The Puppet Boy of Warsaw (10 page)

They wanted me back the following week, a little entertainment after all their hard work in the ghetto. The soldiers’ and officers’ posturing and laughter made me sick. I had seen them ram guns into women’s bellies, spit at an old man, shoot people like my grandfather on the spot for absolutely no reason. And here were these same monsters enjoying themselves without a care in the world, entertained by me.

Yes, I had put on the show to survive, but wasn’t I betraying my own people? I felt disgusted with myself and the puppets, which were contaminated and compromised just as I was. What would Grandfather have thought of me now? And of his puppets? I couldn’t bear thinking about him. Shame crawled over me like an army of ants.

That first night outside the barracks, before he took me back to the ghetto, Max pulled me close and stared straight into my face. My stomach heaved from his breath, a mixture of beer and cigarettes.

‘Don’t tell anyone where you’ve been, understand? I will collect you again next week at the same time at the
Wache
. Wait for me and I’ll bring you back here, understood?’

I couldn’t move. I had used up all my energy and courage. All that remained was a shell, gutted, dirty, washed out. Any moment now I would simply collapse, a lifeless puppet myself.

‘
Verstanden?
’ His sharp voice jolted me back and, like a marionette lifted by its strings, my whole body became rigid and stiff.

‘Yes, yes, understood. Next week. Here.’

‘Good boy.’ With this he reached into his uniform, pulled out a loaf of rye bread and thrust it into my hands.

‘
Komm jetzt
, I’ll take you back.’

As he led me back to the
Wache
, we did not speak and I kept my eyes on the cobbled streets of a Warsaw lost to me. On the Aryan side the stones still reflected the moonlight, while in the ghetto they were crusted over with layers of dirt and misery.

We reached the gates and Max exchanged a few words with the guards.

‘
Na, komm schon, Junge, los
.’ The guards opened the gate and pointed with their guns in the direction of the ghetto. I took a few steps and crossed over, not looking back. I took a deep breath. How could returning to prison feel like a relief? Yet that night it did.

It was nearing midnight, many hours into the curfew. If the soldiers caught me here they would shoot me so I raced back. More than the prospect of being killed, I was worried about Mother. She would be out of her wits with anguish. And how right I was – the moment I entered the apartment her fists pounded down on me. Right there in the hallway, for everyone to hear. She must have been waiting for me there all night, out in the cold corridor. I had never seen her so distressed, hitting me like a fury, sobbing all the while. I took the blows gladly, they balanced out some of the hatred I felt for myself, but soon her blows weakened and she pulled me close.

‘I thought I’d lost you, Mika. Don’t ever do that to me again, you hear me? You smell awful, I can smell beer and cigarettes. Where’ve you been? I’m worrying myself senseless and you’ve been out drinking?’

‘I’m sorry, Mama, please don’t ask me. I’m fine. Here’s some bread.’

She looked at the bread in her hands with a mixture of disgust and hunger – it was good-quality bread, even I could see that, not like the flimsy watered-down variety we got in the ghetto. I saw that she instinctively understood I had earned it with more than just puppetry.

‘Where have you been, Mika? Please tell me. I am your mother!’ Her gaze pierced me but her voice had grown softer. I stayed silent.

She placed the bread on a small table in the corridor. It sat between us like a silent, knowing witness. Then she simply left for the only room in which she could have some privacy, the bedroom. And even that she had to share with me.

That night I stayed in the workshop. I spread my coat in the corner and made myself as comfortable as I could. I was chilled to the bone, unable to sleep as the day’s events replayed themselves in front of my eyes over and over again like an unstoppable turntable. Towards morning I must have fallen asleep, because then came nightmares more vivid than ever. The rats were everywhere.

I woke hungry yet I didn’t eat all the following day. And only at the end of the week, when we had run out of all other things, did my mother cut that bread.

Would I really go back to those beasts as the soldier had commanded? But what choice did I have? Many people in the ghetto had seen my shows by now and, even if I tried to hide, the soldiers could find me if they wanted to. They’d kill me there and then, take me to the Pawiak at least, if not Mother, Ellie and Cara as well. I couldn’t risk it.

