God of Hunger

by John Coutouvidis

  “But you said .. restore the balance…’

  ‘Yes my girl. The book helps to restore. Helps to restore the balance. The sagging scale is still heavier to one side but the two should be nearer to the horizontal. The truth as history demands. It does not need to be pressed down, artificially. Just try to restore a balance to history east of the Vistula. Not to forget. To record from the beginning a story that is not told. Our story. Of more than a million and a half!

  You are interested in history? Think in terms of this country. One and a half million was the total population of Wales and England combined. At the time of the Tudors. Totally gone. Leaving behind just castles and field patterns.

  There was then an audible smile on tape.

  “There are many Tudors here, in Penrhos. One does my shopping.”

  Then seriousness returned.

  “One million and a half. Mainly women and children, sent to perish in the Soviet wastelands. Tell our story. Next to that of the Holocaust which has cast a shadow across all history to the east of the Vistula on whose young banks Auschwitz stands. A shadow that makes a complete eclipse over our history and the history of so many others. Darkness all the way to Kamchatka. The light of history must shine there too! ….

  Marisha came to the end of her tape.

  “Mrs. W. I was to leave for London this evening. But I shall not. Yours is a unique voice.

 

  Which I want to hear until you say stop. May I speak with you tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Of course. But not before eleven. I have my breakfast at nine and then doze for two hours. That is what you do at my age. …. I was born in the month when Lwow (pronounced, Lvoof, previously Lemberg. Lviv today) was scented with lilac …. but please leave me now.”

  *

  “Mrs. W. I want your story today.

  Please do not feel offended in any way. But so far we have talked, mainly, in generalities. I believe that history comes to life only when people are at its centre. I want to place you there, however much I try your patience. And I value so much your kind willingness to have your patience tried by me!’

  ‘Oh, oh oh… Come on. Continue. ‘But first what are you going to do with what I tell you? What are your plans?’

  I want to complete a book on what took place in Eastern Poland during the war. And then I want to go back to Africa. May be to work there.”

  “What for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean why waste time? Africa is for the Africans. They do not need you.”

  “Really? Why do you think so?”

  “Because I was in East Africa for nearly twenty years. Between our transportation there in 1942 until 1964, three years after independence when life became impossible for us.”

  Long pause.

 

  “But that is another story.”

  “Oh Mrs. W. Every time I think I have a sense of your life you tell me things that make my head swim. Please, please, tell me that we may talk of Africa.”

  ‘First tell me why I should not go to Africa?’

  ‘Surely you read the papers and watch the news.

  ‘Region after African region descends into long drawn out and dreadful ethnic conflict Somalia will be abandoned to the clan war gangsters.

  Liberia too is running out of time.

  What happens when South Africa catches fire?

  I fear that in Africa we are at the beginning of a trend; a continent-wide revolution in which millions will die. This terrible catastrophe is unfolding in the refugee camps of eastern Zaire, where 2 million Rwandans are camped angry and vengeful waiting only to reduce the region to a state of permanent civil war.

  Where will this lead? Another holocaust, and another. And another”

  “I do not think so, Mrs. W. At least I hope not! But let us not get into a political argument. I am only interested in you telling me of your life in Tanganyika. Have you time for that?”

  “You silly girl. Why not? I have no other engagements. My life is over.

  ‘I am sure that you do not mean that.

  ‘I do. I wake up each day hoping I had died in the night. And you will come to understand why’

  ‘But why? Surely life is always worth living?

  No that is not true. There comes a time when it is all too stupid. You will say the same one day.’

  ‘But, here you are in a nice place and well cared for.’

  ‘You think so? Why do they care? There is so much in the papers these days about the old. We are going towards euthanasia. And that is a good thing. They say they must care for us for civilized reasons. For moral reasons. For humanitarian reasons. But it would be much more humane to allow each of us a pill. To end life when we think it should end.’

  ‘But surely it is wrong to commit suicide? Are you not afraid of death?’

