A Meal in Winter (7 page)

Suddenly I thought about our rifles that were leaning against the table behind us. What if the Jew crept out of the storeroom? I turned my head and glanced at him through the opening. He hadn't moved. Bauer began breathing through his nose. He would end up falling fast asleep, even without coal in the stove to reassure him.
Emmerich was fiddling with a button on his coat. The waiting and the warmth of the stove were sending each of us into our own little worlds.

That was why I stood up and went outside. I didn't go far. I stayed on the threshold, under the eaves. With the stove radiating heat behind the door, and the saucepan steaming, the house seemed a bit less like a filthy Polish hovel.

A thin shower of snow fell from the roof in front of me, sparkling like silver. It was so light that I couldn't even feel the wind that had lifted it off the roof. There must have been some sunlight, too, to make snowdust sparkle like that, but I couldn't see the sun anywhere in the sky. I waited for another snow shower, without quite knowing why. But it was smoke from our fire that floated past my eyes.

The snowflake on the Jew's hat was now tormenting me. It had followed me outside. It had come with me, in my thoughts. It had been there more or less constantly since the Jew had emerged from his hole, and I no longer had the strength to drive it away. All my strength had been drained by hunger and tiredness. I didn't dare talk about it again to Emmerich or Bauer, I suppose because it was not the kind of torment that had me on my knees. When I
looked at it directly, it was bearable. For that reason, I didn't dare ask them for the help I needed.

It had seemed so unlikely that we would find one. But chance, being chance, had brought us one wearing something with the power to cause me pain. I had come outside to forget it a bit, but that hadn't worked. All I had found was the cold silence of winter.

I laughed bitterly to myself at the thought that perhaps this snowflake was tormenting me for nothing. Perhaps it wasn't his mother who had embroidered it? He might just have bought the hat, with the snowflake embroidered on it in a factory. There might be hundreds of other people who had worn the same one, who were wearing it even now.

Because if you want to know what it is that tormented me, and that torments me to this day, it's seeing that kind of thing on the clothes of the Jews we're going to kill: a piece of embroidery, coloured buttons, a ribbon in the hair. I was always pierced by those thoughtful maternal displays of tenderness. Afterwards I forgot about them, but in that moment they pierced me and I suffered for the mothers who had, once, gone to so much effort. And then, because of this suffering they caused me, I hated them too. And the more I suffered for them, the more I hated them.

And if you want to know more, my hatred knew no bounds when they were not there to hug their darlings tightly to their breasts while I killed them. Once, they had embroidered a snowflake on their hat or tied a ribbon in their hair, but where were they when I was killing them?

Someone called my name. It was Bauer. I went back in, looked inside the saucepan, and sat down again on the bench. The flames were still high behind the mica window.

‘It'll end up being cooked,' Bauer told me.

‘I think so too.'

Then I said, ‘Why did you call me?'

‘I don't know!' he yelled in my ear.

I waited, hesitating, still not daring to ask for help. Better to do something else. So I said to Emmerich, about his son: ‘Listen, don't make any threats. Tell him kindly what you think. Be honest and tell him what you told us – that it really bothers you to imagine him smoking. Listen, be direct about it. Don't beat around the bush. Tell him you'll be pleased if he doesn't smoke.'

Emmerich leaned over and shot a look at me. His eyes glistened slightly. He was even smiling – not sadly, but sincerely.

‘I'd be happy, not just pleased,' he said.

‘There you go, even better. Tell him you'll be happy. I swear to you, he won't be able to refuse you that.'

His smile widened. He rubbed one hand over his head, then the other one. After that, he didn't know what to do with his hands, so he stared at them. He looked as though he was going to put them together.

‘Do it, Emmerich,' I whispered. ‘Don't be afraid to tell him.'

‘Yes, yes,' Emmerich replied, lifting his eyes up.

‘It's better like that, don't you think?' I asked Bauer. ‘Instead of threatening him.'

Bauer moved his head to one side, and then the other.

‘This is a good way of doing it,' I insisted. ‘In fact, it's the only way, really – to show his trust in him.'

‘Yeah, why not?' Bauer said. I could tell he was not entirely convinced, but he said it to please Emmerich.

