Mother and Me (32 page)

The next morning it was snowing. I had visions of building a snowman in front of the house. Fredek fantasized throwing snowballs at people. He had already pelted most of our household with imaginary snowballs accompanied by vocal sound effects, when the decision was made that it was not worth the risk of our catching cold to allow either of us to go outside without the proper winter clothing that had been left in Warsaw. Miss Bronia tore a brown paper bag into sheets and Fredek and I were set to drawing pictures of what we would like to be doing out in the snow. Then we were left in Sonya's charge while the adults went on their daily forage. Firewood was particularly on people's minds this morning.

I finished quickly, quite pleasantly surprised by how realistic my snowman turned out. I could well imagine what Fredek's picture would be like, as I watched him at work, his drawing accented by his continued sound effects.

When I showed my finished work to Sonya, she gave it mild approval, but suggested that I include people building a snowman. Well aware of my limitations when it came to drawing people, I protested that the snowman was already finished. With an air of authority that I found unnecessary, Sonya suggested that I turn the paper over and start again.

Had this suggestion come from Miss Bronia, I would have obeyed without hesitation. The problem, however, was that I had no assurance that I would be able to draw as good a snowman as I had the first time, and so I decided to avoid the risk
and draw a car instead. I was well practiced in drawing a car, even with passengers inside.

But I hadn't gotten much beyond the front bumper when there was a knock on our door. As she had been instructed, Sonya opened the door only far enough to see and blocked it with her foot. “Yes?” she said, not recognizing the caller.

“Does Mrs. Padovich live here?” a young woman's voice asked. Sonya, who, it seemed, only knew Mother by her present name, Waisbrem, though she had heard her use Padovich several times, said that she did not. But I identified the voice as that of Renia Rokief.

“That's my mother!” I called to Sonya. “She's looking for my mother. I know this girl.”

Sonya opened the door cautiously, and Renia and her sister stepped inside. I introduced our visitors, as I'd been taught. They shook hands with Sonya and Fredek. “They won't let us go out and throw snowballs,” Fredek said.

“It's so good to see you, Yulian” Zosia said, and I was filled with pride at being greeted like that in front of Sonya and Fredek. But realizing their purpose was not social, I explained to the sisters that we had no idea when Mother might return.

“Please tell your mother,” Renia said, and she said it to me and not Sonya, “that our father has not returned and Mother is sick with worry. She can't get out of bed, and if your mother could go see the commissar again…. oh, please.”

I assured them that I would deliver the message and offered them tea, though we had no milk. The girls said they had to hurry back to their mother, who was alone.

The pride over my very grown-up assignment prevented me from trying to draw anything recognizable for the rest of the day. I scribbled lines, circles, and crosses and watched the snow fall in the street as I visualized poor, sweet Mrs. Rokief lying on her bed with a wet cloth over her eyes and forehead the way Kiki would do when she had her headaches.

Then I remembered prayer. I had not stopped saying the Our Father and the Hail Mary in bed every night, but, I now realized, I had given little thought to God in recent weeks. Now I walked into the privacy of the inner room, made the sign of the cross, and proceeded to beseech the Lord and the Holy Virgin for the prompt reunion of Mr. and Mrs. Rokief.

Anxious as I was to deliver my urgent message, Mother didn't return till after supper. She had stopped in at the Rokiefs and already knew what I had to tell her.

The next morning, she again dressed to see the commissar. It was a green suit this time, with a fur collar. “I'm bringing Yulek,” she said. “Colonel Bawatchov likes him.” Then to me she said, “Bring that knife he gave you.”

For a moment I was gripped by the fear that she would make me return it. But I soon realized that it would be only to show him how much I appreciated his gift… I hoped.

“Edna,” Mother said, as I waited by the door in the red and black plaid, grownup's winter jacket that Mother had bought for me the week before and Miss Bronia had shortened the sleeves so I could wear it as an overcoat, “let Fredek exchange coats with Yulek today. I want Bawatchov to see him dressed a little better.”

