The Fires of Lilliput

by Michael Martin

  BUT SOVIET TANKS WERE NOT IN WARSAW and Europe’s other crime boss, Joseph Stalin, didn’t intend to send them anytime soon. The Soviet armies were approaching Praga to establish a bridgehead on the left bank of the Wisla. They would eventually move into Warsaw, but under Stalin’s plan, they would commit the most sinister act of negligence in history—they would sit across the river and watch Hitler’s forces reduce the central city to embers and kill almost every person in it.

  Stalin had a history of conflict with Poland. The Red Army had marched on the nation four times during the 20th century—in 1918, 1920, 1939, and 1944—with mixed success and one stunning failure. In the first 20th-century Battle of Warsaw, the Poles, under General Pilsudski, decimated Stalin’s Bolshevik army, ending a two-year battle that once heard Soviet Marshal Tukhachevsky declaring he would march over the corpse of Poland on the road to world revolution. Instead, Poland marched over Stalin and his marshal. The Polish victory was so complete and so humiliating that the Soviet government tried to erase it from the nation’s memory. Now, in 1944, Poland was again threatening Stalin’s ambitions.

  With three hundred thousand insurgents and AK soldiers and the support of Great Britain and the United States, Poland’s Leader-in-Exile—Stanislaw Mikolajczyk—wanted to rebuild an independent Polish Republic. Stalin wanted a Communist regime that devout Polish Catholics bitterly opposed. He believed the Soviet Union had a claim on Poland, and with the Hitler–Stalin Pact, he divided the country with Germany. To stake his claim and complete the division, Stalin proceeded with wicked craft.

  SHOSHA MORDECHAI HEARD ALL ABOUT THESE conflicting political ambitions.

  “The Polish Communists have a representative in Moscow,” Stazek Pszenny said. They were eating a soup of crushed tomatoes, potatoes, and warm water. “Bierut.”

  “You know what they say about the Home Army?” his son Eugeniusz said. “That we’re cowards. That we can’t take care of ourselves. Poles. Saying this about other Poles.”

  “You see the dilemma,” Stazek said to Shosha. “We fight the Germans and we open the big Red door.”

  “Poland can go to Hell as far as the Reds are concerned,” Eugeniusz (Gene) said.

  “So why help them?” Shosha said.

  “To kill the Krauts.”

  “Let them destroy each other,” Gene said. “That’s the real hope.”

  German troops visited the Pszennys earlier that day. Stazek and his son hid Shosha in the attic, presented their permanent resident documents, and lived to eat the evening meal. The occupiers were going from house to house, pulling people out of basements and shooting them—papers or not. Presence in a basement meant subterfuge. Not as many homes had attics large enough to live or plot in. The Pszennys set up the attic as a guestroom. In case of a surprise German invasion, Shosha could leave by the roof exit and go across to the vacant building next door, slip in through a broken grate on the roof, and hide until the Germans left. She was on the roof now, standing alone, looking at the fires across the sky. She didn’t hear Stazek as he came alongside her.

  He lit his pipe.

  “You missing your mama?” he asked. He drew on the pipe and she saw tobacco embers glowing in the bowl.

  “Yes,” she said. “I wish I knew why it had to be this way.”

  “It’s easy to ask why,” Stazek said. “In all this.”

  “How long before they destroy what’s left?”

  “They can’t destroy everything,” Stazek said. “They can’t kill all of us.”

  “Where can we run?”

  “I don’t know. But the uncertainty, at least, gives hope.”

  Shosha ran her hand through her hair. “I wish Jakub were here,” she said.

  “Chelzak?”

  “Yes.”

  “My nephew spoke of him. He helped rescue an entire squadron of fighters.”

  “The Germans wouldn’t touch him,” Shosha said. “They knew better.”

  “Was it true about his wounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like the Crucifixion?”

  “I haven’t studied it, but I’d say so—yes.”

  “What did the rabbi think?”

  Shosha thought for a moment. “One holy man to another, I suppose. I don’t know. In the end, he let the Germans take Jakub.”

