The Puppet Boy of Warsaw (33 page)

She is glad she is not alone. Grateful for the presence of Danny, her boy. She stretches her hand out towards Mika, then for a moment holds back.

Danny sits flicking through a magazine. He moves in and out of the room like a restless weasel, doesn’t know what to do with himself. He gets his mother cups of coffee, glad to leave the room even for a few minutes, strolls along the corridors, buys himself a Coke from the machine and then another one. He can get away with it today, Mom doesn’t notice.

Despite the sterile environment, Daniel is glad to see Grandpa in the hospital bed, tucked under a clean white sheet. And even if it’s with a machine, at least he’s still breathing. He looks at Mika and for a second he thinks he can see the old man’s eyelids flutter as if they are about to open. In that flutter he remembers the phone call.

‘Mom, I need to go back to the flat to check Grandpa’s answer machine.’

‘Why?’ His mother looks somewhat alarmed. ‘What is it? Can’t it wait?’

‘I completely forgot – when Grandpa woke up in the ambulance he said, “Danny, someone called, check the machine,” just before he slipped away again. He squeezed my hand. It must be important.’

His mother says nothing for a while, then sighs, puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out a few notes.

‘OK, but take a cab and come straight back.’

‘OK.’

Danny takes the money, glances at the old man who lies still, unchanged, then leaves the room.
It will be good to get out of this place
, he thinks,
I hate hospitals
. He takes the lift, goes through the heavy glass doors into the cold and waves down a yellow cab.

‘Where are you off to, then?’ the cab driver asks, smiling at Daniel through the rear-view mirror. Daniel gives him the address, but says nothing else – he is not in the mood for conversation. He slumps into the black leather seat, sighs and watches the snow-changed world pass by. The traffic is slow. Although the streets have mostly been cleared, people are still driving as if the ground were thick with ice: slow, cautious. The driver’s beeping and swearing make Daniel feel edgy.

Finally the cab pulls up in front of the apartment block.

‘Could you wait here? I won’t be long,’ Daniel says, already half out of the cab.

He lets himself in through the main door using the code, then heads for the elevator. He kicks the silver elevator doors that bear a mocking ‘out of service’ sign, then races up the five storeys, sweating and swearing. He hesitates for a moment before putting the key into the lock. Daniel has never had the key before. It was always Grandpa’s.

He rushes straight to the answer machine, which flashes red and nervous like an alarm clock, ‘5’, ‘5’, ‘5’, then presses the playback button. His mother. He skips forward. Mom again, checking in with Grandpa. The third message is about him: ‘Hi, Dad! Can Danny spend Sunday with you? Hope you’re well, call me please!” Sunday seems as long ago as last summer.

Why didn’t Grandpa delete these? Keeps everything, the old man.
Daniel is aware of just how cluttered the place has become since Nan died.
She kept the ship clean, now everything’s a mess. He can’t let go of anything.
A deep female voice with an accent he can’t place startles him. She sounds nervous, anxious even.

‘This is a message for Mikhail Hernstein. My name is Mara Meierhauser. If you were ever known as the Puppet Boy of Warsaw I would love to talk to you. I am in New York at the moment with my puppet troupe, the Black Elk Puppet Theatre. We’re playing at the Triad on 72nd. You can reach me on this number.’ Daniel grabs a pen, takes down the number, then listens again, compares the number, and punches it into the phone. He doesn’t know what he will say if the woman answers.

‘Carmen Hotel, reception. How can I help?’

‘Could you put me through to Mara Meier. . . Meierhauser please?’

‘One moment please.’

Daniel’s heart thumps.

‘She’s out, I’m afraid, sir. Can I take a message?’

‘No thanks, I’ll call again.’

He puts down the receiver, looks at it for a moment as if it is an alien thing. Expects the phone to ring again.

Perhaps I should have left a message. But what would I have said? The ‘Puppet Boy’ is in hospital?
Surprised, Daniel notices a flash of anger stabbing through him. He tears the note with the number from the piece of paper, puts it in his pocket and leaves the apartment. He rushes down the five flights of stairs, taking three steps at a time. He’s flying, feels light headed.

‘Back to the hospital, please.’ Slumped in the cab’s soft seat, Daniel is grateful to have the same driver, who won’t expect him to talk.

Who the hell is this Mara Meierhauser?
He plays the message over and over in his mind, thinking about her name.

