The Zookeeper’s Wife (20 page)

I was deadly tired and hungry, but I was too afraid to get closer to the buildings. . .. I couldn't find my husband and very slowly, using side roads, I went to Lublin. After two days I decided to go back to Warsaw. I traveled with blue collar workers and reached the Old City by early morning. My cousin, the wife of a Pole, was hiding with a Mrs. Kowalska. I went there and was welcomed as a ghost from the other world, I got food, took a bath and went to bed. After a few days, when I was on my feet again, they gave me clothes and I went to Miodowa Street #1, to Janina Buchholtz of Zegota. There I got documents and money. Later my cousin's husband found a room for me at Chłodna Street in a Polish policeman's apartment. I can only speak about all these people who helped me with the highest admiration and affection.

When the policeman's apartment grew unsafe, Janina brought her to the zoo, where, officially, she served as Antonina's tailor who repaired clothes and later, when Antonina was pregnant, sewed diapers and baby clothes. Tall and Aryan-looking with a short snub nose, she might have passed easily, but knew little Polish, so in public she pretended to be mute, or sometimes Estonian, as her false papers declared. Feigning mutism, she joined a cadre of other heavily accented people floating around the city, silenced by the unspeakable.

S
OON AFTER THE BLUEBELLS FADED IN SPRING, WILD GARLIC
clusters grew in the damp shade of old trees, with tiny white flowers oozing a sweet vapor that poured through open windows at dusk, their leaves towering over two feet high in a scramble for light. Some farmers grazed sheep in garlic groves to scent the meat, and others cursed if their cows wandered in by mistake and browsed garlic, tainting the milk. Locals used wild garlic in rejuvenative potions and poultices to lower a high fever, warm fading ardor, dry acne, tune the heart, or ease whooping cough. They bruised the bulbs for cooking, and simmered a wild garlic soup.

"The zoo became immersed in a warm May night," Antonina wrote, sketching the scene in her diary: "Trees and shrubs, house and terrace were flooded by pale aquamarine, a cool and impassive moonlight. Branches of the lilac bushes bent low with heavy, faded clusters of flowers. The sharp, geometric outlines of sidewalks were highlighted by long black shadows. Nightingales sang their spring songs over and over, intoxicated by their own voices."

The villa-ites sat listening to Fox Man's piano concert, losing time and reality in a world lit by candle shadows and the constellations of notes hovering in darkness. "The silent romantic night swelled with the impetuous chords of Chopin's Etude in C Minor. The music spoke to us of sorrow, fear, and terror, as it floated around the room and through an open window," Antonina recalled.

Suddenly she heard a soft uncanny rustling coming from the bed of tall hollyhocks beside the window, a noise she alone seemed to decode between notes. When an owl screeched, warning something or someone away from its nest of fledglings, Antonina read the sign and discreetly told Jan, who went outside to investigate. Reappearing in the doorway, he gestured for her to join him.

"I need the key to the Pheasant House," he whispered. As housewife, she kept the keys, and there were many: some to doors at the villa, others to zoo buildings, still others to doors that once existed, and some that served no memorable purpose but nonetheless couldn't be tossed out. This key would have come easily to hand because they used it often—unlocking the Pheasant House usually meant a new Guest.

Silently questioning with her eyes, Antonina gave Jan the key, and together they went outside, where they caught sight of two boys diving for cover behind some bushes. Jan whispered that these members of the Underground's sabotage wing had set fire to German gas tanks and urgently needed to lie low. They'd been told to run for the zoo, and, unbeknownst to Antonina, Jan had been expecting them all evening with mounting worry. Recognizing their hosts, the boys suddenly stepped into view.

"For several hours we hid in the bushes next to the house, because we could hear German language being spoken," one said.

Jan explained that the lovely weather appealed to military policemen who visited the zoo for long walks, and several had left only about twenty minutes earlier. With the coast clear now, they needed to hurry inside the Pheasant House. Because pheasants were delicacies, a Pheasant House sounded quite grand to the boys, and one teased: "We'll pretend we're a rare species, right, Mr. Lieutenant?"

