The Fires of Lilliput

by Michael Martin

  “Jakub?” Shosha said. “What are you talking about?”

  “I want it out of here,” Fr. Fredric said.

  “He’ll leave when we leave,” the rabbi said.

  “It leaves now.”

  “Go back to your chamber,” the rabbi said.

  “Not before this defilement is gone.”

  “We can’t leave now,” the rabbi said.

  The fighters restrained the priest and the rabbi leaned close to him. “This man is a friend,” the rabbi said. “Do I tell Fr. Stan the war’s made you a lunatic?” the rabbi asked.

  “Don’t insult me,” Fr. Fredric said.

  “You insult yourself,” the rabbi said. “Go back to your room.” The rabbi looked at the two fighters. They relinquished their grip.

  “Clean my floor,” the priest said. He pushed past the men and disappeared without a candle down the passage.

  FATHER STANISLAW RETURNED FROM PRAGA to escort the rabbi’s group across the Wisla. “Where is Fr. Fredric?” he asked the rabbi. No one knew, and no one said anything about the incident in the chapel.

  “Did he give you your papers?” Fr. Stan asked.

  “No—only clothes and food.”

  “They must be in the office.” Fr. Stan returned shortly with a handful of envelopes with names on them. “Papers first,” he said. “Please—everyone here.”

  The eight-person group lined up along the passageway wall. “Fr. Fredric put these together last night.” Fr. Stan passed out envelopes to each person. “They appear in order, but please check them.”

  Those who couldn’t read—or couldn’t read well, including Jakub—opened the envelopes and glanced at the papers then put the packets into their shirts or coats.

  “Now—let me see you all.” Fr. Stan stepped back from the line. “You,” he pointed to one of the fighters. “Shave, different hat. You—different shirt, this one stands out. Rabbi—no more beard.”

  “Shave my beard?”

  “You have to look like average Poles.”

  “Who’s knowing? We pay the gendarmes, we get down to the boat.”

  “No boat,” Fr. Stan said. “I couldn’t get a boat.”

  “Then how are we going?” Shosha asked.

  “Tram—to Szeroka Street.”

  “That’s crazy—we’ll be spotted the minute we step on.”

  “Not if you pay attention,” Fr. Stan told the rabbi. “Now go shave.”

  THE GROUP LOOKED SUFFICIENTLY DRAB and left the bunker for the tram station at the bridge to Praga about half a mile away. They were on foot and two men helped Rebekah.

  “We’re finally getting out of here,” she said.

  “Mama—you don’t speak three words in a week and now you say this.” Shosha said. “You’ve never wanted to leave.”

  “Lev knows where we’re going,” she told her daughter. “I just hope I make it.”

  “You’ll make it,” Shosha said. She turned to Jakub. “She’ll make it, won’t she?”

  He nodded.

  “See? He says you’ll make it.”

  “Maybe he has connections we don’t, eh?” Rebekah said.

  The river and the bridge across it came into view. Fr. Stanislaw stopped them. “The tram is that way,” he said. “Remember—average Poles. The more Poles they can get out of Warsaw without having to waste valuable camp space reserved for Jews, the better they like it.”

  They saw gendarmes, standing and talking. They saw average Poles with chickens in cages and fresh produce from G-d knew where. They saw women and men with sacks of potatoes and newspapers and an occasional cigar. One woman had a rooster in a crudely fashioned pen.

  The breeze from the river blew across their faces and swept smoke from the ghetto to the sky. It rose and thinned over the river, resettling in an acrid haze over Praga on the other side. Shosha breathed the fresher air. She looked toward the sun, rising and orange in the haze. She turned again and saw Fr. Fredric. She felt sick. “Don’t look,” she whispered to Jakub. The cleric approached them.

  “Fred—we were looking for you,” Fr. Stan said.

  “I went for money,” Fr. Fredric said. “In case we have to pay anyone.” The rabbi looked at him. “I want to apologize.” Fr. Fredric took Jakub’s hand. He glanced at three gendarmes. “You must accept my apology,” he said. “I misunderstood.”

