Chasing the King of Hearts (Peirene's Turning Point Series) Page 5

  They don’t speak. It gets dark – curfew hour. They light a carbide lamp. In the morning she asks him: How did that message get to your neighbour?

  The usual way, somebody brought it. A man by the name of Franciszek.

  For free?

  Her host is surprised at the question: Who carries messages these days for free?!

  The Deal

  She tracks down the man by the name of Franciszek (the sad tenor’s neighbour told her where to look) in a workers’ colony. The two-storey building houses several apartments and is surrounded by pine trees (an empty hammock is strung between two of the trunks). She tells Franciszek who sent her. She praises the collection of Gypsy dolls displayed on fluffy embroidered cushions. She admires the numerous trophies set out on the cabinet, asks him about the fishing competitions and whether he doesn’t need couriers for delivering messages. He does. Pan Franciszek works in the Hasag factory together with Jews from the camp and takes letters from them to their families. He delivers them himself if he has time, and if he doesn’t he hands them over to people he trusts. For each letter delivered the trusted person receives ten zlotys. She doesn’t ask Mr Franciszek how much the Jews pay him. She agrees to the ten zlotys and he gives her several little notes. All are written in small letters and, according to Mr Franciszek, all say the same thing: Sell something. A fur collar, a tablecloth, a ladle, anything – and send money by the same route. And if there’s nothing to sell, then borrow from the cousins. And if there aren’t any cousins, then say hello to whoever is left.

  She stashes the letters in her bra and asks where she can buy fatback bacon.

  She travels out to the country, buys fatback and sells it at Kiercelak. She delivers the messages, takes the replies back to Franciszek and he pays her ten zlotys for each one. She hides another batch in her bra and travels out to the country.

  You mean you’re taking money for delivering messages? Lilusia is taken aback.

  She understands her friend’s honourable attitude and her surprise, but Izolda unfortunately can’t afford to do anything for free. She has to pay for the gatehouse at Śródborów. She has to get her husband out of the camp as soon as she finds out where he is. She isn’t doing anything for free and doesn’t feel the least bit guilty.

  The Doctor

  She’s supposed to meet a man they call ‘the Doctor’. She doesn’t know him. He’s an acquaintance of Sonia Landau (Izolda barely knows her). Shayek’s sisters were friends with Sonia and little Szymuś was very fond of her. Szymuś always went to Sonia when he quarrelled with his girlfriend Anula. They used to squabble over building blocks: little Anula insisted on building a wall, Szymuś preferred a tree. We have to have a forest, he said, because we have to have Józefów, but Anula knocked all the blocks down. I’m a gendarme, she shouted, and you’re a smuggler, bang – well, fall down, can’t you see I’m shooting at you? And once again Szymuś went running to Sonia Landau: Tell her there’s no shooting in Józefów!

  Szymuś is gone, the sisters are gone. Sonia is still here and knows of a Gestapo officer who’s said to be a decent man. When a friend is arrested she telephones Gestapo headquarters on Szucha Avenue, but a different officer answers. He would be happy to stand in for his colleague, how can he be of help? Sonia explains how her friend was arrested. The officer expresses his sympathy and invites her to coffee. Sonia tells him she’ll be wearing a dark-blue skirt with a red blouse, he’ll have no problem recognizing her. And she’s right: he has no problem recognizing her, he pulls her into the car and takes her to Pawiak prison.

  The Doctor rides up on a bicycle – he’s wearing knickerbockers and a cycling cap. He’s in tears because he was in love with Sonia Landau. Slowly he collects himself and asks about Izolda’s husband. He’ll try to help, since Sonia asked him to. He says he’ll arrange for Shayek to be sent to Warsaw (but that’s going to cost) and will see that he gets released (which will cost even more).

  She thanks the Doctor effusively and gives him everything: the money she made from the fatback bacon and the smuggled messages, the laundry receipt for her husband’s suit and letters to all the friends who are looking after her belongings. Each letter has the same six words: ‘Please give the Doctor everything – Izolda.’ (She signs as Izolda and not Marynia so it’s more genuine.) Even if she’s arrested, she tells the Doctor, he should collect all her things, sell them and save her husband. Not her, only her husband, do you understand? I understand, he says gravely, and stashes away the money and the letters.