  ‘My dear girl life and death are like a dance. That is how I think of it. I am dancing with my partner and when the orchestra stops playing he thanks me and I return the compliment and I walk back to join my friends but never take to the dance floor again. Death! Ha. When you have seen death as many times as I you will not fear it. Of course I fear the pain of dying! And you will come to appreciate how much it actually takes to die. We are strong creatures and linger long before death. Too long. It is cruel when life trickles on, like spittle dribbling out of the mouths of the demented. But lucky they. The gaga do not know what is happening to them. But when you are old and not gaga, someone like me, it is cruel to have to keep going for the sake of principles that no longer apply to oneself; for the sake of other people, society, law, religion.’

  ‘Are you not religious?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. All Poles of my generation are religious. Because to be a Catholic is to be, was to be, Polish. And vice-versa. I am Polish, first and foremost. And therefore, but only secondly, religious. What do I mean by religious? When in the railway yards of Moscow we in our cattle truck and became aware of other trains pulling up beside ours we would burst into song. We would sing the responses and hymns learnt in Church. And if the other train would reply in kind we knew we were in company with other Poles. God only comes into it when you are in an impossible situation. After all, in extremis, you have to appeal to someone. Something. Otherwise, as in our case you would more quickly perish or go mad. Religion is necessary for life. And I practice it every day. That is not to say I am devout. God forbid. For me there is nothing so stupid as the church. Nothing as evil. Just think of the church in history and how many perished in its name. For what? It is an institution like any other. It benefits most those who run it. And of course the less intelligent who live in fear of not going to heaven.

  ‘Is there then no heaven?’

  ‘Ah. You are thinking what you should think? Think of it this way. What are you? An amateur historian. Yes? Good. To be a historian you must know life. And record it. Life in the present, as we speak. And life in the past. You bring the dead to life. That is the same as heaven. That remembrance. But without all the nonsense of saints and angels. I am a Sadducee. And you a scribe. That is it.

  “Why a Sadducee?”

  “Just because they were devout people without believing in the heavenly nonsense of angelic hosts and the like.’

  “Thank you.”

  ‘What for? I have said nothing important. Nothing you will not come to see for yourself if you become a good historian. Just be grateful for your intelligence. We are here to observe and live by our observations. That is all. So keep open your eyes and your ears and most of all, keep open your mind.

  I no longer need to observe. Only to reflect. I am alone. Only memories of a previous life in a previous era. In towns and cities long absorbed into foreign lands. I am so sad. All the time. Except when my mind fills with images of a past reality. I read a lot and I am now ploughing through Bashevitz Singer’s reminiscences of Jews in their pre-war communities. How I rate his writing! So much is said of Jews. But of one thing you must be
sure. Of all people they are the deepest of thinkers. Each word they utter is of greater weight to what we say or write. That is also why I now call myself a Sadducee. I try to be one. To think like one. …..Of late I have spent my days remembering the lives of Jews in Poland. In my part of Poland. In my city Lwow.’

  Silence.

  Then she continued: “Lwow, ah, Lvoof the loveliest city on earth for anyone born and brought up there. Oh Lwow, Lwow, Lwow. I knew and loved it until my eighteenth year, when we were deported. I think and think and think. And remember every detail, every breath of air I ever breathed there. Every sight. Sound. Scent. Oh, Lwow.’

  Rustle of paper? Tears being wiped?

  Silence. For the rest of the tape. Except for, “I am sorry….. Please forgive me …. Oh please do not upset yourself …. I will leave now … But, please may I come tomorrow …” No reply. End.

  The next day they talked of Polish culture. Marisha started off on a Marxist trajectory and was stopped in mid air.