"It's nothing special!" Jan warned him. "Not luxurious quarters by a long shot. Only rabbits live in the building now. It's located close to our house, where we can keep an eye on you and bring you food. But I must remind you: from daybreak on you have to practice the silence of the tomb!" He said sternly: "Don't talk or smoke. I don't want to hear any noise coming from there! Is that understood?"

"Understood, sir!" they said.

Silence reigned, the jacket of silence one sometimes finds on a still, moonless night. The only sound Antonina heard was a key clicking in a lock hidden beneath the wild vines on the Pheasant House.

The next morning, when Ryś took Wicek into the garden and strolled toward the aviary, Antonina watched him pause to pet Wicek's long ears and say:

"Be ready now, you old horse! We're going to the Pheasant House! So, remember: Be very quiet!" He raised a shushing finger to his lips. Together they made their way to the small wooden building, with Wicek at Ryś's heel.

Inside, Ryś found two boys sleeping on beds of hay, surrounded by rabbits of all sizes, which, like trolls, were busily watching and sniffing at the sleeping humans. Ryś locked the door behind him, quietly set a basket of milkweed on the floor, and tossed around handfuls of the pods and stems for the rabbits to eat. Then he took out a pot of milk with noodles in it, a big chunk of bread, and two spoons.

Studying them as they slept was irresistible for a boy curious about animals and humans, so he edged his face close to theirs and considered how best to wake them, since he wasn't supposed to stomp, clap, or yell. Squatting, he tugged one boy's sleeve, which didn't stir the exhausted sleeper, then he tugged harder and harder, and still the boy slept. Since the hands-on technique didn't work, he tried something subtler: filling his lungs with air, he puffed at the boy's face until at last he lifted his hand to swat an imaginary insect and his eyes finally opened.

Half conscious and startled, the boy looked panicky, and Ryś decided it might be time to introduce himself, so, leaning even closer, he whispered:

"I am Ryś!"

"Pleased to meet you," the boy whispered back, then added emphatically: "I am
Pheasant
!"

This was an understandable confusion, inasmuch as Ryś is the word for lynx and people hiding at the zoo were given the name of the animal that once lived in their hiding place.

"Yes, but I'm telling the truth," Ryś insisted, "I really
am
Ryś, it's not a joke. I mean Ryś the boy, not Ryś with little crests on its ears and a fox terrier's tail!"

"Yes, I see that," the boy said. "I'm only a pheasant today. Anyway, if you were a real lynx and I had feathers, you'd be eating me by now, right?"

"Maybe not," Ryś said seriously. "Please don't joke. . .. I brought you breakfast and a pencil, and—" Suddenly they heard footsteps on a sidewalk nearby and at least two German voices. Ryś and the boy sat twig-still.

After the voices had passed, Ryś said: "Maybe they're only people heading for their garden plots." The second conspirator woke up, stretched, and massaged his stiff, cramped legs as his comrade showed him the bowl with soup and handed him a spoon. Still squatting, Ryś watched them eat, waiting until they were finished, then said quietly: "Goodbye. Don't get bored. I'll bring you dinner and something to read. . .. You'll get some daylight through the little skylight window."

As he left, Ryś heard one boy say to the other, "Nice kid, isn't he? And it's so funny having a lynx guard the pheasants. It would make a good fairy tale, wouldn't it?"

Ryś returned to the villa and told Antonina all about his adventures with the boys, who hid in the Pheasant House for three weeks while Ryś tended them as his charges, until the Germans gave up searching, new documents were forged, and another hiding place secured. One morning Ryś found nothing but rabbits in the Pheasant House and realized the boys had moved on, which he took personally, as friends abandoning him.

"Mom, where
are
they?" he asked. "Why did they leave? Didn't they like being here?"

She explained that they had to leave, that war wasn't a game, and that other Guests would arrive to fill the void they left.

"You can still take care of your animals," she said, trying to comfort him.

"I prefer
pheasants
," he whined. "Don't you understand—it was different! They even called me 'friend,' and they didn't think of me as a little boy, but as their guardian."

Antonina caressed his blond hair. "You're right," she said, "this time you were a big boy, and you helped in a very important way. You do understand that it's a secret and you mustn't tell anybody about it, right?"

