Wartime Lies (13 page)

W
E WENT
to see Father P. without the widow. Tania worried about having her at the interview; she thought it would make us both more nervous. The priest studied my birth certificate, returned it to Tania, and said that unquestionably it was time to begin my religious instruction. He regretted that my health did not allow me to attend school; so far, the authorities had not prevented pastoral work in the classroom, and Pani could well understand that the nation’s spiritual capital could not be preserved without letting children come to the Lord as early as possible. The class would start next Monday; it would meet in the afternoon. He wished me success. As we were leaving, he said that he knew about us; the widow had spoken to him about Tania’s charm and high cultural level and about my young intelligence. He was surprised that he had not met Tania sooner and had not seen us in the congregation. Tania said she felt remiss. We did come here to Mass, but not every Sunday. She was trying to acquaint me with church architecture. That is why, if the weather and my health permitted, we made pilgrimages to churches in different parts of the city presenting particular points of interest; I was already familiar with Father P.’s beautiful church. As for her, she had gone to confession in the Cathedral when we first came to Warsaw and wanted to continue to seek spiritual direction there.

The catechism class was held in a room behind the sacristy that was cold and smelled of sweat. Tania would come with me, stay in the church until the lesson was over, and then quickly lead me away. She didn’t want me to wait for her after class, she didn’t want me to get into conversations with the other children, and she didn’t want me to walk home alone. I knew that was what she would decide, and although I did not tell her, I was glad. I had become afraid of other boys. Also, now that food was very expensive and hard to find, my appetite had become voracious. I dreamed about eating and ate too much whenever I could. I had become fat, with a round little stomach. Polish children were usually thin; I had always been thin in the past. I thought the boys in the catechism class would pick on me because of my fat stomach.

Father P. gave us a book of questions and answers and prayers to study. He led us in prayer; Tania told me to watch carefully how the other boys prayed, when they knelt down, when they crossed themselves, and to do the same. It was all right to be a little slow, but I should not let it be noticed that I didn’t know the custom. Then Father P. spoke about the subject for the day and called on us by name to answer the questions in the book. He read them aloud slowly. I found it was best to give the answers exactly as written in the book. I also found, as I studied the book and listened to Father P., that my personal situation was desperate and despicable.

There was no salvation except through grace, and grace could be acquired only through baptism. It was true that Jesus took with Him to heaven, when He ascended, the virtuous ancients who died before He came, but that door
to salvation was now closed. I asked Father P. whether savages living in our time away from the church could be saved if they were good, and he was very clear about it: the ministry of Jesus was complete. Virtue without grace could not suffice. He explained it by the example of the Jewish people. The patriarchs of the Old Testament were included in the harrowing of hell. But after the Lord’s birth, the Jews broke their covenant with God, crucified His Son, and remained rebellious to His teaching. It was evident that every Jew, even if he did not break the Commandments, was damned.

If that was true, my case was worse than that of a savage. A savage might live in ignorance of Jesus, but I was born and lived in a Catholic nation; it was my father’s and now my own decision to reject life in Christ. And it could not even be said that I was not breaking the Ten Commandments. Bearing false witness was forbidden; serious lying and hypocrisy were the same as bearing false witness; I was a liar and a hypocrite every day; I was mired in mortal sin on that account alone, even if all the other evil in me was disregarded. It was, of course, possible for me to be baptized. I now knew that this was a sacrament that could not ordinarily be repeated, so that it would be necessary to find a priest to whom we could reveal that I was a Jew and had not been baptized before. Baptism would wash away the Original Sin I was born with and, I thought, my other accumulated sins as well, but how could I go on lying and not fall again into mortal sin that would put me on the road to damnation? On the other hand, even if Father P. was wrong about virtuous persons who had not received baptism being damned—and that
was Tania’s opinion—even if my lying could be forgiven without confession, true repentance and absolution, was I good? I was impure in my thoughts, that was a mortal sin, and I was going to commit blasphemy, the gravest sin of all, when I took Communion without baptism and after a false confession.