Thankfully Emmerich didn't notice, and suddenly, quietly, as if to himself, he said, ‘It's funny, isn't it, because us three, here, we'd die if we couldn't smoke.'

Put like that, what he said was so strange and true that we felt a bit disoriented, and stayed silent. And while each of us was dealing with that, as best we could, there was a knock at the door.

All three of us jumped, but we didn't even have time to
say a word, because the door was pushed open immediately afterwards. It was the Pole, the hunter, who I'd seen earlier, while I was collecting snow. His dog came in with him. The Pole crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him. The dog moved towards us. He still had those little balls of snow hanging on his neck. The Pole took his rifle from his shoulder and leaned it against the door, then moved towards the stove as calmly as if he were in his own home. And for a moment, forgetting he'd knocked, I believed that we really were in his house, sitting in front of his stove.

‘What do you want?' Bauer asked him.

THE POLE DID
not reply. Bauer grunted louder: ‘What do you want?'

The Pole signalled – as if he were sorry, but not very sorry – that he didn't understand. We believed him. But that didn't alter the fact that he was facing up to us, in spite of his somewhat apologetic demeanour. He was leaning with one hip against the stove, calm and impassive, just as if he were at home.

Sitting on the bench, we looked up at him, and began to smile at the desire he had – we understood this now – to show us he was not afraid of us. Because we didn't care if he was afraid of us or not.

‘I know him,' I said. ‘I saw him outside.'

‘What's his name?' Bauer asked me. And to amuse himself, he asked the Pole, ‘Have you come to eat? You'll have to wait a while. It's not cooked yet.'

Then he pretended to make a space for him on the bench, between us.

‘Come and sit down while you wait.'

The Pole remained motionless. Only his eyes moved, sparkling shyly like a wild animal's, in reply to Bauer's honeyed tone.

But while this was going on, the flames had begun to die down. I got up and filled the firebox with what was left of the chair. As I did this, I observed the Pole. He didn't look at me, not even sideways. Bauer, who also noticed the way the Pole was ignoring me, as if I worked for him, said to me, ‘Do it properly for him.'

And to the Pole, about me, he said: ‘Tell me if he doesn't do it right, I'll have a go at him for you.'

The Pole frowned at Bauer, then sniffed behind his scarf.

I went back to sit on the bench. The Pole watched us. From where we sat, his eyes looked like coal. He removed his animal-skin hood, edged with thick fur, then he unwound his scarf, which was long. We saw his face. I was struck by how distinguished he looked. He must have been about forty, like us. Then he opened his mouth, and it would have been easier to count the teeth that remained than those he'd lost. But he wasn't disfigured by his toothlessness.
His face kept its seriousness, and that shy, distinguished look that we didn't often see in Poland.

He put his hood in a pocket, and then found a space for his scarf between ours on the metal bar that ran around the stove. He took his time, hanging it carefully, and while he was doing that, we no longer saw the flames, and it was as if we felt less warm.

‘You're a Catholic,' Bauer told him, ‘so fuck off out of here.'

The Pole understood that. He went back to the side of the stove, and at that moment his dog – I don't know where it had been – came suddenly from behind us, rubbing itself against us, and lay down next to him. He spoke to it without looking at it. The dog put its head on its paws. I pointed the little dangling balls of snow out to Emmerich and Bauer. ‘Look at that,' I said.

‘I've seen that before,' said Emmerich. ‘I don't know how it happens, but I saw it before one day.'

‘Where?' Bauer asked.

‘Where? At home.'

‘Just like that? Exactly the same?'

‘Yeah. Why?' Emmerich asked.

Bauer started to laugh.

‘Why are you laughing?' Emmerich asked.

Bauer was alluding to Emmerich's testicles. I'd got the joke. Emmerich asked him again why he was laughing. But with the flood of laughter pouring from his mouth now, Bauer couldn't reply. He even had to stand up, because his sides were hurting. Suddenly Emmerich nodded. The penny had dropped. He smiled from ear to ear.

