The Puppet Boy of Warsaw (8 page)

Over time, I got more and more invitations to put on shows, and one day, nine months after my last outing with Grandfather to Leszno Street, a note came through the door from the very same puppet theatre where I had seen my first show. I ran straight into the kitchen.

‘Ellie, they want us to play at the puppet theatre. I can’t believe it. It’s such a sweet little place. I’d love you to help me.’ For a moment I forgot my usual shyness around her. I took both her hands and pulled her out of her damn chair. She looked at me, her eyes so beautiful, and I hugged her.

‘Wait, Mika! What’s all this?’

I took a deep breath and told her about the day I had spent with Grandfather on Leszno Street: the café, the theatre, the puppets.

‘All right, I’ll come with you. You’re right. I can’t stay in this chair for ever.’ She smiled – the first time I’d seen her smile since Paul’s death.

‘Let’s get going, then.’

That was the thing with Ellie: it was all or nothing. If she was happy, she burned bright as fire and her enthusiasm lit up everyone around her.

We spent that afternoon back in the workshop. Ellie picked up the princess, slipped her hand underneath its dress, and with the other removed a little crown from the puppet’s head. She picked up a miniature brush and swung it like a sword.

‘Why don’t we do Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves?’

I suspected this was a tale from her thick book.

‘What’s it about? I don’t know the story.’

‘Well, it’s the story of Ali Baba, who is rescued from forty bloodthirsty thieves by one woman and one woman alone. Not once, but many times, until in the end all the thieves end up being slaughtered. A small, outnumbered group wins against an army of thieves. I think our people could do with a tale like this, don’t you think?’

She made the puppet wave the brush as if doing battle. I had to admit it sounded like a great idea. We couldn’t make forty papier-mâché thieves, only a few new ones, some wearing soldier’s uniforms complete with the hated hooked cross. Risky, but then, what wasn’t nowadays?

That evening I played for Grandfather. I ached to see him in the seats when we came out to take a bow. My only comfort was Ellie by my side, back on board with the puppets and our shows. Everyone had laughed and clapped when the thieves lay slain in pieces and the play was a big success.

I visited the orphanage as much as I could, performing short puppet shows for the children in the sickroom, for a birthday girl or boy, or as a late afternoon entertainment on the marble staircase. Hannah always assisted me, twisting my story plots or practising funny voices, and when I peered at her, no matter what horrors I might have witnessed on the way to the orphanage, she always made my heart tingle. She had become like a little sister to me.

I also got to know Janusz better and, despite the terrible times, he always had something exciting to tell me. He loved music, and often his records rose from his old gramophone and filled the house.

One day he took me to one side.

‘Mika, you need to hear more music. They may have locked us up in this stinking place, but look at us, we still have symphony orchestras in the ghetto, playing all this grand music, choirs, plays, even a cabaret.’ I told Janusz about the afternoon with Grandfather in Leszno Street, the puppet show that so charmed us.

‘Ah, yes, I’ve heard about the little theatre. You know, Mika, all these musicians, actors and singers can still touch our hearts, even in such terrible times. It’s as important as bread and firewood. I often think of what the poet Leopold Staff said, “More than bread, poetry is necessary at times when there’s no need for it at all . . .” I know it’s difficult to remember that when we’re hungry all the time, but let’s not forget the power of music, and your puppets.’

‘Yes, but we can’t eat music, or the puppets. What use are they in the big picture?’

He looked at me with piercing eyes but gently put his warm hand on my shoulder.

‘My dear boy, if people like you didn’t exist, the Germans would already have won, destroyed us in the places that matter.’ He pointed to his chest, his heart. ‘They would have numbed our hearts, killed our spirit, taken our souls. Your puppets carry a spark and light that keeps us warm. This is precious, Mika. It’s all we can do at the moment.’

‘But, Janusz,’ although no one could overhear us I still lowered my voice, ‘there are people out there risking their lives, fighting with guns not puppets, really making a difference.’

He pulled me close and put a finger on my mouth. His eyes darkened.