  Jakub noticed the priest’s hands were cold.

  “Apology for what?” Fr. Stan said.

  “An earlier misunderstanding,” Fr. Fredric said. He withdrew his hands.

  “Rabbi?”

  “That’s right,” the rabbi told Fr. Stan. “A minor thing.”

  The tram was boarding now. “Well,” Fr. Fredric said. “Goodbye and may the Lord bless and keep you.” He looked at the gendarmes, who were walking toward the group. They pushed through the crowd and came to Jakub.

  “Jude,” they said. “Jude!”

  “What? This man is not a Jew,” Fr. Stan said. “He’s Catholic, from Marienburg.”

  “Kennkarte!”

  The gendarmes opened the envelopes person-by-person. Jakub handed over his packet. A gendarme opened it, laughed, and held up the papers. Meaningless letters covered the pages. “Gibberish,” he said and let the papers fall into the street. The other gendarmes seized Jakub.

  “No,” Shosha cried. The rabbi pushed toward her. “He’s with us,” she said. “He’s not a Jew.”

  The rabbi grabbed her arm, but before he could speak, the gendarme was upon her.

  “You know this man?”

  The rabbi tightened his grip on Shosha’s arm. “I speak for this group,” the rabbi said. He looked the gendarme in the eyes.

  “I’m not with them,” Jakub interrupted.

  “What?” Shosha said.

  “Shut up,” the rabbi whispered to her.

  “I’m not with them,” Jakub said again.

  “You’re lying,” the gendarme said. He looked at the rabbi and the priest. “You’re sneaking this Jew across.”

  “For what purpose?” Father Stan said.

  “What else?” the gendarme said. “Money.”

  The rabbi intervened. “He’s already told you—he’s not with us.”

  “The Father said he was Catholic, from Marienburg,” the gendarme said.

  “I told them that just now,” Jakub said. “Here in the line.”

  “That’s not true,” Shosha said. “Why are you lying?”

  The gendarme turned to Jakub. “Are you lying?” he said.

  “Tell them the truth,” Shosha said.

  “Well?” the gendarme asked Jakub.

  “I told you twice. I’m not with them.”

  “No,” Shosha screamed.

  The rabbi pulled her close. “Shut up.” he said.

  “I think that settles it,” the gendarme said. He took his sidearm from its holster and raised it to Jakub’s head.

  “No,” Shosha cried again. She dropped. “No—please, you can’t kill him. You can’t.” She grabbed the gendarme’s legs.

  “I don’t understand,” the gendarme said. “How can this woman care so much for a stranger?” The gendarme knelt down to Shosha. He took her face and held it up.

  “Please don’t kill him,” she said.

  The gendarme swept the hair from her face. He looked at her eyes, glistening and black. “God you’re beautiful,” he said. He looked at his men, and the gawking crowd. “I suppose we’ll have to sort this out,” he said. He waved off his cohorts, who took Jakub by either arm and started leading him away. “The rest of you board the tram,” the gendarme said.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “Shosha,” her mother said. “Keep quiet and get on.”

  “You can’t take him.” She ran toward Jakub. “You can’t take him.” She took hold of the first gendarme’s arm.

  “Let go of me,” he said. “Let go.” He raised his hand to her face but hesitated. The rabbi and Fr. Stan pulled her back.

  “You,” she
cried, but the rabbi grabbed her mouth and the two men pulled her back and forced her into a doorway out of the crowd. They waited until the gendarmes were gone to let her speak.

  “Get off me!” she said.

  “Shosha, please,” the rabbi said.

  “After all he did for us, you turn him over to those jackals.”

  “He turned himself over,” the rabbi said.

  “They’ll find out his true identity and let him go,” Fr. Stan said. “He’s not a Jew. He has nothing to worry about. Come with us, come aboard the tram.”

  “I’m going with him.” She tried to get away but the two men held her.

  “This is foolishness, woman,” the rabbi said.

  Shosha’s face was flustered and heavy.