She saw anger jump in his eyes. "I know that better than you do!" he snapped. "These things aren't for
women
," he said contemptuously, then whistled for Wicek. All she could do was watch sadly as the two disappeared into the bushes, knowing Ryś had to cope with yet another abandonment and another secret he could never tell. "If I maintain my silence about my secret it is my prisoner," Gdańsk-born philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer wrote in an earlier era, but "if I let it slip from my tongue, I am
its
prisoner." Recording the day's events in her journal allowed Antonina to juggle secret-keeping and secret-telling—one substance, like water, that merely assumed different shapes.

1943

D
URING SUMMER, THE BLACK FLY'S MARDI GRAS, CLOUDS
of insects tormented the zoo as usual and anyone abroad at sunset wore long sleeves and pants, despite the heat. Inside the villa, Wicek the rabbit, on the prowl for something edible, heard a squeaky noise and hopped toward the kitchen, where he found Kuba the chick eating. During dinner, Kuba sometimes roamed the table, pecking up crumbs, with Wicek watching from a distance until, in one broad leap, he would suddenly appear next to a chunk of bread or a bowl of potatoes and start gobbling, to the fright of the chick and the great amusement of the humans.

Whenever Ryś lay awake after curfew, waiting for his father to return home, rabbit and chick perched on the edge of his comforter and sat vigil with him. According to Antonina, at the sound of the doorbell all three would grow excited and listen for Jan's footsteps on the hall stairs, which echoed hollowly, because the wooden staircase floated right above steps leading from the kitchen to the basement, and the space resounded like a muffled drum.

Ryś would search his father's face for exhaustion or worry, and sometimes Jan's chilly hands unwrapped food he'd bought with food stamps, or he returned with an exciting story, or pulled another animal from his magic backpack. After Ryś fell asleep, Jan would quietly head downstairs as the rabbit hopped off the bed, the chick slid down the comforter, and both animals followed him to the dining room table for his evening meal. According to Antonina, the rabbit inevitably jumped onto Jan's lap and the chick crawled onto Jan's arm, then climbed to his neck, where he curled up in the jacket collar and slept; and even when Antonina removed Jan's dishes and replaced them with papers and books, the animals refused to leave the warmth of lap and collar.

WARSAW ENDURED A BRUTALLY
cold winter in 1943. Ryś caught a bad chest cold that sharpened into pneumonia, and he remained in hospital for several weeks, recovering without the punch of heavyweight antibiotics. Penicillin wasn't discovered until 1939, in war-bound Britain, which couldn't spare scientists to hunt the most fecund mold for human trials. But on July 9, 1941, Howard Florey and Norman Heatley flew to the United States on a plane with blacked-out windows, bearing a small priceless box of penicillin, and joined a lab in Peoria, Illinois, where they studied luxuriant molds from all over the world, only to discover that a strain of penicillin from a moldy cantaloupe in a Peoria market, when submerged in a deep vat and allowed to ferment, yielded ten times as much penicillin as competing molds. The requisite trials finally proved the drug's value as the best antibacterial agent of its day, but wounded soldiers didn't start receiving it until D-Day (June 6, 1944), and civilians and animals not until the end of the war.

When Ryś finally returned home, ice and snow had already started melting from the spring garden, and he could help weed, delve, and plant, with Wicek (whose fur had changed from black to silver gray in winter) hopping beside him, stride for stride like a well-trained dog. The nearly fledged chick pecked at the freshly turned soil, pulling up fat pink worms, and Antonina noted that the
real
chickens, the ones roosting in the chicken house, treated Kuba like an outsider, pecking him fiercely. However, Wicek allowed the chick to climb onto his back and nest deep, and she often saw them hopping around the garden together, rider and steed.

Before the war, the zoo had undulated from one landscape to another—mountains, valleys, ponds, lakes, pools, and woods—depending on the needs of its animals and Jan's fancy as zoo director. But now that the zoo fell under the Warsaw Parks and Gardens Department, Jan answered to a bureaucrat who envisioned one continuous pullulation of green, with every woodlet, hedge, or obelisk echoing the others, according to his design. For that he needed Praski Park and, especially, the zoo's large lawns and arboretum.

In the spring, Director Müller of the Königsberg Zoo, hearing that the Warsaw Zoo had been destroyed, offered to buy all the usable cages. His zoo, though considerably smaller than Jan's, nestled in a fortress city founded by Teutonic knights and thought to be impregnable. Late in the war, Churchill would target Königsberg for one of the RAF's controversial "terror raids," ultimately destroying most of the city (zoo included), which finally surrendered to the Red Army on April 9, 1945, when it became known as Kaliningrad.

