The Train to Warsaw (5 page)

The radiator clanked with a metallic sound. She lay quietly, her face turned away. Then there's nothing. No, he agreed, there's nothing. He blew his nose into a large white linen handkerchief. Now order some breakfast, he said, I'm starving. I wanted . . . I hoped . . . she began. Yes, darling, he said. Like all of us.

They lay half-asleep, their legs entwined, her head against his chest. There was a knock at the door. Both grew motionless. It's only room service, said Lilka after a moment. She threw on a robe and stood up. A short sturdy man with high cheekbones, straw-­colored hair, and unblinking blue eyes pushed a table on wheels into the room. He kicked at a small brake and pulled up two chairs.
Prosz
e
¸
,
he said. Frowning, Jascha pulled on a bathrobe.

They sat opposite each other at the linen covered table. The waiter poured out coffee into china cups whose flowery design had faded with use. Milk and sugar? he asked. He had a square jaw which he pressed out into the middle of the room. We like it black, replied Jascha curtly. It's snowing again, the waiter observed. You can barely see two inches in front of your face. As for the freezing wind, he muttered, the Russkies send it down from the Urals—a special present for the Poles.

The waiter stopped pouring and looked at them with curiosity. We don't get many visitors this time of year. Where are you from? he wanted to know. From London, replied Jascha. He took up the Polish newspaper that lay beside the plate. Where did you learn your Polish? asked the waiter. Jascha studied the headlines. The waiter stood motionless, staring at Jascha out of his fixed blue eyes. It's not the same Warsaw, said the man at last. Jascha pulled out a few coins and handed them over. Slowly the man looked down into his palm. He lifted his eyes to Jascha. Have you come back?

What chutzpah, said Jascha. To question us like that. He snapped the page of the newspaper angrily. They haven't changed. Still sly and insolent.

Never mind, said Lilka and drew the bread basket toward her. Do you remember, he asked, when suddenly the waiters and the street sweepers, the bricklayers and the scum rose up until the lowliest drudge was higher than all the Jews? That's what my mother couldn't bear, said Lilka. She wasn't the only one, replied Jascha.

Lilka, her face creased with sleep, studied the basket of rolls and selected a poppy-seed roll. It's not even warm, she said. She broke it open and held it up to her nose. Jascha, it smells of nothing. Do you remember the freshly baked poppy-seed rolls before the war? Warm and fragrant. Like paradise. Mechanically she buttered the bread and took a bite. No taste. For years I dreamed of biting into a real Warsaw poppy-seed roll. Like they used to bake at Rosen­stajn's. Jascha peered into the basket. Well well, he said. Now that the Jews are gone they're baking Jewish pastries. Look at that. Rugelach with raisins. Like my mother used to make. She looked up in surprise. You never talk about your mother. No, he replied.

At Rosenstajn's, said Lilka, the poppy-seed rolls came straight from the oven. You could lie down in that warm fragrant scent. She chewed slowly. The Rosenstajns were husband and wife. She was small and round and had skin as white as flour. My father used to say that was why he chose her. She could have been dark as rye, he remarked. Is that your sense of humor? she asked. No darling, he replied. He turned the pages of the Polish newspaper. I don't have one. Rosenstajn looked something like Houdini, she said. Dark curls, short, and solidly built. But he had delicate fingers. Sometimes he gave me a little cookie in the shape of a star. Not that kind of star, she added. His wife used to bend down and pinch my cheek. Look at that flaxen hair, she would say. Just like a Polish princess.

He turned a page of the Warsaw paper. Well well, he remarked. An old woman has been robbed and murdered. Only one? That wasn't news in our day. Where did it happen? she wanted to know. On Nowolipki Street, he said. Around midnight. Our Side, said Lilka. What was she doing out so late? After curfew? He frowned. What are you talking about?

When the Germans arrived, said Lilka, they soon discovered that it was the best bakery in Warsaw. Later when the Rosenstajns went to the ghetto, they brought in an ethnic German baker. But he couldn't bake nearly as well as Rosenstajn. Rosenstajn had had two thousand years of practice, remarked Jascha. So they brought him back, gave him a special permit and ordered him to start baking. He was allowed to live in a tiny unheated storage space behind the shop. But he missed his wife.