  “You have a choice now. A choice,” the rabbi said. “Follow him and die. Follow us, and you have a chance to live. When was the last time you had that kind of choice?”

  “Shosha,” Rebekah called. “We have to get on.” A conductor herded people aboard the tram.

  “Come with us,” the rabbi said. “You can’t find him anyway. Not now.”

  He brought his hand to her arm again. She shook it off.

  “You,” she said. “You enable them. You give them money and comfort. Our enemy.” She stood straight. “Don’t touch me,” she said.

  She looked in the direction opposite the tram.

  “If you don’t get on, we carry you,” the rabbi said. “Kicking and screaming if you wish.”

  “All aboard. All aboard now.”

  Shosha looked at the rabbi.

  “Final call—all aboard.”

  She looked in the direction Jakub had taken.

  “All aboard.”

  She heard her mother.

  “Shosha.”

  She looked at the rabbi.

  “Why do you care what I do?” Shosha said. “You’re not family. Why do you care so much?”

  She heard her mother again and saw her boarding the tram.

  “Shosha—please.”

  Her shoulders slumped. The three of them walked together toward the tram.

  SUBURB

  Twenty Five

  On October 6, 1939, the provocateur of the greatest war humankind has ever endured addressed his people in this way.

  “It was a fateful hour” when on September 1, “I had to inform you of serious decisions, which had been forced upon us as a result of the intransigent and provocative action of a certain state.”

  “A state,” the leader said, “of no less than thirty-six million inhabitants, with an army of almost fifty infantry and cavalry divisions.” A state that “took up arms against us,” with a “confidence in their ability to crush Germany” that “knew no bounds.”

  The leader told his people about his moral code on the battlefield.

  “That the last remnants of the Polish Army were able to hold out in Warsaw, Modlin, and on Hela Peninsula until October 1 was not due to their prowess in arms, but only to our cool thinking and our sense of responsibility.”

  The leader told his people that he was merciful.

  “I forbade the sacrifice of more human lives than was absolutely necessary.”

  He explained how the enemy tried his patience and tested his restraint.

  “I still clung to the hope, misdirected though it was that the Polish side might for once be guided by responsible common sense instead of by irresponsible lunacy.”

  The leader insisted he was a compassionate man, even to his enemies.

  “Sheer sympathy for women and children caused me to make an offer to those in command of Warsaw at least to let civilian inhabitants leave the city. I declared a temporary armistice and safeguards necessary for evacuation...”

  But the lunacy of his enemies stood in the way.

  “The proud Polish commander of the city did not even condescend to reply.”

  The leader persevered. “I extended the time limit and ordered bombers and heavy artillery to attack only military objectives, repeating my proposal in vain.”

  He even offered the enemy a place of sanctuary. “I thereupon made an offer that the whole suburb of Praga would not be bombarded at all, but should be reserved for the civilian population in order to make it possible for them to take refuge there.”

  The enemy—such madness (the leader brought his fists together, over his heart and raised his closed eyes toward the sky)—such absolute madness—refused.

  “Praga was bombarded very heavily,” said Praga native Leah Hammerstein Silverstein. “My father had a brother living on the left side of the River Wisla. So, he collected us children and we ran from Praga to Warsaw, hoping that Warsaw is not bombarded so heavily as Praga is.”

  So like the enemy’s lunacy and stubbornness—to flee their own sanctuary.

  “The flight from Praga to Warsaw, you know, we had to cross the bridge, and the bridge was one of the main targets of these planes. You know, I don’t have exactly the right words to describe the panic that existed among these running people. The screams and, you know, the cries of the children, the women, the, the, the, the terrible panic that seized the population. And, and the planes coming down on you. It was a miracle that we made it through that bridge, but we did. And we came to Warsaw, to my uncle.”

  So, was Warsaw, defiant Warsaw, fortress Warsaw still whole?

  “Warsaw was even worse bombarded than Praga,” Silverstein said. “For the first time in my life, I felt the smell of burning domiciles. This was the invitation to the terrible five years that came later on.”

