, Matka?” said Frank. “Why would you be?”
Ludka glanced at him, and then back at the fire. She shrugged, and gestured at Izaac to hurry up and be done.
“Ringelblum buried the archive inside the ghetto,” said Izaac. “Two of the caches were found after the war, one in ’47, one in 1950. It’s taken them this long to figure out who did the sketches. And that’s it. Next week she goes to Warsaw to finally be recognized for her work.”
“Why didn’t you just tell them it was you?” asked Tommy. “I mean, you must have known they’d found the archives?”
Ludka spoke sharply to Izaac in rapid Polish, telling him it was for these questions she did not want this gathering. Everyone looked at her in surprise. The Polish language had been a deliberate casualty of assimilation; none of them had learned more than a few common words and phrases.
She surveyed them, and patted Tommy’s back.
“It is complicated.”
“Well, it wasn’t safe, was it,” said Lolek matter-of-factly. He took off his tie and shoved it into his suit jacket pocket. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, his face doughier than usual. “The way I understand it, the war’s still going on over there as far as anti-Semitism goes. Let’s just say your Babcia wouldn’t have been welcomed with open arms as the hero she really is, not in the fifties. And today only under the auspices of a place like the Institute.”
“Do not use this word ‘hero!’” Ludka thumped the arms of her chair. “Only I did what anyone would do.”
“Kochanie—”
“Do not kochanie me, old man. Is there toast anytime soon or must we drink vodka lukewarm?”
Izaac peered down at his shot glass and shook his head nearly imperceptibly. More than once over the past several days he had asked her what was wrong, and each time she had claimed concern about her reveries, and Tommy, and then the return to Poland, how already she was too old for all this. But he suspected there was something more.
Now he lifted his head and raised his glass.
“Okay, then. Okay. To bearing witness. To remembrance. To our Ludka. Na zdrowie!”
“Na zdrowie,” everyone said, raising their glasses in Ludka’s direction. She smiled and nodded as graciously as she could. The vodka had warmed slightly. She took only a sip. Tommy suddenly scrambled to his feet.
“The pizza!”
“Oh shit,” said Robert. They both rushed into the kitchen. “Saved it!” called Tommy. “Let’s eat.”
At the table, after the commotion of passing plates and the exclamations of delight about the pizza had died down, Lolek turned first to Izaac and then to Ludka.
“I don’t understand about the ghetto. Why would you have been sketching in there?”
Ludka tore off a chunk of crust and began to chew. She wanted nothing more than to push back her chair, calmly retreat to the study, and close the door behind her. She might gaze upon Gela’s sullen boy or call in again to check her voice mail at work or sit on the love seat and close her eyes until they’d all gone. She hadn’t talked with anyone about the ghetto since 1947, since her arrival in America. When Izaac had arrived three years later, they had deliberately—strategically—spoken of it once, at length over the course of two grueling days, determined to say it all and then leave it behind them. A couple of years back, Izaac had finally broken his silence and given a long interview on camera for the Shoah Foundation, an organization preserving stories of the Holocaust from the rapidly diminishing pool of survivors. Ludka had stayed at the university w
hile they’d conducted the interview here at home. Nothing Izaac said could convince her it might be cathartic; there were things even Izaac did not know.
As Izaac helped himself to another slice of pizza, he glanced warily at Ludka. She pretended she didn’t notice. Let him think she was lapsing into a reverie. Served him right, all this fuss.
“Matka?” said Lolek. “Did you sketch scenes from inside the ghetto?”
She gave Lolek a curt nod and took another bite: roasted garlic, nutty goat cheese, crisp mushroom. She’d taken a larger bite than she should have. It felt dangerous in her mouth. One nostril wasn’t clear, and she experienced a moment of panic and opened her mouth to breathe past the food. Embarrassed, she held up her napkin as she finished chewing with her mouth open. Her eyes watered.
Lolek started to ask her something further, but Tommy cut him off.
“Can’t you see she doesn’t want to talk about it? Leave her alone, Dad.”
“Tommy,” said Marta in a gentle but warning tone.
“No, Mom, I’m sorry, but this is supposed to be Babcia’s celebration. Grilling her shouldn’t be on the agenda.”
“I wasn’t grilling her, Tommy, I was merely asking a question.”
Tommy got up, retrieved one of the empty serving trays, and took it into the kitchen. Lolek threw up his hands and sat back in his chair. He looked at Marta questioningly. She shook her head as if to say not now. Frank took another bite and studiously avoided any eye contact.
“Let me help, Tom,” said Robert. He went into the kitchen. The oven door opened with a squeaky groan.
Ludka wouldn’t mind leaving the table herself. She patted Lolek’s arm.
“I did sketch inside ghetto, but it is long story, not so interesting, I think.”
There was a period of somewhat awkward silence. From the kitchen came the sound of baking pans sliding on and off the metal oven racks, murmuring from Tommy and Robert.
“I think Tommy’s right, though,” said Lolek. He said it loudly, wanting Tommy to hear. “You should go, Dad. When will you have another chance? We can take care of things here. We’ll keep you closely in the loop, I promise. There will be plenty left to do when you get back.”