‘Yes, my dear, but I don’t want you to be one of them. I need you here. People disappear every day. Snatched then spat out as bloody pulp after the Gestapo has interrogated them. I don’t want to hear anything like that about you. And here . . .’ He moved over to a small desk and rummaged in one of the drawers. ‘I want you to go and see this concert tomorrow afternoon. A dear friend gave me two tickets, but I cannot leave the children.’

He handed me the tickets. They were properly printed on pink card.

‘It’s a Mozart concerto. I don’t know if this is something you will enjoy, but I think there’s nothing quite as moving and rousing as his music. It’s bigger than all of this.’ With a stroke of his arm he drew a large semicircle in the air.

‘No, yes, I’d like to go, thank you very much. Are you sure?’ His gift made me feel shy.

‘Yes, absolutely, and why don’t you take your lovely friend?’ He winked at me.

I had told him about Ellie and yes, it would be like a date. I quickly got up, put on my coat and made my way towards the large door. As usual, leaving the children felt like trying to part the Red Sea.

Little did I know when I tucked the tickets into a pocket, a small one inside the seam reserved for important papers, that this afternoon would change everything for me.

It was 14 October 1941. I would never make it to the concert.

I
t happened on Ciepla Street. Deep in thought about how best to surprise Ellie, I turned a corner then stopped dead in my tracks. Two Polish policemen and a Wehrmacht soldier were pointing at an elderly woman holding a large wicker basket.

‘
Stehenbleiben!
Stop!’ The woman froze.

‘So, what’s in your basket, woman?’ one of the policemen sneered in Polish.

The basket looked heavy and the woman was wrapped in a dark coat which hung over her thin body like a tent. Terror flashed across her face – a panicked animal looking for escape. All of a sudden, I heard the doctor’s rational, calming voice.

‘But gentlemen, time is marching on and surely this fine woman is only making her way home before curfew to cook some supper.’

Everyone – the policemen, the soldier, the woman and myself – stood as if they’d been hit by a strange missile and all eyes were on the doctor, and on me.

The day before, I had bent some wire into a nice pair of glasses and fixed them to the doctor’s little puppet face. The glasses gave him a reassuring air of authority and I had proudly presented him to Ellie. Now here he was, making polite conversation with the very people who had killed my grandfather as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘What is this?’ the soldier barked. But the doctor didn’t seem intimidated. He had not seen my grandfather fall, and kept his professional demeanour.

‘May I introduce myself. My name is Doctor Shiverwick and I can cure just about anything with my medicines. Would you like to take a look at my bag too?’ A pause followed – I swear I could hear my heart thump, skip a beat, then another. The soldier’s face changed. Like the unpredictable weather of spring, it moved and twitched, uncertain which way to go. His eyes were a bluish grey, large with surprise, and a small dark blond strand of hair spilled out from under the metal helmet. Soft features: a small nose and mouth, and very pale, milky skin. Suddenly in my mind’s eye his complexion turned an alarming red. Would he rip me to pieces right there and then? My nightmares of the devouring soldier-rats appeared before me. Sweat gathered between my shoulder blades and I felt dizzy as if I were on the merry-go-round on Krasinski Square that I could never ride without feeling sick for hours afterwards. I thought I would pass out any minute.

Then I heard a strange noise, and when I looked, the soldier’s mouth had morphed into a kind of grimace and a hacking sound tumbled from his lips. The soldier was laughing.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the old woman seize the moment and start to walk in the opposite direction, clutching her basket to her chest. The doctor and I bowed. My legs were shaking and I felt very weak and alone.

‘Boy, come here,
wie heißt du
? What is your name?’ The two Polish policemen stared at the soldier, as did I.

‘Mika,’ I replied. My voice sounded strange, too high and shrill.

‘Now that is what I call a surprise. Do you have more of those up your sleeve?’ The soldier pointed to Dr Shiverwick, who was still stuck on my hand.

‘More puppets? Yes. Some.’

‘Well, you’d better come with me, then. I want to see the whole show.’

‘But—’

He cut me off and took a step towards me. ‘There is no but.
Komm
, follow me.’

He grabbed my sleeve and pulled me along. Dear God! My heart was pounding, sweat trickled in streams down my back, despite the late afternoon cold. Was this a trick, a terrible joke? Would this be my last walk? His hand gripped my coat, dragging me along Nowolipie Street as if I too were a puppet, a marionette pulled by invisible strings.