With Ellie, my secret didn’t last long. The morning after my forced performance, she cornered me.

‘What’s the matter with you, Mika? You look awful,’ she said.

‘Nothing, I’m fine.’ Even to my own ears I didn’t sound convincing.

‘You’re a lousy liar. You look miserable, pale, there are dark rings under your eyes. And you smell. You’re different, changed. Please talk to me.’

‘Wake up, look around you, we’re all changing, everything has changed.’ My words jumped out like spitting arrows. I was surprised at my sharpness, yet I meant to hurt her, needed to push her away.

But Ellie persisted.

‘Come on, Mika, I’m your friend. Don’t you trust me? What is going on?’

‘This is not about trust, Ellie, leave me alone. I just need to be on my own.’

This time she looked hurt.

‘Fine, but don’t ask me ever again to help you with your precious puppets.’ She stormed out of the room. I stood like a dog that had been drenched with cold water.

I really cared about Ellie. I often found myself looking at her: longing to pull the band from her ponytail, let it glide through my fingers; wondering how a real kiss would feel. What it would taste like.

Now even our adventures in the workshop were over.

That morning I realised Ellie was the first girl I had ever really wanted. I desired her with all of my fifteen-year-old desperate self, here in this overcrowded apartment, on that gloomy morning. In the middle of the ghetto’s misery. And I had never felt as lonely and so in need of her company and comfort as now. Suddenly I heard a loud, ugly laugh inside my head and a chilling voice saying, ‘Well done, boy, you sent the slut away.’

This is what had become of me, a Nazi entertainer, a coward who saw rats and heard voices. I grabbed my coat and left the house, wandering the streets aimlessly all day.

For a few days Ellie and I didn’t speak. Then one evening she found me in the kitchen on my own. I sat at the table, staring into a cup of cold, thin tea saying nothing. She pulled up a chair, leaned forward and before I could draw another breath, she took my face in her hands. How delicate her hands were; slender, warm and soft. At that moment, I could have placed my whole being in those hands. As if her hands had melted the icecap that had settled over me, everything gushed out.

‘I’m so sorry, Ellie. I had to play for them. They took me to the other side and I had to entertain them. He said not to tell anyone.’

It was the first time she had seen me cry. She did not remove her hands.

‘Slow down, who are they, and who is he?’

‘The soldiers, the German officers, Max.’

‘Who is Max?’ I couldn’t believe how kind she was, looking straight at me, without fear. Such beautiful eyes.

‘He saw me in the street – a German soldier. I couldn’t help it. They’d stopped an old woman and then the doctor spoke up.’

‘The doctor?’

‘Yes, the puppet. I just didn’t think. Then the worst thing happened, the soldier liked it. He took me to the other side, into our old neighbourhood, to one of their barracks. You should see how it looks over there. So normal. The streets are empty and clean as if they polish the roads each day.’

Ellie put her arm around my shoulder. Her embrace was like a bridge between my lonely secret and her gentle presence.

‘I had to put on two shows for them and now I have to go back again. Ellie, there were so many of them, even SS officers. And they forced all this beer down my throat.’

For a while she simply sat and took it all in while I soaked up her kindness. I really think there and then, that very evening, I fell slowly but surely in love with her.

‘It sounds awful. You’ve been so brave, Mika. Please don’t be hard on yourself. It reminds me of what you told me about your grandfather, when he stood up for that young girl. He wasn’t as lucky as you. You’re still alive.’

I didn’t know what to say. Could I really think of myself in the same way as Grandfather? But her kind words stopped my tears.

‘Will you help me again in the workshop, then? You don’t think I am an awful traitor?’

‘Don’t be silly. There’s nothing else you could have done. And yes, let’s think up a new play. By the way, I want to show you something.’

And there, in the dim light of the workshop, Ellie showed me how she had put together two simple puppets using things she had found around the flat and on the streets: a few pieces of wood, a bottle top, some wire and pieces of fabric. Two new puppets greeted me.

With the approach of the following week my heart sank. I hated those soldiers and officers with a passion I had not known before. To be their entertainer made me despise myself. What kind of new play could I make up? Mix in stories from the ghetto and appeal to their hearts? I laughed out loud, catching my thoughts. What hearts? From everything I had seen since they herded us into the ghetto I could never match the word ‘German’ with ‘heart’.