But in 1943, as self-crowned "Father of Warsaw," Danglu Leist, the German president, didn't want his city to be out-shone by a smaller one, and he decided Warsaw should have its zoo once more. Antonina described Jan as "ecstatic" when Leist invited him to submit a budget for a reborn zoo, remarking that even with the zoo animals gone, the buildings destroyed, the equipment dilapidated, the zoo still prospered in Jan's heart and imaginings. At last, "phoenix-like," she thought, the zoo, his career, and his passion for zookeeping might flourish again; and his Underground work could only profit from the bustle of an open zoo's daily life, with its moving mosaic of visitors, animals, and workmen, against which the villa's escapades might fade. A restored zoo would vitalize every contour of their life; it was perfect. Too perfect, Jan felt. He began immediately analyzing the plan for flaws, foremost that Poles were "boycotting all amusement activities created by the enemy." Normally the zoo offered a wellspring of research and programs, but, fearing a Polish intelligentsia, the Nazis had allowed only elementary schools to stay open; all high schools and universities were banned. With the zoo's teaching role abolished, it could offer only a small gallery of animals, and with food scarce and the city markets empty, how could the zoo justify feeding its animals? What's more, a zoo might hurt the city's economy, Jan reasoned, or expose him to danger if he didn't run it according to German dictates. While such problems seemed insurmountable, Antonina admired Jan's self-sacrifice, which she felt showed "character, bravery, and a realistic mind."

"It's hard to say what would be best for the city or the zoo," Jan told Julian Kulski, Warsaw's Polish vice president. "What if in fifty or a hundred years someone were to read a history of the Warsaw Zoo, re-created by Germans for their pleasure, even though it drained the city? How would you like that footnote to your biography?"

"I live with this sort of dilemma every day," Kulski moaned. "I swear I never would have taken this job if all the people of Warsaw had been killed in 1939 and the Germans had repopulated the city with outsiders. I'm only doing it to serve my people."

During the next two days, Jan carefully crafted a letter to Leist, in which he praised his decision to reopen the zoo and appended a colossal budget for basics the zoo would require. Leist didn't bother with an answer, nor did Jan expect one, but neither did he expect what happened later.

Somehow the director of Parks and Gardens got wind of the proposed rebirth of the zoo, which would have destroyed his unified parks project, and so to foil Jan he sent word to the Germans that Dr. Żabiński's services were no longer needed and his job should be terminated.

Antonina didn't credit this to "antipathy or revenge," but rather an "idee fixe" of leaving his mark on Warsaw's parks. Still, it threatened Jan and his family, because anyone
not needed
by a German employer lost his working papers, which made him eligible for deportation to Germany to drudge in munitions factories. Since the villa belonged to the zoo, the Żabińskis could easily lose their home, many
melinas
, and Jan's small salary. Then what would become of the Guests?

Kulski doctored the complaint against Jan before the Germans could read it, and, instead of losing work, Jan was transferred to the Pedagogic Museum on Jezuicka Street, a sleepy little enclave with only an elderly director, a secretary, and a few guards, whom the Germans seldom bothered. Jan said his job mainly entailed dusting old physical education equipment and preserving zoological and botanical posters lent to schools before the war. That left him more time to scheme with the Underground and teach biology in the "flying university." Jan also kept a part-time job in the Health Department, so with one thing and another, Antonina and Ryś knew that Jan melted away each morning, to face who knew what hazards, and reappeared in the obscure no-man's-land before curfew. Though Antonina didn't realize exactly what he was up to, her mental cameo of Jan was haloed in danger and potential loss, and she tried to banish the naturally-arising mind-theaters in which he was captured or killed. "But I worried about his safety all day long," she confessed.

In addition to building bombs, derailing trains, and poisoning pork sandwiches headed for the German canteen, Jan continued to work with a team of construction people building bunkers and hideouts. Zegota also rented five flats, just for refugees, who had to be regularly supplied with provisions and moved from one safe house to the next.