  The next day Lilusia asks her why she’s sending a complete stranger. Terenia asks as well (she gave the man what he asked for; after all, he had a letter). And Mrs Krusiewicz did the same. Even the cleaners handed him her husband’s suit (made of English wool, with a blue check, he looked so handsome, so elegant wearing that suit…). Is there something wrong? the owner of the laundry asked, concerned. No, everything’s all right, she assures him, then goes on to the street and bursts into desperate, helpless tears.

  Armchair. Stockings

  Shortly after the war she decided to pay the Doctor a visit. I’m going to walk in, she told herself, say hello and tell him…

  On her way there she planned what to say.

  ‘I risked my life to earn a few pennies, and you…’

  That’s not it. What does he care about her life…

  ‘What did you think, that you’d get God knows what: dollars, jewellery? And all you wound up with was a few towels and some sheets. And a beach robe.’

  (She was moved, remembering that robe. It was yellow, soft, with a large white collar. She wore it at the beach. She’d just come in from the water. The beach was in Sopot. She went there with her father…)

  Not that either. Better not say anything, just ask him…

  The Doctor opens the door.

  He steps back, surprised: Is it really you? And he was happy, truly happy. That she had survived. And your husband? He shouted with joy: That’s wonderful!

  He asks her to tell him all about it, one thing at a time. He listened excitedly and only interrupted once, when she was talking about Auschwitz. He asked if she’d run into Sonia Landau there. She had, Sonia had given her some warm stockings. And a towel. She worked in the Effekten-kammer… He didn’t understand: Where did she work? In an office. She was assigned to Canada, where she organized the belongings left by the Hungarian Jews. Used, but still very good quality, very respectable. The Doctor didn’t understand what she meant by Canada or what happened to the Hungarian Jews. She didn’t want to explain. She no longer wanted to ask him anything. She said goodbye. She went down Marszałkowska Street and turned on to one of the side streets – Hoża or Wspólna, she couldn’t tell since everything was in ruins. It was getting dark. In the distance she could see a square and what was probably Ujazdowskie Avenue. It already had a new name. Excuse me, is that Stalin Avenue? she asked a passer-by. The man stopped, took out a lighter and shone it on her face. MY DEAR LADY, he said, over-accentuating every word, THAT WAS, IS AND WILL BE – WILL BE, MY DEAR LADY – UJAZDOWSKIE AVENUE. She was ashamed, thanked him, and kept on walking.

  Hail Mary

  She takes the train to get more messages, more fatback bacon.

  A German railway officer enters her compartment and asks for her travel permit. She doesn’t have one, so she hands him her identity card and 100 zlotys, like everyone else who travels without a permit. The officer is supposed to tuck away the 100 zlotys, return the ID and leave – that’s what they’ve all done before. This one doesn’t tuck anything away. He doesn’t return her ID. He stares at her, stares at her photograph and finally says: Kommen Sie mit – and gestures towards the rear of the car.

  When the train stops in Radom the German takes her to the police station.

  Evidently you look like a Jew, says the policeman.

  She’s genuinely surprised: I look like a Jew? I’ve never heard that before.

  Can you say your Hail Mary? the policeman asks.

  Of course. H
ail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee… (Lilusia taught her when she put the necklace on Izolda: Repeat after me, she said…) Blessed art thou among women… Because she is addressing the Mother of God, who is full of grace, she goes slowly, making every word count, to show respect.

  Listen to you, the policeman laughs out loud. What normal person says Hail Mary like that? Usually it’s hailmaryfullofgracethelordiswiththee… You really are a Jew!

  Apparently Lilusia forgot the most important thing: that the delivery has to sound completely ordinary. Poor Lilusia – she thought about handbags and medallions, but it never occurred to her there might be a Jewish way of saying the Hail Mary.