I argued these questions in my head and with Tania, without mentioning to her sins other than the ones she knew about, and begged her to find a pretext for me not to profane the host. Her answer never varied: You have to do it, it’s not your fault, if Jesus Christ allows these things to happen it is the fault of Jesus Christ, not your fault. She forbade me to speak to grandfather about this nonsense.

M
EANWHILE
, the god of war seemed to be deserting the Reich. Russian troops were in the Bukovina, they reached the Czechoslovakian border; in a space of two days they took Odessa and Kerch. Pani Bronicka’s and my grandfather’s excitement was intense. I wished they could meet, but that was judged to be out of the question. On the map we studied, Pani Bronicka drew lines that showed the directions Russian armies were taking: in the north, where they were thrusting into Lithuania, commanded generals whose names were unknown to us; Zhukov’s and Rokossovsky’s troops were like daggers aimed at the heart of Poland. Only they were not going to stab us: German blood would flow, was already flowing. Pan Władek and Pan Stasiek had been at the Central Station. Many of their friends had also gone. Train after train of wounded German soldiers headed west. The men were terrifying to see:
dirty, with bandaged heads and crazy eyes. In Warsaw, there were attacks by the underground on SS men; in the countryside, trains were derailed and attacked. The SS was taking hostages. Pawiak prison was said to be full of them. Sporadically, they would be shot in the street by Wehrmacht firing squads. Before the execution, the Germans would fill their mouths with cement. That was to stop them from crying out or singing the national anthem.

Everything edible was rationed. Black-market prices rose to levels that made Tania stingy. Grandfather was also nervous about money. One day, Tania came from the market with pork she had gotten at a decent price, probably because it was an inferior cut. She cooked it especially long; she was worried about trichinosis. When we sat down to supper that night, we alone had meat before us. Tania said we would share, and served portions for everybody. The meat had an odd taste; it was sweet. Pan Władek said he would show it to a veterinarian; perhaps Tania had been sold horse meat. He took a piece with a bone. Next day he told her in secret there was no doubt we had eaten man.

Grandfather’s jeweler disappeared. We had to have cash. Both Tania and grandfather thought it was dangerous not to have a reasonable supply of bank notes on hand. If a man in the street had to be paid off, one could not hand him a ring. He would never again leave one alone. Tania said she knew a person who might help, Pani Wodolska, the widow of a professor of philosophy at the university in Cracow. Her husband had been fond of Tania, she had
often been a guest at their house; the widow was in Warsaw, she would find her. Grandfather remembered the name only vaguely; he did not object. Somehow, Tania got the address and went to see Pani Wodolska alone and unannounced. She returned perplexed. Pani Wodolska recognized her immediately, was very cordial, and said she knew jewelers who might help. She might even know someone for gold coins. Wouldn’t it be best if Pani Tania brought all her things to her house the next day? They could look them over together and decide what should be sold and what should be kept. Tania said that might be difficult. Our things were split up, in the custody of different friends; it was necessary to be very discreet about going to their houses; she would see what she could do and certainly bring the one or two pieces she had at hand. Grandfather said, Don’t go back there. They quarreled about it. Tania thought cash was worth taking a risk for. Pani Wodolska was a prewar lady. How could she understand the dangers we were running or how little trust we had? She would show her two rings and a chain.

That is what she did. They agreed on the lowest acceptable price; Pani Wodolska asked Tania to stop by in two days, in the afternoon. She was sure that the affair would be concluded by then. Tania kept the appointment, leaving me at home. She returned very late, so late that I had become frightened. She said she was tired; she would say what had happened only if I promised not to repeat it to grandfather. Then she told me that, when she arrived, Pani Wodolska had asked her what other pieces she had brought. Tania was startled and told her none, she
thought that was all we were selling. What you gave me were false stones set in gold-plated tin, replied Pani Wodolska. That is an old Jewish peddler trick, and I have the police waiting for you.