  “What a terrible thing. Why?”

  “To save us, though I hated him for it.”

  “I’ve heard that about the rabbi,” Stazek said. “A pragmatist. A strategist.”

  “He betrayed a friend,” Shosha said.

  “If he hadn’t, what would the Germans have done?”

  Shosha thought. “Killed us,” she said. “Maybe.”

  “Then the rabbi chose life,” Stazek said. “What other choice is there?”

  Thirty Nine

  A German officer and a few soldiers came to the housing block where Karl lived and ordered all gates locked and the appointment of a “block commandant” to oversee compliance with every German whim.

  “If even one shot is fired from this block,” the officer said in German, “every person in the block will be brought to this yard and immediately”—he raised his revolver, aimed at the wall, and pretended to squeeze the trigger.

  “What did he say?” asked a man who spoke only Polish.

  “This Babel could be the death of us all,” a woman said.

  Karl understood some German. “Anyone shoots,” Karl said, “anyone at all, for any reason, and they shoot us.”

  “How do they think we can prevent someone from shooting?”

  “Confiscate all the guns—that’s what they want. That’s the only way.”

  “Fuck ‘em. I say fuck ‘em.”

  People went back to their daily lives until the afternoon, when someone somewhere fired three shots out a window. Three shots, into the air. Minutes later, buildings shook and things started crashing to the ground. Karl looked out from the balcony and saw smoke rising. People ran to basements. He heard a new and strange sound—an awful sound, like a wounded cow. The sound was so loud and grating Karl covered his ears. More bricks and plaster hit the ground.

  In a basement corridor, after the explosions stopped, Karl thought about food. At home, he had food. Now, it was a luxury. He had seen men stripping a dead cavalry horse in the street. They offered him some meat but he turned it away. The idea of eating an animal whose sole function on a farm was helping the farmer repelled him. Speaking of the farm, how about getting the fuck out of here and going home? Leaving may have been doable a few weeks ago, but how would he get out of the city now? It wasn’t the ghetto, but it was almost as isolated. And if he left now, would he be abandoning his brother, the fight, and his people? He sat in the corridor thinking amid the cots and chairs and suitcases. Candles glowed low. People spoke in hushed tones. Cannons and rifles fired outside.

  “Fuckers,” said a man next to Karl. “I need some sleep.”

  In the early cold hours of the morning, someone pounded on the door. Karl heard footsteps and a woman’s voice down the corridor.

  “Who is it?” the woman said. “Who’s there?”

  “Aufmachne.”

  Karl heard locks opening and men speaking Polish with heavy German accents.

  “Where are the men?”

  “There are none,” the woman said.

  “Don’t piss with us. Where are the men?”

  “Only women here. You mean boys?”

  They pushed her aside. Karl heard them coming down the steps to the basement. Almost in unison, every mother with a child in the corridor grabbed her child.

  “Kennkarte, kennkarte!” the German soldier yelled. They came around to Karl.

  “No men, huh?” said the soldier. He took Karl’s identification card and looked at him. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” Karl said.

  “Chelzak. Your name is familiar,” the German said.

  “We’ve never met
,” Karl said.

  “Good thing. Then it’s okay if I shoot you.”

  “You wouldn’t want to do that,” said a Polish man.

  “Who says this?” The squad leader came to the little man, squatting against the wall. “Well—what do you know? Another man. Not just boys after all.”

  “Karl Chelzak is not a man to be toyed with,” said a woman standing nearby.

  “He has God on his side.”

  “Didn’t you know—all the yappers were afraid of his brother.”

  “All the Krauts.”

  “Jakub Chelzak. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

  The voices rose.

  “You shoot Karl Chelzak and you shoot the wrong man,” said the nearby woman.

  The squad leader reached for his sidearm, but in the shadows of the corridor, he heard click, click, click. Safeties off, hammers cocked. The squad leader looked again at Karl’s identification card. “Who am I to argue with God?” he said. The three soldiers turned and headed back up the stairs and out into the dawn air.