Officially, as spoken truths, Antonina knew few of Jan's activities; he rarely told Antonina about them, and she rarely asked him to confirm what she suspected. She found it essential
not
to know too much about his warcraft, comrades, or plans. Otherwise, worry would pollute her mood all day and interfere with her equally vital responsibilities. Because many people relied on her for their sustenance and sanity, she "played a sort of hide-and-seek game" with herself, she noted,
pretending
not to know, as Jan's shadow life floated around the edges of her awareness. "When people are constantly on the brink of life and death, it's better to know as little as possible," she told herself. But, without meaning to exactly, one still tends to conjure up scary scenarios, their pathos or salvation, as if one could endure a trauma before it occurred, in small manageable doses, as a sort of inoculation. Are there homeopathic degrees of anguish? With sleights of mind, Antonina half fooled herself enough to endure years of horror and upheaval, but there's a difference between not knowing and choosing not to know what one knows but would rather not face. Both she and Jan continued to keep a small dose of cyanide with them at all times.

When the governor's office phoned one day, summoning Jan, the villa-ites all assumed he'd be arrested, and as panic filled the house, they advised him to run away while he could. "But then who will guard and support everyone?" he asked Antonina, knowing that he would be condemning them to death.

The next morning, as Jan was leaving for the governor's office, after they had said their goodbyes, she whispered the unspeakable: "Do you have your cyanide with you?"

His meeting was called for 9
A.M
., and Antonina swore she felt the seconds ticking away inside while going through the motions of household chores. Around 2
P.M
., as she was dropping peeled potatoes into a pot, she heard a voice whisper "Punia," and she looked up, pulse skipping, to see Jan standing right in front of her at the open kitchen window. He was smiling.

"Do you know what they wanted?" he asked. "You're not going to believe this. When I got to the governor's office I was taken by car to Konstancin, Governor Fischer's private residence. Apparently, his guards had discovered snakes around the house and in the woods nearby, and they were afraid members of the Underground might have dumped lots of poisonous vipers there to wipe out the German government! Leist told them to contact me as the only person who knew about snakes. Well, I
proved
there weren't any poisonous vipers by catching the snakes by hand!" Then Jan added somberly: "Luckily, I didn't need the cyanide this time."

BEFORE LEAVING WORK
one afternoon, Jan placed two pistols in his backpack and covered them with a freshly killed rabbit. As he stepped off the trolley at the Veterans Circle stop, he suddenly encountered two German soldiers, one of whom yelled "Hands up!" and ordered him to open his backpack for inspection.

"I'm lost," Jan thought. With disarming casualness, he smiled and said: "How can I open my backpack with my hands up? You'd better check it yourself." A soldier poked around a little inside the backpack and saw the carcass.

"Oh, a rabbit! Maybe for dinner tomorrow?"

"Yes. We have to eat
something
," Jan said, still smiling.

The German said he could put his arms down, and with an
"Also, gehen Sie nach Hause!"
sent him on his way.

Antonina wrote that as she listened to Jan's account of his close call, the veins in her head throbbed so hard she could feel her scalp moving. That Jan seemed amused as he told her the story, joking "about what might have been a tragedy, upset me even more."

Jan confessed to a journalist years later that he had found such risks alluring, exciting, and felt a soldierly pride in ridding himself of fear and thinking fast in tight spots. "Cool" is how Antonina described him, a compliment. This thread of his personality, so unlike her own, she found admirable, alien, and also humbling, since she couldn't match his feats of bravery. She had had close calls, too, but whereas she ranked Jan's as heroic, she deemed hers merely lucky.

By the winter of 1944, for example, when the city gas lines didn't work well and their second-floor bathroom had no hot water, pregnant Antonina craved the carnal luxury of a steaming bath. On a whim, she telephoned Jan's cousins Marysia and Mikołaj Gutowski, who lived in the borough of Żoliborz, just north of City Center, a pretty neighborhood on the left bank of the Vistula that once belonged to monks who named it Jolie Bord (Beautiful Embankment). At the mention of hot water, just as she'd hoped, her cousin said they had plenty and invited her to spend the night. Antonina rarely left the villa alone, even to visit the butcher, market, or other shops, but this sybaritic rarity tantalized her, so "after getting permission from Jan," she braved the deep snow, February winds, and German soldiers, and went to their house early one evening.