  ‘You are talking nonsense about culture my dear girl. I will tell you what culture is. Getting out of a frozen train onto frozen earth. Nothing to hold but a bundle packed long ago. Standing there just in the clothes you wore on the day of exile. You have been stripped down by history to the bare essentials. Your culture is nothing more nor nothing less than the contents of your brain. Your culture resides now in thought only. Not in any artefact. How you act and what you think and how you act about how you think, that is now your culture. Culture at the level of just being able to survive. That, in the end, is culture. We survived by our culture. Our Polishness, no, our up-bringing. That is what guided us across the face of the dark side of the moon. One’s culture, that which is learnt at home and school, is a very concrete thing. It is the core of one’s being. It has little to do with the theories you people propound. Life and jargon do not mix at the level of survival. …”

  There was anger in her voice. She calmed down in time to the hissing and lapping tape.

  ‘ … You wanted me to tell you about my life in Tanganyika. I will now. Because I am in the right mood. In my anger I remember the predominance of bad times. I married a Greek, and from the start it was a disaster. I would say that I would prefer to repeat my Soviet sojourn than my marriage. That was hell. A psychological hell. We spoke of culture. Well our cultures were completely antithetical. He, like all Greeks thought Poles inferior yet culturally he was no great achievement. His family despised my being xeni, a foreigner. And a Catholic. Such as I was! In fact I was publicly excommunicated by the priest at Tengeru for allowing my sons to be baptised into the Greek Orthodox faith. That, the shame of public excommunication hurt me. I was persona non grata in two camps. No one tried to help me. I raised my babies in a hut. Without running water. Without light, except one paraffin lantern. No cooking facilities, except an outside fire tended by Juma. The one humane person in my early married life. Without him I would have jumped into Lake Duluti with my boys. He, Juma, my African helper could see it was all wrong and said he would support me. And he did. When my children were ill it was he who called the doctor, while my so called husband played poker. Day in. Day out. Remember this was Africa with illnesses we first encountered in other God forsaken places like Kazakhstan. Everything turned septic. Fevers reached tropical highs I did not speak English. I learnt to speak Swahili so that I had a person with whom I could talk. Then I taught myself Greek only to understand what his family was saying about me. They called me a prosteeha, tou thromou gheeneka; a whore. Yet the only sex I had was with him. That is the tragedy. Physically we were driven together. He was very attractive. I had not known a man in that way. Until we two met. And once there were children what could I do? Africa was not the here and now where Social Services may intervene. There was nothing to fall back on. I got a job when I learnt English. And that stabilised my life. I was always valued as a good worker. Even he called me that. But as if he were addressing a farm labourer. Not a wife. I sewed my own clothes. And clothes for my family. And earned extra money by outfitting ladies who wanted dresses featured in magazines from Europe. I worked hard to pay for my sons’ education. It was not cheap to send three to school as boarders. I worked in the Co-op. Then in Miniotis’s grocery store. Then in the Revenue Office in the Boma. And finally for a Persian firm of seed merchants. I had the best of relations with Asians. In government service and with Mr. Mahmoud and his family. They, and the Africans I worked with were so much more civil to me than my husband and his family. And that is all I required. Civility. As at home in Poland. But it was never to be. In the end I left him for which act I was branded a whore”

  Marisha said not a word. She switched off her tape-recorder and whispered, “I am staying another day. I will come again at eleven.

  *

  ‘Mrs. W., may I please ask you to take yourself back to the period before the outbreak of war, say, the last year of peace, 1938-9.’

  ‘Well as far as I can remember the last year of peace was as happy as any in my life. I was a very fortunate girl. Surrounded by a loving family. Loving parents.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘I was an only child of a marriage made in heaven. My father was a very serious person.

  Dour. Not given to small talk. My mother sparkled socially and conversationally. It was a match of opposites whom no one or thing could put asunder.’

  ‘How did they earn a living?’

  ‘My father was promoted to the rank of major on retirement from his legion, cavalry; he fought for Poland’s independence under the command of Marshal Pilsudski. He was awarded the Virtuti Militarii, Poland’s highest award for bravery, … he was appointed Starosta (District commissioner) at Sanok and inTrembowla’

  ‘One of the elite, then.’