The terror of their daily presence surrounded us everywhere. Like random bullets, their brutality could cost you your life any time, just like that. One minute you might be roaming along Leszno or any other street, the next you’re dead. And the daily humiliations: soldiers hacking away at the beards of our old men and rabbis with blunt scissors, forcing an audience to egg them on, kicking and spitting into the rabbis’ faces, laughing all the while.

Just the week before, I had witnessed the soldiers making people dance barefoot in the streets at gunpoint until they broke down from exhaustion or humiliation; a mother holding her baby, a few men and two old women. In the end, they simply turned and shot the violinist who had been forced to accompany the dance.

Once I saw something that left me shaken for days. I was ambling along the road when a boy of about fourteen turned the corner into our street. He kept his head down so as not to attract any attention, but I could see he was carrying something under his coat. It wasn’t obvious, but if like me you have an eye for coats and what they might hide, you would notice.

Two soldiers approached from the opposite direction. The taller of the two stopped the boy in his tracks, towering over him like a mean shadow – they were trained to notice anything suspicious.

‘
Aufmachen
, open up,
was hast Du da untem Mantel
?’ the soldier barked.

The boy looked up, pale as the moon. Very slowly he opened his coat, button after button. The soldier stepped forward, grabbed the coat and ripped it open. Three buttons rolled into the road.

And there they were: two lovely, round loaves of bread. The soldier grabbed the bread and threw it on the ground, then trampled the precious load with his heavy boots until it was crushed to pieces.

‘
Aufheben
, pick it up,’ the soldier shouted.

‘Please. The bread is for my mother. She is sick,’ the boy pleaded, his voice quiet and thin. Slowly he picked up some large fragments of what only a moment before had been perfectly shaped loaves.

‘Open your mouth.’

The boy hesitated.

‘Open your goddam mouth.’

The boy’s mouth quivered, but slowly he opened it.

The soldier grabbed some large chunks and stuffed them violently into the boy’s mouth, one after another.

‘There, eat that.’

The boy coughed and writhed and his face went a dark red. I could see he was struggling to breathe, choking on the bread. I worried that the soldier wouldn’t stop. But then the soldier gave a harsh cackle, threw the last bits of bread at the boy and moved on. The boy stood motionless for a while, then scrambled to collect the last pieces of bread from the pavement before scurrying away. I wished I had intervened, but the puppets and I remained quiet. Maybe we wouldn’t have been so lucky this time.

And these were not even the worst incidents. I heard about another boy who was shot outright for smuggling a single loaf. And so many smugglers, often children no older that six, risked their lives every day, squeezing in and out through tiny cracks and holes in the ghetto wall. No one would have survived in the ghetto without their bravery, and yet so many were killed.

Finally the dreaded day arrived and Max met me at the
Wache
. I stood with my hands deep in my pockets, clenching them into hard fists when I saw him approach. Maybe he had been there when they shot Grandfather? The rats all looked the same to me in their uniforms – how much blood did he have on his hands?

‘So,
Bursche
, I hope you have something new?’ He looked down at me; I couldn’t make out his expression.

‘Yes.’ I had decided I would only ever say the absolute minimum. What did this soldier want from me? Was it not enough to take our city, lock us in the ghetto? Yet here I was, being singled out for special treatment. What would be the next thing he would ask of me? I shot him a look that could have killed, but Max didn’t notice. He didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood either so we didn’t speak until we arrived at the barracks.

Here the same spiel was repeated: a short play for all the soldiers and then, when the officers and SS joined us, a longer and wilder Punch and Judy-style show. After they had had their fun, forcing beer down my throat, Max took me back to the
Wache
.

‘You’re good. Funny. Here, this is for you.’ As before, he handed me a loaf of bread. A thin smile crossed his lips.

‘How old are you, boy?’

‘Thirteen,’ I lied. It was none of his business.

‘I have a son, Karl. He is twelve.’ Why was he telling me this? I didn’t care. I moved swiftly through the gate and did not turn back.