  Izolda spends the night in a solitary cell. She repeats the Hail Mary out loud (she doesn’t know if she’s praying or just learning to say it like a normal person). The next morning a policeman comes for her.

  The Radom Gestapo looks like any other office. The windows don’t have curtains, the desks are small and in need of repair, each one seats two men facing each other. They pore over their papers, paying no attention to her, so she sits down on the doorstep. (Is that how a Jewish woman sits? she wonders. Would she stretch her legs out in such a casual way? Certainly not. A Jewish woman would just stand there like a stone, resigned, with despair in her eyes.)

  A Gestapo officer comes in carrying a small object wrapped in paper.

  He beckons her over.

  The man opens a drawer, takes out a white place-mat and spreads it on his desk, unwraps the paper… He’s brought a loaf of expertly plaited challah, nicely browned, with a crumb topping – genuine Jewish challah! She quickly looks away from the bread and stares at the Gestapo officer. (Would a Jew stare that way? So calmly, or even perhaps confidently?) The Gestapo man breaks off a piece of challah with one hand and slaps her with the other. He doesn’t hit her hard. It’s a short, precise blow just to say: You will not stare at me – nothing more.

  Going to get some bacon, weren’t you? the Gestapo man guesses.

  She protests vigorously (for selling fatback you could be sent to a concentration camp) and opens her handbag. She takes out her papers, her mirror, her comb – and a letter she was delivering to Franciszek.

  The letter reports on the family health and ends with the most important thing: ‘Be calm, I’ve made sure the child is in good hands…’ The Gestapo man sends for a translator. A balding, nondescript civilian with hunched shoulders scans the letter. He stops at the last sentence. He hesitates a moment… He begins to translate. He speaks very slowly and deliberately: Uncle’s broken leg is healing well… No, healing isn’t right, Uncle’s broken leg is knitting back together nicely… I visited Grandmama and Grandpapa, they both have rheumatism… The Gestapo officer is getting bored. He interrupts the translator and signals: Take her away.

  The Whole World

  There are twenty-five women in the Radom jail cell. They begin the day cleaning. They scrub the floor with a brush, mop up the water with a rag and wring the rag out over a bucket. When it’s her turn the water spills on to the floor and runs down her sleeves… Twenty-four women, poor and wealthy alike, look at her in amazement. They look at her that way because they scrub quickly and expertly and no one pays any attention to them.

  When she was fourteen a servant girl used to carry her satchel to school. And once she was back home, Izolda would lift her right leg and then her left and the servant girl would bend over to pull off her dirty snow boots. Izolda was a very nice little girl, except she didn’t carry her own satchel and didn’t pull off her own boots.

  She stops to think: Who helped the wealthy women in her cell take their shoes off, when they were fourteen? And why is it that a wealthy Polish woman knows how to mop the floor and a wealthy Jewish woman doesn’t?

  She’d like to discuss the matter with her husband.

  The thought of her husband makes her heart ache so much she feels it will explode.

  She breaks into tears, and the woman from the next bunk gives her a scolding look. You’re crying over a fellow, aren’t you? I can bet it’s not for your mother. Now listen here and don’t forget: you can have as many fellows as you’d like, but you only have one mother…

  I know, she agrees, I only have one mother, but as far as I’m concerned the whole world can fall apart or go up in flames or disappear – just as long as he stays alive.

  Pfui, what are you going on about… the woman from the next bunk is disgusted. Go up in flames? The whole world? Pfui!

  Ingeborg

  The Poles stand in one long silent and dismal row while the German farmers pass back and forth in front of them, looking them over, pawing and squeezing their shoulders, their necks, their hands, their legs. Finally they point and say: That man there. Or else: That woman.

  A tall, thin woman steps up to Izolda. Her hair is pinned in a small bun, her brow is pencilled black. She tests Izolda’s shoulders, which are in order, and inspects her palms, which are large. All in all Izolda is a tall, sturdy woman, and the German points at her.

  A female clerk standing behind the farmers writes down in her notebook: Maria Pawlicka, Raddusch. Then she smiles kindly at Izolda and says: Good luck.