  ‘Yes and no, … only slightly so. My father was born in a remote village to a peasant family. His elder brother took care of him when both parents died. The brother was a priest and arranged for my father to attend school and college where he qualified as an engineer. Well educated. In Poland all professional qualifications included Ancient Greek and Latin to a high level of competence! When war broke out in 1914 he volunteered for cavalry service and rose quickly … always in the service of the state …later in charge of a district in Eastern Poland.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘After marriage she did good works, mainly in promoting village arts and crafts. She was very artistic.’

  ‘How did they meet?’

  ‘My father’s regiment was based in Lwow. He rented a small apartment in the city. This was to give a home to his son by a previous marriage which had collapsed. My mother and her mother came to rent a place in the same town house. She too came from a broken home. She was born in Vienna. Her father, a von Hasse, was Prussian. Her mother was a Schwabb lady whose family bred horses. The business collapsed due to an outbreak of rinderpest. They fell on hard times and relied on help from family connections. One uncle, a von Todd, took my mother and my grandmother under his wing when the marriage broke down. He had family in Krakow, then still in Galicia, part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. These were the Bobkowski’s. A brilliant lot. All very talented in many directions. The family produced a government minister, a general and one of the first women to qualify as a doctor and practice medicine. She arranged for my mother to obtain a job at the Austrian Consulate in Lwow. And my parents to be first met on the staircase they shared in the kamienica!’ (Town house).

  ‘Wow.’ ‘So they met and married. Your mother was not Polish. Did this present problems?’

  ‘Never. Strange as it may seem to you many subjects of the empire gave their hearts to the so called successor states after its dissolution. Galicia became a part of Poland; its citizens became Poles. Very patriotic Poles. I too became a very patriotic Pole. We were part of an extraordinary exercise in nation building; independent Poland. You just cannot imagine the pride we took in our country. Come to life, after centuries of partition, with her spirit, a very refined
spirit, intact. We all had a sacred duty to perform. That is how we saw our lives; striving after Poland’s success as a very old new nation.’

  ‘I can see how emotional you are about your Poland. But I must now ask you what may appear to you to be an unwelcome question. If so please accept my apologies in advance’

  ‘There is nothing you can ask me for which you have to apologize. Certainly not in advance. Ah, you new Anglo- Poles. Sorry for this and sorry for that; in retrospect and in advance. Only you never apologize when it would serve a purpose at the instant an apology is due!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘There you go.. Wait until it is necessary to say sorry.’

  ‘Sorry. I mean, “Was your patriotism aware of other groups in Eastern Poland? I am interested to know how you, a Polish girl of a privileged family, related to the Jewish, Ukrainian and White Russian minorities prevalent in that part of Poland.?’

  ‘Em. (pause) Em. There were no significant groups of Byelorussians in our part of Poland centred on Lwow. Ukrainians in very large numbers and many Jewish communities in the city, towns and villages.

  In terms of my life as a child in school, I had many Ukrainian and Jewish friends. We Poles were taught Ukrainian. And Jewish people, outside the orthodox community, were generally indistinguishable from Poles. I was aware too that not all Ukrainians and Jews were friendly towards us. But you must accept that by saying that they were not necessarily nationalistic Ukrainians or unpatriotic Jews, We all used to mingle and mix very well. After all, Poland would not have worked without Jews. From the smallest village to largest city, Jewish business and commerce drove the economy. And on a personal level, my family, like the majority of middle class families would not have managed without the help of credit which they extended to us; my mother’s beautiful clothes were made in the Jewish quarter and purchased on credit advanced by the seamstress. There were tensions too. In my teens two developments reached my ears. The high level of unemployment and its ally, the communistic parties which attracted the cleverest of radical students. Mainly Jewish young men. But Poles too. My last Polish boyfriend in Poland was an ardent communist. And, would you believe, the ministerial uncle was too! Or so he said to me when last we met. There was real concern amongst the thinking class, the intelligentsia, that the country was failing in providing work and welfare for all its citizens. Millions were unemployed in the same way as millions were throughout Europe and America. It was difficult for Poland to take the lead in the opposite direction. Only when Hitler did was there some hope for a way out…’