She looked out the window at the falling snow whipped by a gust of Russian wind. He used to visit her and come out through the tunnel on Ogrodowa Street. I know this, said Jascha. It was the Accountant who arranged it. He knew Rosenstajn from the former life. And do you know what happened? asked Lilka. Yes I do, replied Jascha. We knew everything that went on in the ghetto. We couldn't have done business if we didn't.

My mother didn't want me involved with you, said Lilka suddenly. She referred to you as “that smuggler of yours.” What else was I? he asked. Although she didn't mind asking me to “organize” things from The Other Side when it suited her.

Lilka pulled closed her woolen robe. You never liked her. No, he agreed, I never did. She was a beauty, said Lilka. With her pale blonde hair and big blue eyes. Everyone said so. Men were enchanted with her. Not this one, he said. Even in those days what she did was not permissible. She was trying to survive, said Lilka. How did that make her different from anyone else? he wanted to know.

Once your mother asked me to organize a silk umbrella from The Other Side. I thought she was joking. To twirl as she made her way among the corpses? She was used to a certain kind of life, said Lilka. And the rest of us? he asked. Had we come from nowhere?

Jascha poured out more coffee. It happened on a Tuesday that Rosenstajn left us for a better world. They had let some “tourists” in. Officers and their girlfriends, friends of Hans Frank, come there to amuse themselves, to gape at the dying Jews in the zoo of the ghetto. I heard the women, wives of officers, complaining in high-pitched voices. What a stench, they cried. Don't they ever wash? How dirty they are, the Jews. And the children. They don't even dress properly, they're missing teeth. Is this the way Jews take care of their children? And all of them beggars. Disgusting.

What savages they are, these Jews. You wouldn't see German children behaving this way. Sometimes the tourists were given whips and guns to amuse themselves with. Another Jew lashed or shot? What difference? They were all going to disappear anyway.

As the tourists walked through the filthy streets, everyone fled at their approach. A man with a rotting blanket wrapped around him, barefoot in the winter snow, tried to get away from Them. But he could no longer walk. He didn't look at Them. It was death to look at one of Them. His cheekbones protruded, his eyes were milky with death. One of the women with a breathless shriek flung a coin at the man. But he was too weak to pick it up.

Lilka sat rigid, her eyes on the tablecloth. She ran a finger over a lump in the white linen spread. Look at that, she said, it's been darned. She clicked her tongue. So shabby. What else should it be? he asked. Has anyone prospered under the Communists? She lit a cigarette and stared out the window.

Rosenstajn was walking down Leszno Street, Jascha said. Suddenly he was grabbed by a German policeman who ordered him to run. Who knows why they chose him. What could he do? The street had emptied out in a hurry. The policemen wished the tourists happy hunting. Rosenstajn ran, zigzagging. But it did him no good. He was the only one, a perfect target. They shot at him as he ran. What a good time they had. The Accountant heard about it and sent a man to stop it. But it was too late. That was the end of Rosenstajn's baking. The SS who patronized the place were very annoyed. They shot two Jewish policemen. What did they have to do with it? asked Lilka. Nothing at all, replied Jascha.

Lilka put down her roll and wiped her fingers. I can't eat anymore, she said. I've lost my appetite. Give it to me, said Jascha, holding out his hand. I'm ravenous. I could eat a dozen rolls, one right after the other.

Lilka sat motionless. November 1940, she said. The gates were closing on the Jews. Do you remember, Jascha? My mother didn't want to move. Move to northern Warsaw? she asked. Is that where they're planning to put us? The place is a slum. But the world had changed. And my mother no longer occupied the same place in it. Ha, cried Jascha. Did anyone want to move? Why is your mother always an exception?

My mother put on her hat and gloves. I'm going to headquarters, she said. When had her beauty ever failed her? I pleaded with her not to go. Mama, I cried, people go in there and they don't come out. She patted my cheek cooly. I'll be back, she told me. Mama, I said, you're out of your mind. Why take such a risk? When Papa went out, he didn't come back. Don't mention your father, she said sharply. Jascha read the paper.

How wrong you were, Lilka, she said when she returned. I met a very nice man. An officer. Very courteous. He complimented me on my German. He has promised to find us a nice apartment in the Jewish Quarter. They were not yet calling it the ghetto. Mama! I cried. My mother shook her head. She had gotten harder since my father disappeared. My innocent little flower, she said mockingly. She pulled off her gloves. Do you know what he said to me? Surely, my dear Frau Reifmann, you are not Jewish. I can't hear this, said Jascha. She did what she could, replied Lilka. Enough, Lilka. Don't provoke me.

