Clara's War (17 page)

The sound of the front door opening hit us like a bolt of electricity. I hoped it was Mr and Mrs Beck; that somehow they had found each other and were coming home together. But I only heard Mr Beck's heavy drunken footsteps, and he wasn't alone. He was with Sergeant Krueger of the SS, his best friend, drinking companion, gambling associate and partner in several black market enterprises, of which every one of us downstairs knew all the details. Only Julia and Ala were in the dark.

Beck was drunker than usual. Only when he was close to oblivion was his speech slurred.

I wondered if he had finally gone off the deep end. When I prayed, I always prayed for him…I prayed for his health; I prayed that all his schemes would work; I prayed that he wouldn't get caught. And I prayed that he would stay lucky. My father said sometimes it was better to be lucky than to be smart. Beck's luck was our luck.

He called out for Julia and then for Ala, over and over. He searched the house, going from room to room. We heard the doors open and then slam shut. Finally, he collapsed into a chair. ‘To hell with them. C'mon, Krueger, sit down already, you're making me nervous standing around. I'll get us a drink.'

‘Not tonight. I just wanted to make sure you got home in one piece.'

‘We can play some cards. Listen to the news from London.'

‘London?'

‘C'mon, Krueger…don't tell me you don't listen to Radio Free Poland. It's your job.'

We couldn't believe that Beck had just admitted to a sergeant in the SS that he had an illegal shortwave radio. It was a hanging offence.

‘It's not your job, Beck. And I don't want to know everything that goes on in this house.'

Beck laughed and we heard him scrambling around for a bottle and glasses, which he then proceeded to slam on the table for emphasis.

‘Well, at least have one goddamned drink before you shoot me. But then again you won't shoot me. I'm the only damn friend you have in this goddamn town. I love you and you love me. You're the only Kraut that has a goddamned sense of humour. Really, I don't see how you stand those other bastards. I don't understand how you don't blow their brains out just for being so fucking dull. Especially Von Pappen. I'll shit on his mother if he gives me any more trouble.'

‘Go to bed, Beck…before you say something really stupid.'

Beck laughed. ‘Get the hell out then.'

I knew my mother wanted to cover my ears to such language. For a change, she had something normal for a mother to worry about instead of our impending slaughter. When
Mania was alive, after the others went to bed she would keep me up discussing the conversations over and over, taking every word, every phrase apart and getting such a kick out of doing it. Mania lived for eavesdropping.

We sighed in relief as we heard Sergeant Krueger cross the floor and the door slam behind him. A moment later, Beck banged on the hatch. Patrontasch crawled over to open it. Light poured in the bunker. Beck was too drunk to even kneel; he lay on the floor and stuck his head in the hatch.

‘Where the hell is my wife?'

Patrontasch was nearest Beck, so he answered. ‘I don't know. She and Ala left three days ago, just after you.'

Beck reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. We could see that it was crumpled from being in his pocket for a long time. ‘Then give this to your sister.'

He handed Patrontasch the note.

‘And tell her I want an answer right away.'

Beck staggered up and we heard his body fall into the bed. Patrontasch gave Klara the note. She waited for a moment before reading it, but she knew it was too important to put off. Every eye was on her, even the children. She read the letter and then slowly put it down.

In a voice that was flat, even for Klara, she said to no one in particular, ‘He wants me to run away with him. He wants to save me.'

It was her older brother, Patrontasch, who asked the question for us all. ‘What will you do?' It was hard to believe how normal his voice sounded, as if he wanted to know whether she wanted lemon or milk in her tea.

‘You don't think I know what it would mean if I left this hellhole? I'll give him the good news.'

I didn't know how to read what was in her voice. I didn't
know what was real or what I was making up or what I wanted to hear. I heard sadness and regret; bitterness and shame; resignation and triumph and revenge. I heard how much she missed her daughter Luncia and how much she loved her dead husband. And I heard how little the affair meant because her very life meant so little to her. She crawled to the opening and climbed upstairs. Her brother gave her a gentlemanly hand up. We waited for them to say something to each other. There was silence and then Beck turned on the radio to some very pleasant dance music. We could hear the murmur of a conversation but no words.