After a while, Bauer began to calm down, and he wiped the tears from his cheeks. He opened his mouth, but then his body was gripped by little shudders and it looked as if he was about to start up again. If Emmerich had said anything, he would have done. Emmerich knew that, and kept silent. So Bauer finally calmed down completely. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath. And, as he was already standing, he took the opportunity to check on the soup. He unsheathed his knife and stirred it with the blade, eyeing the Pole at the same time.

‘So, you other Poles,' he said, ‘you're doing all right, are you?'

The Pole said something in reply. He sounded serious, his voice deep and calm. At his feet, the dog raised its head.

‘Without a doubt,' Bauer said, never taking his eyes off him.

Then he stuck the knife in the saucepan and, at the first
attempt, picked up a slice of salami, which he wafted under his nose and put back in the soup.

‘What about the cornmeal?' I asked. ‘Is it cooking?'

He put away his knife, took out his spoon, and gave the soup a good stir, watching the cornmeal to see if it rose to the surface or if it was starting to thicken at the bottom. He shook his head and licked the spoon.

‘No, not yet,' he said. ‘When I stir it, it floats. But it's starting to cook a little bit.'

‘Let me see!'

He drew out a spoonful and, being very careful not to lose a drop, moved it towards me. But I didn't inspect the consistency of the cornmeal, I just swallowed the whole spoonful. Bauer was right: it wasn't cooked. But it was hot and it tasted good. Grudgingly, I told him, ‘Yeah, I agree. Needs a bit more time.'

I held back from saying that it was cooked enough, that the consistency of the cornmeal didn't matter any more. I was hungry, so terribly hungry. We had eaten yesterday evening, but yesterday seemed as long ago as last month.

‘And the bread?' Emmerich asked.

Bauer turned around, stuck his finger in one of the slices, and said, ‘The bread's fine.'

‘What shall we do?' Emmerich asked.

‘Same as for the salami. Everyone can decide for themselves,' Bauer replied.

We waited, looking at one another. If we ate our bread now, the meal wouldn't be as good, it wouldn't be complete. But we were so hungry. What to do? Finally, we decided, without anything being said, that we would eat it all together, the bread and the soup when it was cooked. Bauer sat back down with us. He started examining the Pole.

‘Why don't we chuck him out?' he shouted suddenly.

The Pole jumped. He stared hard at Bauer. Then, from a chest pocket, he calmly took out a large green half-litre flask. It was potato alcohol, we knew. Everyone round here had it. It fell like rain from those large flasks. Straight away, we wanted some. He unscrewed the lid and moved towards the soup. He did all of this without taking his eyes off us, and when he tilted his head back slightly and opened his eyes a little wider, we understood what he meant. He wanted to buy a share of our meal by pouring the alcohol into the soup.

Before talking about it, we spent a moment imagining how good it would feel.

‘What do you think, Bauer?' I asked. ‘It's your soup.'

‘Why not?' said Bauer.

He turned towards Emmerich.

‘I definitely want some,' Emmerich replied.

‘All right. Hang on a minute,' said Bauer.

He looked at the ground, deep in thought. The Pole watched us, patient and impassive. His flask was still suspended over the saucepan.

‘We'd have less soup,' said Bauer. ‘But I do want some of that.'

‘Go for it,' I told him.

‘It doesn't matter about there being less soup?'

Emmerich and I shook our heads: it didn't matter. Bauer asked, ‘What flavour will it have?'

We told him it would be better. But he still seemed unsure. I didn't know why. I was wishing we hadn't told him it was his soup, even if it was true.

‘The bread,' he said. ‘Are we letting him have some bread too?'

‘No,' I replied. ‘Only the soup. We keep the bread for ourselves.'

Bauer bent over and lifted his head.

‘All right, go ahead then, my good fellow,' he said to the Pole, gesturing with his hand. ‘And put lots in.'

We'd known it was going to happen. From the moment the Pole took the flask from his pocket, it had been almost
certain that we would have some. But still, it was a huge relief, watching him pour it in. He poured in a lot. We heard the alcohol boil, we saw it evaporate, and – almost instantly – we caught its smell.

THAT SMELL MADE
us smile, but it caused us pain too. If only the smell alone could fill our bellies . . . But you can't eat air. In spite of the pain, though, we were smiling, all except for the Pole. His handsome toothless face watched us with the same serious, impassive expression it had worn since he entered the house.