True to his word, my mother's new friend found us an apartment on Sienna Street. The street they called The Champs-Élysées of the ghetto, said Jascha. Right up against The Other Side. Would you have rather we lived in a hole in the ground on Nalewki Street? she asked. No, darling, I'm just mentioning it.

Lilka blotted her mouth with her napkin. The night before we moved to the ghetto, we had a visit from the concierge, Pani Kowalska. She climbed up the stairs, wheezing at every step. She was short and dumpy and her skin had a yellowish cast. One eye bulged from her head. She appeared in a faded housedress, several layers of woolen cardigans and the scuffed slippers she always wore. Breathing heavily, her face flushed, she held out a shapeless swollen hand. Pani Reifmann, she said, give me your jewels. She smiled slyly. Better I should have them than the Others. Give them to me, she said softly. Where you're going, you won't be needing them. That time, my mother closed the door in her face. The next night she was back with “her cousin,” who carried a truncheon in his hand.

And this, said Jascha, turning a page, is the Warsaw you were so anxious to return to.

Two days later, said Lilka, the movers began to pack up what had not been confiscated. And then suddenly they stopped. They sat down, surly, smoking. That's enough, they said. We're finished. My mother was in another room. Mama, they don't want to work anymore. What? she cried. Who do they think they are? But the world had changed. And people like my mother no longer held the reins of power. She went in to them, in her elegant suit, her French shoes, with her blonde hair. What is the meaning of this? she asked them. For a moment they were in awe of her. And then they remembered she was only a Jew.

We're not working until we get paid more. But we agreed on the price, said my mother. One small wiry mover stood looking at her, a cigarette hanging from his lip. We've changed our mind. It can happen to anyone, he added. The others smiled. My mother was not yet used to the new order. She stared at them in disbelief. And then she pulled herself together. She offered them this many
zloty
and not a penny more. Take it or leave it. Otherwise, she said, she'd get someone else. You don't have much time, one of them ventured. They'll be closing the gates. And if you're not inside . . . He made a motion across his throat.

That night as we sat among the boxes, Marysia came in, drying her eyes with a corner of her apron. Her thin hair was pulled back with clear plastic combs, and I could see her long creased earlobes that I used to tug on when I was a child. It will soon be over, she said. And you'll be back.

We stepped into the
droshky
my mother had hired on November 13th of '40, two days before they closed the gates. We had one suitcase each. The rest was going by wagon to Sienna Street. Never have you seen such chaos. The streets were packed with people pushing handcarts piled high with furniture and bedding, mattresses, wardrobes, pots and pans. A whole life lashed to the back of a wagon. In their panic they collided; armoires and beds tumbled from their moorings and crashed onto the pavement.

Horses reared; we were nearly struck by falling furniture. The porters had more than they could handle. People shrieked, cried out. An unspeakable din. The Jews were being cheated right and left. Just before they closed the gates, the panic was indescribable. The Jews were forbidden to remove anything from their apartments. Yet somehow the streets were full of carts hauling Jewish furniture.

Small children were pressed into the bedding. They tumbled around, holding on, shouting out as the cart careened around a corner. Sometimes a badly balanced load fell over, sometimes a cart overturned. One wagon drawn by a skittish horse took off over the cobblestones and disappeared. The driver had lost control. Those who had households full of nice furniture, paintings, silver, Oriental rugs, gave up their lives. So did everyone else.

A child ran after his family's wagon. In the turmoil he had been left behind. At last the wagon was turned around and they came back for him. Sitting on the curb he refused to come. No, he cried, I want to live on my own. Soon he would. What chaos. The shrieking, the cries, the horses were driven nearly mad by the human hysteria. And over the cobblestone streets hung a bright November sky, the round disc of the sun shining in the blue skies.

The drivers were charging a fortune. And those who had traded apartments with the Jews were cleaning up. Some of them stripped the apartments of everything that made them habitable and then turned them over. Others moved into the Jews' apartments and then sold theirs again to someone else. There was no recourse to the law. There was no longer any law for the Jews. And then They came out and began to beat the Jews with truncheons. They tugged at Jewish beards until they had torn them out. A horse who had made the mistake of pressing his flank against one of Them was beaten to death . . . Lilka stopped, exhausted.