The moment the cab goes over a small bump it hits him like a slap in the face: Max Meierhauser, the German soldier. Suddenly it all makes sense. He’s sweating. For the first time in days he feels hot. His heart is racing too.

‘Here we are.’

‘Thanks.’

Daniel pays the driver, gets out and goes through the hospital doors.

When he enters his grandfather’s sickroom a nurse is about to change Mika’s drip. Daniel tries to still his breathing and grabs a chair.

‘Are you all right? Did you find anything on the machine?’ Hannah asks.

‘I’m OK.’ Once the drip is reattached Daniel counts the drops until the nurse leaves. He pulls his chair closer to his mother.

‘It’s crazy, Mom, there’s a message on the machine from a woman who wants to talk to Grandad. Says she’s called Mara Meierhauser. That’s the same surname as the German soldier Grandad gave his prince puppet to. She says she’s in New York with her puppet troupe. I called the number but she wasn’t there.’ The words spill out like a runaway train, he can’t stop. ‘I didn’t tell you this, but Grandad had already collapsed that morning on the way to the museum just after we passed this little theatre on 72nd. Later that day he asked me whether I’d seen a poster – something about a puppeteer in Warsaw. Maybe she’s involved in that show?’

‘Slow down, Danny. You’re sure? How would she even know his number?’ But his mother sounds breathless too. ‘Then again, if he picked up the phone message . . . You know, he never did tell me anything about his life in Poland, his childhood. Nothing. He was a closed book. When did this Mara call?’

‘I don’t know, some time after you called him to ask about Sunday.’

Hannah gets up, paces around the room, looking at her father.

‘Do you think we should call her?’

‘Maybe, but not now, Danny. You’re exhausted. We’ll call again in the morning. I talked to the nurse, there’s a relatives’ room down the corridor with a bed. Why don’t you get a bit of sleep? I’ll stay here.’

Sleep sounds good
, he thinks. He feels so raw it hurts.

He keeps his clothes on but once he is horizontal he is out like a light, the night swallowing him whole.

‘How’s Grandpa?’

Daniel looks tired and dishevelled as he enters Mika’s room. The morning light reaches through the blinds to his grandfather’s bed. He tries to make sense of his dream: hollow trees, broken eggs and a whole troupe of puppets coming to life, first whispering, and then shouting at him. He can’t recall their words. He looks at his watch and frowns.

‘Guess I overslept.’

‘Glad you caught up on some sleep, honey,’ his mother says. ‘No change with Grandad. But I checked out the puppet shows on the Web and there’s one at the Triad,
The Puppet Boy of Warsaw
, with a troupe called the Black Elk Puppet Theatre.’

‘Oh my God, that’s it!’ Danny is wide awake now. ‘Grandpa mentioned the poster when we got back to his apartment. I guess that’s what started everything off. But it all makes sense now. He’d just seen the poster when he collapsed that first time. I should go and check it out.’

‘Guess you should. There’s a matinee at twelve.’

Daniel’s watch says it’s ten past ten. He glances at the puppets lying on the table, picks up the crocodile.

‘I’ll take this one with me. See you later, Mom, wish me luck.’

T
his time he takes the subway. He remembers exiting on 72nd with his grandpa. Was that really only three days ago? Did Grandpa suggest they come up to check out this theatre . . . or did he stumble over the poster by accident?

It is 11.30 when he arrives at the little theatre. He buys a ticket, sits himself on a stool in the foyer bar and orders a Coke. There’s hardly anyone there and he wonders why they even bother.

Just then a group of boisterous schoolkids a bit younger than him spill into the foyer like a torn bag of candy.

Finally the bell rings. He enters the auditorium and chooses a place in the front row. He picks up the booklet on his seat, flicks through it. There’s her name again: Mara Meierhauser. But before he can read further the lights dim and the curtain opens.

The set is a jumble of three-storey houses in all shades of grey leaning over cobbled streets that disappear into the distance. Daniel puts his hand in his pocket, looking for a lozenge, and finds the crocodile. He wonders what he is doing there.

Just then the first puppet appears. Small and a bit worn-looking, it’s wrapped in a dark red robe, a small crown sitting forlorn and lopsided on its head. The puppet sits down on a little chair to the side of the set and starts talking.