  PLANES CIRCLED IN THE MIDDAY SUN, so high they were lost in the light. People in the street heard the planes but no one paid much attention until children started calling out. “Papers, papers.” Leaflets fell from the sky. A paper landed near Karl. He picked it up.

  “He’s got one!”

  A crowd surrounded him. Up the street, Shosha Mordechai saw the crowd and walked toward them.

  “What’s it say?” someone asked. “Can you read it?”

  Karl looked at the leaflet. “Soldiers,” he read.

  “That’s all?”

  “Soldiers of the,” he continued.

  “Can’t read,” someone called.

  “Come on—read it or give it to someone else.”

  Karl looked down at the leaflet again. “I can read it.”

  The crowd turned. Shosha pushed through and took the leaflet from Karl.

  “Soldiers of the National Army,” she began. “Our Government from London announces that Prime Minister Mikolajczyk’s position in Moscow is such that he is unable to reach a free decision and to have freedom of speech.

  “I HEREBY ORDER a stop to all acts of hostility against occupational German authorities. Anyone disregarding this order will be shot immediately.

  “Long live Poland! Chief Commander of Polish National Armed Forces.”

  “It is signed: Bor. Warsaw, 2nd August 1944,” Shosha concluded.

  “Bor signed that?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It has to be a lie, something the Krauts cooked up.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Chelzak—what do you think?” said one of the men.

  Karl looked up. Shosha looked at him.

  “A lie,” he said. “Obviously.”

  “Chelzak?” Shosha said.

  “Yes—my name is Chelzak,” Karl said.

  “Brother of the great Saint Jakub,” someone in the crowd said.

  Shosha’s knees almost fell out from under her. Karl grabbed her. “Steady,” he said.

  “You’re Jakub’s brother,” she said.

  “Yes,” Karl said. “You know him?”

  “Yes! Yes, I know him,” Shosha gathered her breath. She was light-headed and had trouble standing straight. “Forgive me a second,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Yes I know him. He came here to help my family.”

  “Shosha,” Karl said. “My God,” he said. “I came here to find you.”

  The crowd was dispersing.

  “We shouldn’t stand here,” Karl said. He led Shosha to a brick planter near a wall.

  “You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Yes. We heard he was coming home.”

  “Not unless the Germans were taking him home.”

  “What?”

  “They took him months ago. I don’t know where.”

  Karl felt his own legs weaken but he stood and walked around. He grabbed his head and covered his face with his hands. He sighed and Shosha heard a little grunt.

  “You didn’t know,” she said.

  “The rabbi sends money and writes,” Karl said. “He said Jakub was on his way home.”

  Shosha thought for a moment. “He shouldn’t have told you that,” Shosha said.

  “Oh God,” Karl said. “Oh God.”

  Shosha went to him and put her arm around him. “Where you staying?” Shosha asked.

  Karl gazed across the street. They heard cannon fire in the distance.

  “You can stay with me for a while,” Shosha said.

  “I have friends here,” Karl said. “It’s not necessary.”

  “It is,” Shosha said. “For me, anyway. Please.”

  They stood for a time while Karl thought.

  “We’ll send word to your friends—tell them you’re okay,” Shosha said.

  Karl was tired and Shosha took him back with her to the Pszenny house.

  STAZEK PSZENNY WELCOMED KARL LIKE A BROTHER. He opened his best whiskey, in a dusty bottle he’d hidden in a bricked-up cubby in the basement. He kissed Karl on both cheeks, pulled him close, and spent an evening drinking whiskey, eating hors d’oeuvres made with salt and cooked potatoes, and extolling the virtues of Brother Jakub.

  “But you haven’t heard from your mother?” Stazek said. “Don’t be too worried—the mail hardly gets through anymore.”

  “She’s alone,” Karl said.

  “Nothing you can do about it,” Stazek said. “Not right now. I’m sure your mother’s fine. She probably writes and it doesn’t get through. By now, she probably knows our situation. Everyone in Poland does.”