My mother turned to my father. ‘If I had known…'

‘Known what?'

‘Would we have done anything different?'

‘Don't kill yourself with this kind of thinking.'

I knew they were talking about Mania.

Mama went on: ‘I don't know…I just remember the day when the Russians came and took my mother and sent her to Kazakhstan. You said not to feel sorry for her…that some day you might envy her. How did you know?'

‘I didn't know anything. What could I have possibly known?'

‘I couldn't believe they sent her away, even though Papa died in their prison while waiting for his pardon to come through. So many things, Meir, so many crazy things…Mama gets sent away with my brother…we were so upset and then so happy for them when the Nazis invaded because they were safe. Then we get a letter…first day on his job, his apron gets caught in a machine. And then Mania…It seems no matter what we do…we're in God's hands and He doesn't even know we're there.'

 

Klara's legs slipped down into the bunker. She didn't say a word. She crawled to her pallet and faced the wall. Upstairs, Beck
roared. I didn't know what there could possibly be left up there for him to break, but we could hear furniture crashing and splintering against the wall. I was thankful that all the houses around us had burned to the ground and hadn't been rebuilt because otherwise the police would almost certainly be banging down our doors with so many outbursts and so much screaming and noise. Then there was silence and the crash of Beck's body on the bedsprings and the unmistakable sound of sobbing. I couldn't believe I felt sorry for Beck, but I did.

Patrontasch crawled over to Klara. ‘What the hell did you tell him?'

Klara didn't face her brother or us. ‘Does it sound like I said I'd run away with him?'

 

The next morning Beck disappeared and we were alone again. Again our terror started eating at us in our silence. Maybe this time Beck wouldn't come back. We hadn't heard a word from Julia or Ala. We were used to Beck's uproars and outbursts, but we counted on Julia. She was our rock. Beck had made decision after decision to keep us alive after every close call. But it was Julia who, day in and day out, shopped, cooked and kept us alive.

A wall of the bunker collapsed and the men spent the day shoring it up with wooden slats, perhaps grateful to have a task to keep their mind off our predicament. Then the door opened and Julia and Ala walked in. Our smiles were silent cheers. Julia went straight to the hatch and called for Patrontasch to open it. She had brought back a bag of apples and as she passed them out it was as if she had only been gone a few minutes. She was smiling and happy and it seemed like nothing had happened to upset her. The apples gave everyone diarrhoea. In the late afternoon, Julia invited Lola and me, her two confidantes, upstairs to talk. I don't know why Julia chose us, but I was grateful for any
chance to get out of the bunker. The pleasure of sitting in a chair with several feet of ceiling above my head and a window to look at, even though the curtains were drawn, was enough to pretend for a moment that my life was normal. Of course, I was dreading if Julia asked for my advice. I was 16, an innocent, naive 16. I was a girl who had never even held a boy's hand in earnest.

Julia poured us tea and gave us some rolls to help with the diarrhoea. Julia sat down at the kitchen table with us. ‘It's not just Klara, you know.' Lola and I looked at each other. I could tell that Julia had wanted to get this off her chest for a long time. I could hear how casual she was trying to make it sound, as if she'd been rehearsing in front of the now broken mirror for days on end.

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's his sister-in-law. The one he ridicules because she puts on airs of being from Polish aristocracy. Oh well, I knew what I was getting into. He was like this when I met him and he won't change until I bury him, which I will, you know. I'll miss the bastard.' Both Lola and I had lots of questions, but we heard the key in the lock. Beck walked in, staggering drunk. He carried lilies in one hand and a fur coat in the other. Lola and I started to get up.

Beck motioned for us to sit. ‘No, no. Stay…I might need some protection.'

‘That depends on who the lilies are for.'

Beck handed Julia the flowers and kissed her on the cheek. His breath and skin reeked of alcohol. He held up the fur coat and spread the fur out across the table. ‘What do you think? You need a fur coat. I always wanted to get you a fur so you can be like all those other rich bitches who look down their noses at us all the time.'