There was, in fact, a man in the apartment, who came in and sat down on a chair near the wall when Pani Wodolska rang. They finally allowed Tania to leave in exchange for the bracelet and the ring she was wearing and the contents of her wallet. It took her so long to return because she went about in circles, trying to make sure she was not being followed.

T
HE
day of my first Communion came. Tania offered to give me breakfast on the sly in our room, but I refused. I wanted to be clean inside, just as Father P. had directed. The entire household, except for Pan Władek, who was not feeling well, went to church with Tania and me. Father P. had heard my confession the day before. I had gone over my sins with Tania to be sure there were just enough and that I did not try to be too clever. The priest blessed me. He told me to say the Creed twice, the Our Father five times and the Hail Mary as many times as I could and still pay attention. I did it all carefully and slowly, and even though I knew I remained in the state of mortal sin, I tried to do nothing, until I knelt to receive the wafer, that would add to the weight of the judgment hanging over me.

D
ANTE’S
disdain: his disdain for the damned. They are naked, the reader knows it, yet Dante never misses an opportunity to
point to that degrading circumstance. Take the tongue-lashing he administers, albeit with a touch of sanctimonious hesitation due to the subject’s exalted rank, to Pope Nicholas III, who sold church offices. Virgil approves of this boorish harangue. A satisfied look comes over his face as he listens to his disciple. In general, Virgil likes Dante’s disdainful soul
, alma sdegnosa.

Dante’s damned also can be disdainful or, at least, unbowed. Brunetto Latini, sprinting along the burning sand with a band of sodomites, lifting his feet with the greatest possible speed from the fire, is like one running the race for the green flag in Verona, and seems to be among those who win and not those who lose—Dante uses the respectful
voi
when he speaks to him. Heretic Farinata rises upright in the tomb where he is baking to address Dante, as though he held hell in great disdain
, com’avesse l’inferno in gran dispitto.
Under flakes of fire falling slowly, like snow in the mountains when there is no wind, lies Capaneus, disdainful and scowling
, dispettoso e torto;
his pride is unquenched. And Vanni Fucci, tormented by serpents, makes the sign of the fig with both hands, crying, Take them, God, I am aiming at you
, Togli, Dio, ch’a te le squadro!
Ostensibly, these are instances of punishment that for mysterious reasons is not working: fire does not mature Capaneus, the bestial Vanni Fucci is unripe
, acerbo,
and the reader is not apt to take him into his heart. But what reader, even of those who have sane intellects
, li’ntelletti sani,
does not, in his heart of hearts, admire Brunetto and Farinata, even the blaspheming giant Capaneus, precisely for their disdain?

Why is this so? The grandfather’s and Tania’s bravery and occasional defiance were admirable, but then the punishment the Germans piled on them in the hell of Poland was undeserved
,
and they were morally right to defy it. In the
Inferno,
the punishment is always deserved, a primordial part of the universal order over which presides the God of Love. And yet, when proud or physically courageous damned are defiant and disdainful, admiration and even pity stir in the heart. Why is this so in the
Commedia
and in life? We should more properly be outraged at these sinners’ failure to welcome their torments meekly, assuming as we must, that their crimes are abhorrent and that Minòs, that connoisseur of sins
, conoscitor de le peccata,
has consigned them to fit punishments. Why does a Jew, hunted by the Gestapo, captured, and on his way to the gas chamber, have to be disdainful or defiant to awaken sympathy, avoid disdain? Why cluck one’s tongue over the courage of fat Göring at Nuremberg? In the vestibule of hell dwell the sorry souls of those who lived without infamy and without praise. These wretches run in a long train after a banner, naked, as Dante takes the trouble to emphasize, and stung by gadflies and wasps so that blood mixed with tears streaks their faces. It is clear that Dante disdains them more than any of the other damned: neither heaven nor deep hell will receive them; mercy and justice scorn them; Virgil refuses to discuss their condition. Why are they worse than the damned who lived in infamy and were notorious on this earth for their sins? Why do we find it so difficult to admire those who are tormented and make no defiant gesture? Suppose they are neither meek nor proud, only frightened. Why do we care whether a fallen demon outshines legions though bright?