  Shosha and Karl spent their time in four places—in the Pszenny basement when bombs fell close; on the main floor of Pszenny’s house when bombs sounded blocks away; on the street when they could only hear gunfire; and on the roof when everything was quiet. They saw the city burning from up there. They saw the cannons and the soldiers smoking above the trenches in the Mokotow field. They watched the planes come in and with binoculars could tell which planes dropped steel bombs (meaning a trip to the basement); and which dropped paper bombs, meaning they might have news.

  “How did you know about the Germans taking my brother?”

  It was late and the night was humid, so Shosha and Karl didn’t sleep.

  “I saw it,” Shosha said. Karl looked at her.

  “Why did they take him? Why didn’t they take you? You’re a Jew.”

  Shosha looked at her hands. She rubbed her fingers. She thought she felt a tear.

  “I know,” Karl said. “It’s not a fair question.”

  “It is fair,” Shosha said. “I just don’t know how to answer it.”

  PLANES SCATTERED THE SKY WITH THOUSANDS of delicate white petals that looked like manna. The airborne propaganda turned people into cynics, but they still ran in the streets to retrieve the fliers and crowds still gathered to read them.

  Shosha read today's announcement.

  Citizen!

  The time of freedom is approaching. The Polish People’s Army, with self-sacrificing battles, paved the way for victory. The Russian allies have broken the yoke of the Fascists’ occupation. The Polish Government in London acknowledged that the Red Army and the Polish People’s Army carried on their shoulders the weight of the battles for freedom. Marshal Stalin has guaranteed wide boundaries for Poland.

  “Stalin is about as good a friend to Poles as Hitler,” someone said.

  Citizen!

  Reborn Poland is a Poland of the people. Everyone must add their efforts to rebuild the country. All kinds of Fascist elements will be crushed. Every Pole, every organization has to cooperate with us. The Free People’s Poland is calling you. The new vigorous state organization will guarantee your freedom and prosperity. The Polish People’s Army is defending our Poland.

  Death to the Fascists!

  Long live the Polish People’s Republic!

  Signed: General Berling, Commander of the Polish
Army in Russia.

  “A lot of talk,” a woman said. “So what? When will we start seeing the benefits of all this cooperation?”

  Karl picked up a smaller flier. “Did you see two planes up there?”

  “No,” Shosha said.

  “This one looks different.”

  Shosha read it to herself.: Stop! The Uprising Is Our Death!

  “What does that one say?” a man asked. “What’s it say? Read, please.”

  “Now the Communists have achieved their aim,” Shosha read. “We ourselves are destroying Poland. The Polish underground is getting weaker in her fight with Hitlerism; later the Bolsheviks will come and crush her.

  “NEVER Will We Give Our Country To The Communists!

  “Keep cool, remember our fallen heroes. They sacrificed their life for free Poland, never for the support of Communists.”

  “What to believe, eh?” Karl said.

  Shosha looked up and down the street where groups in different spots read the fliers. She circled her mouth with her hands. “The Uprising is our Life!” Shosha called out. People turned around. Some smiled. Some waved. “Our Life!” Shosha cried.

  “Our Life,” someone cried back.

  “Life,” Shosha said.

  “L’Chaim!” This was a Jewish term and as soon as Karl heard it, he put his hand on Shosha’s shoulder.

  “Don’t respond,” he said.

  She didn’t look at him before she hollered “L’Chaim” in return.

  THE BLOCK COMMITTEE CALLED A MEETING about a pressing problem—a garbage heap that stunk but couldn’t be moved as everyone on the block was a prisoner of the block. Everyone attended the meeting—Karl, Shosha, the Pszennys and a few dozen others, minus those who couldn’t get around well. Stazek Pszenny insisted on burning the garbage. Mila Gorcewicz insisted on burying it.

  “Burning is quick and effective,” Pszenny argued.

  “Burning will bring unnecessary attention to this block,” Gorcewicz countered.