“That's a woman's coat,” Fredek complained. “It even buttons the wrong way.”

I hadn't been aware of a difference in the way men's and women's coats buttoned, and this was the first time that my coat's true gender had occurred to me. But the logic added up. This was an adult's jacket, and I had never seen a grown man in a plaid one.

“Scots wear plaid jackets all the time,” my mother said to Fredek.

“And I can give you a nice wide leather belt like soldiers wear, so you won't even have to button it,” Miss Bronia quickly added.

This seemed to convince Fredek, though it wouldn't have convinced me. I knew that Scottish men wore plaid skirts, but I had never seen a picture of one in a plaid jacket. As we were on our way to Col. Bawatchov's office, I was very glad that Auntie Edna approved the exchange. I only hoped that Miss Bronia's wide leather belt, which did to an extent make up for the plaid, would at least stay with the jacket when it was returned to me.

This time we went straight up the stairs to the second floor of the palace. Mother showed the slip of paper to the guard outside the colonel's door, and after a short wait we were in the commissar's office again.

Col. Bawatchov was happy to see Mother. “Shake hands,” Mother said to me, which I was already prepared to do as soon as he made the offer. The colonel held his large hand out to me and I shook it firmly.

As I was about to retrolaunch myself again onto the chair, the colonel held up the index fingers of both hands, signaling me to stop. He shouted something to the young officer behind the door to his left and in a moment the man came in carrying a footstool. “For the boy,” the colonel said, and the officer placed it in front of my chair.

“Say thank you,” Mother started to say, but I had beaten her to it. Using this stool, I mounted the chair as elegantly as a cavalryman.

The colonel asked about Mother's health.

“I and my son are well, Comrade Colonel,” Mother answered, “but my friend, Comrade Rokief has not been released.”

This surprised the colonel and again he shouted for his aide and sent him once more for the “detainees” file.

“Are you keeping warm, Comrade Barbara?” he asked while we waited.

“Not really, Comrade Colonel,” Mother answered. “Wood is very hard to find.”

“We brought in a train of firewood just last week, which we gave away free.”

“Capt. Vrushin told me about it. But he said it was all logs, which we have no way of either carrying or cutting up.”

This surprised the colonel as well. “I must talk to Vrushin,” he said.

“We were very grateful for the bread and ham you gave us,” Mother said quickly.

The colonel looked at me. “You like ham, Yulli?” And I almost answered him before remembering that I was not supposed to understand Russian.

“Answer him,” Mother prompted
sotto voce
in Polish.

“What did he say, Mummy?” I asked innocently.

“The colonel asked if you like ham,” she explained, remembering our subterfuge.

“Oh, yes, a lot!”

“He says he likes it and thanks you,” Mother translated.

“Do you like herring?” the colonel asked, and Mother translated again.

“Oh, yes!” I said enthusiastically.

Not needing a translation, the colonel said that he had some cases of that and would give us a few jars. Mother expressed her gratitude.

“And the knife? I hope you haven't been cutting up anything you shouldn't.”

My eyes went to the lump on top of my left thigh before Mother's translation, and I realized that I may have given away our game. But the colonel seemed to take no notice.

“He hasn't had a chance to use it yet,” Mother interjected. “He is not allowed to open it without supervision.”

“A boy should have a knife. It teaches him to be a man. He'll cut his fingers a few times, and he'll learn.”

Then the young officer returned with the file and handed it to his commander.

“Ah,” the colonel said, putting on his glasses. “Alexander Rokief, right?”

“Roman Rokief,” Mother corrected. Col. Bawatchov repeated the name and began thumbing through the file. Again he muttered names under his breath.

He went through the entire file and then began again, going more slowly. Then, turning to his left, he called for his aide. This time, however, he got up from the desk and spoke to the officer out of our earshot. The aide marched out again. The lieutenant was tall and thin, with black hair, black eyebrows, a long chin, and a very serious look on his face. As he marched out, I realized that he reminded me of an unsmiling university student I had seen once or twice at my grandparents', who was supposed to be a cousin.