‘Good day, ladies and gentlemen,
meine Damen und Herren, mesdames et messieurs
. So, you want to hear my story? The things I’ve seen, the places I’ve been? Well, I am quite old now and much of my glamour has worn off, but I tell you, I’ve had a life. Seen places and things you can’t even imagine. Picked up tales in many twisting tongues – enough to understand your human hearts. Throughout my humble puppet life I’ve been applauded, forgotten, lost and, yes, found again.’ The puppet jumps up and stands on the chair.

‘I was born in a small workshop under the clever hands of a boy called Mika in the Jewish ghetto of Warsaw in the winter of 1940. Mika took his time with me, modelled my papier-mâché head into a princely shape, and painted my face with fine brushes, mixing shades of pink for my two cheeks and for my eyes the colour of the sea on a sunny day. He made my costume, all sparkling with golden seams and shining stones, and a matching crown for my head. I know the colours have faded and I look a bit shabby, but wait until you hear my story.’

Hearing his grandfather’s name, Daniel feels queasy.
She’s got it all wrong. It was Mika’s grandad who made the puppets. Jacob. And she’s missed a crucial thing here, the Germans shot the old man, didn’t they!

‘Mika always wore a black coat, as big as a tent,’ the prince continues.
And you know why? It belonged to his grandad, you moron
. Daniel’s heart is beating fast and hard.

And then he appears, a boy-puppet in a huge, black coat. A Mika puppet, taller than the prince.

‘They call me the Puppet Boy,’ the puppet says. He slowly opens his coat, showing off some smaller puppets that stick their heads out of tiny coat pockets. This is just freaky: Mika the puppet. The puppet speaks with a lower voice than the prince but still with a slight accent. Daniel shivers; it’s the same voice as the woman on the phone – Mara Meierhauser.

The Mika puppet introduces two sisters and a brother, then his mum and dad.
No! That woman has no clue.

‘In November 1940 the Germans built a wall and locked all the Jews of Warsaw into a tiny part of the city, the ghetto,’ the prince announces while a wall is pulled by invisible strings across the stage until it encircles all the houses. More and more puppets appear, crowding together like grapes.

And so Mika’s story unfolds in front of Daniel as told through Mara Meierhauser’s eyes: Mika playing with his puppets on the ghetto streets, in front of soup kitchens and in cellars. Daniel watches as Mika whips a miniature puppet from his coat which talks back at a German soldier before that same soldier – a deep male voice with a strong German accent – grabs Mika by the scruff of his neck and pulls him off stage. The curtain closes.
At least she’s got something right.

When the curtain opens again the stage is transformed into the soldiers’ barracks with long rows of tables, soldier-puppets lying about drunk or hitting their beer jugs against the benches. At first sight they all look the same with their bulging beer guts, red faces and uniforms adorned with hooked crosses, but when Daniel takes a closer look he notices the details: one soldier has a sharp eagle’s nose while another is pale and thin as a pencil. The story twists and turns: the soldiers wreak havoc on the streets, kick, shout and shoot everyone in their way, dragging people to the
Umschlag
and on to the trains.

In Mara’s version Mika hides with his mother and siblings in an attic while his father is rounded up by the soldiers.
Does she not know about Grandpa’s mother and the soldier hiding her?

The show ends with smoke and noise, the ghetto uprising and Mika crawling out of the ruins with his mother and siblings in tow.
Alive. You wish. That would be easy.

The little curtain closes. It’s as quiet in the audience as the morning after the blizzard. No one claps. Seconds later three performers step out from behind the set and the spell is broken. Two women – one tall, blonde, the other dark haired with glasses – with a man between them. They hold hands and bow. All are dressed in black: black trousers, black turtlenecks, and black shoes. Then applause falls like hard rain. The three puppeteers smile, bow again and gesture towards the puppets and the technician at the back. The dark-haired woman holds the prince, bows with him and steps forward.

‘Thank you. Please come and meet us in the foyer, we’re happy to answer any questions.’ Daniel wonders which of the two is Mara. He isn’t so sure about the voice any more. His heart hasn’t stopped beating fast all the way through the play and now, with the lights on, and the puppeteers so close by, his heart is in his throat.

He waits, is the last to leave the small auditorium. The children have spread out in the foyer, chatting and giggling. Daniel puts on his jacket, sits down at a small table and nibbles away at the stale peanuts.
This is too weird, Grandpa’s in hospital and this woman is putting on a puppet show about his life without even knowing half of it.