  Having crushed the Polish threat, the leader explained his “aims.”

  “First, the creation of a Reich frontier.

  “Second, the disposition of the entire living space according to the various nationalities; that is to say, the solution of the problems affecting the minorities...

  “Third, in this connection: an attempt to reach a solution and settlement of the Jewish problem.

  “Fourth, reconstruction of transport facilities and economic life in the interest of all those living in this area.

  “Fifth, a guarantee for the security of this entire territory and sixth, formation of a Polish State so constituted and governed as to prevent its becoming once again either a hotbed of anti-German activity or a center of intrigue against Germany and Russia.”

  Then the leader told his people that “if Europe is really sincere in her desire for peace, the States in Europe ought to be grateful that Russia and Germany are prepared to transform this hotbed into a zone of peaceful development...” He reminded that “neither force of arms nor lapse of time will conquer Germany. There never will be another November 1918 in German history.” He declared it “infantile to hope for the disintegration of our people,” and warned “Mr. Churchill” about who might be the eventual victor. “I do not doubt for a single moment that Germany will be victorious. Destiny will decide who is right.”

  The leader concluded by raising his fists to his heart again and turning his eyes toward Heaven. “As Führer of the German people and Chancellor of the Reich, I can thank God at this moment that he has so wonderfully blessed us in our hard struggle for what is our right, and beg Him that we and all other nations may find the right way, so that not only the German people but all Europe may once more be granted the blessing of peace.”

  SHOSHA STOOD AT AN OPEN DOOR WATCHING steam rise from a white clawfoot tub. Water—warm water and this much of it. She had not seen this much water in over two years and it was all hers. The steam from the tub looked like it was rising from a cloud. She closed the door and slipped off her robe. She tried not to look at her body, but she saw her face in the mirror. She turned away—she had not looked in a mirror for months and when she caught herself touching her cheeks or mouth she would stop and lower her hands. She placed her foot in the tub then pulled it out. She put her hand down and felt the water.

  She put her foot back in. She watched it penetrate the surface and descend until it touched bottom. She put
in her other foot. With both feet touching the white metal bottom, she brought herself around and bent down to sit, but it was hot and she stood instead. She stood and looked at her feet in the water and watched the steam rise around her. She brought her arms up to cover her ribs. She clasped her hands under her chin. She stared, down at her feet and the water. She closed her eyes. The rising steam warmed her and she felt sleep.

  THE MORDECHAI’S “NEW” HOME, OFF TARGOWA STREET in Praga, had two stories, three bedrooms, a kitchen, a bath, and a cramped sitting area off the front door. It was in a “good” neighborhood, close to the Wilenska Railway Directorate, near the park, zoo, and shops. When they first stepped across the threshold, Shosha sighed. Plaster lay crumbled on the floor; paint peeled from the walls; rust ran from the taps; and an acrid odor of fuel and fire lingered. Rebekah was more sanguine as she went from room to room.

  “We can fix this up. I’m sure Madame Krushenski’s sons will help.”

  “You’re in no shape to be renovating an old house,” Shosha told her mother.

  “But I will be,” Rebekah said. “And so will you.”

  They rented the home with an option to buy it and with time, they started work—on themselves and the building. Both women gained weight. The walls gained plaster. The color returned to Rebekah’s face. Shosha’s bones receded and coloring returned to her cheeks. They painted the walls, inside and out. They painted rouge on their lips, laughed, and wiped it off. They brought things together.

  Shosha looked better outside but felt worse inside. She took no pleasure in eating, a luxury long denied her. She ate so she would live to see her father. She worked on the house to please her mother. She slept more than usual. She thought about Jakub.

  “I’VE TWISTED MY ANKLE.” THE RABBI STOOD rubbing his ankle at the door of the Mordechai home.

  Shosha looked at him.

  “May I?”

  She stepped aside and he hobbled in.

  The rabbi sat on a faded divan with fabric armrests worn to the wood. “Is your mama about?”

  “No.”

  The rabbi waited. “Sleeping?” he asked.