We reached the Nalewki gate, where heavily armed soldiers guarded the checkpoint iron gates covered with thick barbed wire. I never came here. We had heard far too many terrible stories – of soldiers waiting for the ghetto kids to crawl back through the holes in the wall after a day’s begging on the Aryan side, shooting them like sparrows, then laughing and slapping each other’s backs with every fallen child. They never bothered to take away the bodies. The children lay there, dead or injured, until the soldiers grew tired of their games. Then, under the protection of night, their loved ones would gather the children in their arms and take them home – not without risking their own lives. If you were found on the street after curfew, the soldiers would shoot you like a stray dog.

‘He’s with me.’ The soldier pointed casually at me. I felt light-headed, my legs like jelly. We passed through the gate as though it were the most natural thing.

And then I was walking on the Aryan side, a German soldier next to me, so close I could smell him. I remembered everything here. These were the streets of my childhood. I had grown up only a few blocks away, and it was not even a year since they had sealed the ghetto, although it felt like a lifetime. The streets were so much quieter here, and so clean. Where were all the people? But of course, this is how it used to be, before the stench of the ghetto. Before we had to wade through crowds like muddy water; people pushing and shuffling, rickshaws, wagons, horses, everyone stumbling over one another, trying to avoid trampling on those left dying or dead on the ground.

Here, a different world existed, a world I had forgotten and that had forgotten us. How could this be? People promenaded at a leisurely pace, dressed in clothes I didn’t even remember, so tidy and clean. And what about Bolek and Henryk, my old school friends? Did they still sit behind their desks, bored, yawning, playing the same old games in the afternoon? These people were getting on with their lives, business as usual, while we barely survived. Did my friends ever think of me? My chest hurt, I found it hard to breathe.

Splashes of colour sprang up everywhere: vegetables of all kinds were still on sale here, displayed on nicely decorated stalls, and there were even flowers. I wished I could grab a bunch and bring one home for Mother and a special one for Ellie. I’d forgotten crimson, orange and purple, except for the puppets and the occasional flower that would pop up in my mother’s window box.

The overwhelming colour in the ghetto was grey, all shades of it: ash-grey, rain-grey, mouse-grey, bone-grey – these were our choices. Bright colours were a feast for the eyes, but they were not for us any more, not for us Jews. More than the clean streets and people, these colours that existed so close, right on the other side of the wall, made me ache.

Ah, and here I recognised the bakery where Grandfather and I used to buy our bread: soft, large loaves or perfectly formed white rolls dotted with raisins. Cinnamon whirls too. I swear, I could smell freshly baked bread, but when I looked up, the bakery stood abandoned and boarded up, its façade crossed out with big, rough boards. Its owner, like us, had been forced to leave his shop and move into the ghetto. Was he still alive? Did his profession save him from our painful breadlessness? I had never seen him in the ghetto.

I trudged along as if in a hazy dream, putting one foot in front of another. Surely I would wake up at any minute, emerge like a diver from deep water and take a huge, sobering breath. I could still hear my heart thudding. All of a sudden I felt Grandfather walking next to me. I felt him as clearly as the coat wrapped around me. I kept my gaze on the ground, but there it was: a clear sense of Grandfather’s warm presence. I soaked it up like sunshine after a long winter. The pavements looked so different; there were no beggars, no dirt, no contorted broken bodies, only old cobbled stones, polished by centuries of strolling feet.

But the shoes. My stomach contracted like a fist. The shoes didn’t match. Instead of my grandfather’s soft brown leather shoes with their creases and dark laces, there were knee-high boots, polished to a shine, black as a moonless night.

‘
Komm, schon Junge
.’ The soldier’s sharp voice snapped me out of my trance. Grandfather disappeared. Suddenly I felt colder and more alone than I had on the day they shot him.

The soldier led me around a corner towards a large building. It used to be a school for boys, but as we drew closer I saw the hated German flag, a black swastika on a white and red background, flying from the top of the building, confident, as if it had been planted there for many years. I shivered. We were heading straight into the lion’s mouth.