  Raddusch is a village with respectable houses, a train station and a prisoner-of-war camp. The German woman takes her to a room with an earth floor where another forced labourer is already living. He comes from around Kielce and his name is Józio.

  Evening comes. Izolda lies down on the straw mattress and tries to fall asleep. In the darkness she hears bare feet and Józio whispering: Move over. She takes him by the arm. Józio, she says gently, I’m married, my husband is in a camp, and you’re a good Pole, right? So go back to your bed.

  Józio proves to be a good Pole, but he feels sad. He wants her to cheer him up, talk to him, tell him a story, but it has to be interesting… She doesn’t know any interesting stories. Of course you do, he insists. Just think of something.

  She’s got it: High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince…

  Józio doesn’t like fairy tales. He wants to hear something real, most of all something about love.

  I’ll tell you about a girl, she begins. She had green eyes and ventured out of the depths of the forest to visit her lover, always at daybreak…

  And so she recounts the story of Ingeborg, her and Hala Borensztajn’s favourite book. The summer was hot that year and the earth was on fire, as though someone had baked bread on the very ground. The sunlight was hot, too…

  Sunlight at daybreak isn’t hot, Józio corrects. And the earth can’t be on fire, especially in the forest.

  Don’t interrupt, she says. They felt like they were on fire, so that’s how the earth felt, too.

  Izolda and Hala were always very envious of that Ingeborg. Not over Axel – he would have been much too old for them – but because he loved her so much. On the way home from school they promised each other that neither would get married unless they found a love like that.

  We made a promise… she tells Józio.

  Who’s we?

  Hala Boren… my friend Hala and me.

  And did you wait? asks Józio.

  I waited.

  And your friend?

  What about my friend?

  Are you listening to me? Is your friend still waiting?

  She’s still waiting, Józio. Now go to sleep.

  The farmer’s wife wakes her up in the morning and sends her to the cowshed to milk the cows. Izolda has never seen cows up close. The farmer’s wife watches her trying to take the udder, then sends her to help with the threshing instead. Izolda has never seen a thresher before either. The German woman tells her to sweep the bits of straw off the machine, watches her and sends her back to the cowshed, where a cow knocks out one of her front teeth. So she’s sent to the washroom. Izolda has seen a tub and washboard before: their servant girl used them. She sits down to use the washboard… What do you know how to do? asks the German woman. I know how to take care of
people who are sick. (She almost blurts out: Sick with typhus.) Nobody’s sick here, everyone’s healthy. The German woman is getting annoyed. And what else? Izolda thinks for a moment. I’m pretty good at French… The German woman starts to yell and sends her back to the thresher.

  Charmante

  The news that Izolda speaks French makes its way to the prisoner-of-war camp.

  An officer stops in for a visit. His uniform is dirty and marked with white letters: KG for Kriegsgefangener–prisoner of war. He’s longing to talk to a charming woman, avec une femme charmante. He bows and kisses her hand.

  She smiles to the officer as winsomely as she can with a missing front tooth. She tries to recall what charming women talk about with handsome men. Not about typhus. Not about Pawiak. Not about packages to Auschwitz either… The Frenchman calls her his little girl, ma petite. It would be good to know what little girls talk about. The war will end and then what? She won’t know how to talk with a man?

  Factory

  The farmer’s wife is fed up with her milking, laundering, threshing and French and sends her to the labour bureau. She’s reassigned to a canvas mill, where she works alongside German women. They tend the looms, fixing any broken threads. There are several hundred looms in the hall, the women run from thread to thread. They’re deaf from all the noise, they have varicose veins on their legs and white dust in their hair, eyelashes and brows… They aren’t good to her. They aren’t bad to her. They are tired. She asks how long they’ve been running from thread to thread. Fifteen years. Twenty… My God, she says, shocked, but the German women cheer her up: You’ll get used to it.

  A Walk

  They don’t work Sundays and are allowed to go into town on a pass. The French POW receives a pass as well, he borrows a civilian jacket, drapes it over the KG sewn on his coat, and they go for a walk.