“Comrade Lieutenant Rostov is going to check some more,” the colonel said, pushing his glasses up on his forehead. Looking at Mother, I saw her biting her lower lip. “There have been some records misplaced,” the colonel said. “We'll have it straightened out shortly.”

The colonel's boots were by the fireplace again. Sitting back in his chair with the glasses on his forehead, he reminded me of a pilot.

“Do you have a husband, Comrade?” he asked as we waited.

“He was in the army, fighting the Germans. I don't have any news about him.”

“Where was he fighting? Do you know his regiment? Maybe I can find out something.”

Mother gave him some regimental name. “He was fighting outside of Warsaw,” she said. “His name is Capt. Leon Pad … Waisbrem, Capt. Leon Waisbrem.”

The colonel was writing it down. “I will see what I can do.”

“You are again being very kind, Comrade Colonel.”

“Ask Yulli how he likes Russians,” the colonel suddenly asked.

“He doesn't know any Russians except you, Comrade Colonel, and his grandmother … and, of course, Capt. Vrushin. As for you, you have been more than kind to him.”

“Let him speak. I want to hear what he has to say.”

Mother translated for me. She gave me a hard look, and I understood that I was supposed to say something nice, though the similarity between the two languages made it inadvisable for her to prompt me.

The fact of the matter was that I had no problem with telling the colonel that I liked Russians, or anything else that might help free Mrs. Rokief's husband. But what was a problem was that I had actually come to like this Russian.

Then it came to me. “I like soldiers,” I said. Mother smiled, then translated.

“A clever answer,” the colonel answered. Then he offered Mother a cigarette, put one into his cigarette holder, and lit both. Without a word, he handed Mother the box of matches and signaled with his hand that she should keep them. Sitting back in his chair, he pushed the glasses up onto his forehead. “When did you go to Paris, Comrade?” he asked.

I understood that he supposed she had been only once and waited for Mother to tell him she went all the time. “We usually go in the spring for the fashions,” Mother said.

I didn't understand what going for the fashions meant, and I didn't think the colonel would either. Instead of being impressed by her travels, as I thought he would be, he said, “In the Soviet Union we have fine language teachers in our own universities. You don't have to go to Paris to learn French.”

I remembered Mother telling him that she was a language teacher.

“I didn't go just to learn the language,” Mother said. “Paris is beautiful in the spring, and my husband and I used to go just to vacation.”

Now there was a frown on the colonel's face, and I felt that Mother wasn't succeeding at pleasing him. “Your husband was in the government?” he asked.

“Oh, no, he manufactured shirts.”

“A factory manager?”

“Yes,” she said. I noticed she didn't say that he owned the factory. “He had to buy materials and machines, and he always scheduled it for my vacation time.”

“In the Soviet Union, we manufacture our own materials and our own machines.”

“Poland is a much smaller country.”

“Now it's part of the Soviet Union. If your husband comes back from the war, he'll be able to go to Leningrad for his supplies.”

Mother agreed that that would be welcome.

“Our machines are made better,” he added. Mother nodded in agreement.

“Do you know why our machines are better?” he asked.

“No.”

“Because they are designed and built by workers who are happy at their work. Our workers aren't exploited—we got rid of all the factory owners. And when workers are happy, they do better work.”

Mother didn't disagree. On our other visit, she had told him about not liking the sight of Russian soldiers in our streets—this time she didn't seem to want to say anything disagreeable.

“You will see, Comrade, the Soviet Union is a paradise.”

“We are looking forward to it,” Mother said.

Then Lt. Rostov returned with two more files. Mother and I sat silently and the lieutenant stood by as the colonel looked through both files. Finally he looked up and removed his glasses altogether. “There is no record of Roman Rokief,” he said.

“Could he have been released this morning or late last night?” Mother asked.

The colonel took a moment before answering. “There is no record of him being released,” he finally said. “There is no record of him having been here.”