‘I don't need a fur coat. Beck, where'd you get the money for
it?'

‘I used some of the dollars I got from the druggist.'

‘Dollars? Why don't you just tell the SS we're hiding Jews?'

‘Who do you think I bought the damn thing from?'

‘Krueger?'

‘Of course, Krueger. He said he'd take all the dollars I could get my hands on. He's convinced it's just a matter of time, which should make you two young ladies pleased as punch, if even the SS is convinced it's a matter of time.'

He held up the coat again in an effort to have Julia admire it. It really was a very smart fur. Lola grabbed the lining and looked at the stitching admiringly. ‘Look, it's made from single pelts and not pieced together from scraps. I can tell it was made by one of our better furriers.' Beck was pleased. But then something caught his attention. He looked at the coat a bit more closely. He held it up to the light and stuck two of his big, callused fingers through two small holes. He wiggled them. Then he threw the coat down.

‘That bastard! I told him it was a gift for you. You think I'd give you a coat with bullet holes? You don't think I know how they got there?'

‘Please, Beck. Just go to sleep. The coat is beautiful.' Julia got up and tried to lead him to the bedroom. ‘Lola can sew it. It will look like new. Krueger's your friend. He probably didn't even know the holes were there.'

Beck struggled against her. ‘He knew! That bastard!' He staggered to the front door.

Julia grabbed hold of him. ‘Clara, Lola help me.'

We grabbed on to Mr Beck and tried to pull him away from the door. Normally, this would have been an impossible task because he was extremely strong. You wouldn't think so just looking at him because he was as skinny as a fence post. But
underneath he was all steel. Everybody in Zolkiew said that nobody could work like Beck, whether he was sober or drunk.

‘Quick! The bathroom!' It was the only door with a lock. Julia started to push him to the bathroom. Beck resisted but he was so drunk he could hardly stand. Without too much trouble, we got him into the bathroom and closed the door. Julia grabbed a chair and positioned it under the doorknob so he couldn't open it.

Beck banged on the door. ‘See what she does to me? Can you blame me for what I do? I bring her a fur…a famous Zolkiew fur; made by the best Jew furrier in this godforsaken place…His sons are all furriers in Paris!'

‘Go to sleep. You can sleep in the bathtub. You've done it before.'

‘I'm not stupid enough to scream bloody murder…Julia, open the door. Open the goddamn door.'

‘Please, Valentin, please just go to sleep.'

We waited for more protests, but Beck had either given up or passed out. Lola embraced Julia, who told us, ‘Go ahead, ladies. Try and get some sleep in this insane asylum. I'll be all right.'

I did my best to avoid looking at Julia's hands as she helped me down into the bunker. The joints in her fingers were swollen and arthritic, probably from all the cleaning and scrubbing of other people's houses, wringing the water out of their clothes as she did the laundry on the washboard. I had never thought much about those things, but now I thought about them all the time. A share of the money Julia earned on her hands and knees, scrubbing German officers' floors and doing their laundry, was going to feed three Jewish families who had employed her as a servant. Yes, we had been kind to her and good employers. Would we have risked our lives for her and Mr Beck? I don't know. I would like to think so. When Mr Beck
came down to the bunker to drink and smoke and talk with the men and the rest of us, Julia remained upstairs, sitting on the bed listening to the party, if you could call it that, going on beneath her. The arthritis in her knees and hips prevented her from coming down into the bunker except on very special occasions, which usually had somehow to do with saving our lives. She was a woman with little joy in her life, but with an immaculate sense of duty. She was religious, but I didn't know if that was where she got this sense of duty from. The Catholic Church around here wasn't exactly in love with Jews. She called herself a peasant with a certain amount of pride. Her parents were typical Polish farmers: uneducated, superstitious, frightened and deferential towards any and all kinds of authority. Mr Beck believed in his own luck and was driven by his enormous contempt for any and all in positions of authority. But it was Julia Beck, plain, homely, arthritic almost to the point of deformity, old beyond her years, and scorned by her own husband, who was the strongest of us all.