Warsaw (22 page)

The black car purred by. The trio literally breathed a sigh
of relief. Their blanched faces betrayed the common knowledge of how close a
call it had been. Maybe because of the shared experience with the musicians -
the gladness of a sense of a reprieve - Meisel was no longer in the mood to
deal with the Jews. He went home and lubricated his bitter thoughts towards
Duritz over a bottle of red wine.

A week later an SS officer, not in the mood for a bribe (or
maybe the bribe was not significant enough), ordered the Polish proprietor of
the cafe that he only needed one violinist. Having had a long day - and not one
for sentiment or drama - the owner told Samuel and Henryk to sort the situation
out between themselves as to who would stay and who would volunteer to be
selected. They drew straws, not having a coin to toss. Henryk won, or lost - depending
on which way you looked at it.

Hunger filled his belly but Duritz vowed that he would not
help himself to any of the food in the household. His masochistic discipline
was borne from the fact that not only did he want to create a good impression
on the woman of the house - but so too he wanted to prove to himself that he
had the character for such abnegation. Duritz also suitably denied satiating
the curiosity he was filled with in going through Jessica's things (did she
have a diary?). He picked up a book and read the closing soliloquy of Richard
II ("love to Richard/ Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world")
and began to read As You Like It but found himself distracted and put the book
down. There are no happy endings Duritz mused to himself. He crossed over to
the window. For ten minutes he sat upon a chair and stared out of it, absorbing
the new view. At one point Duritz couldn't help but smile with bewilderment as
he witnessed a man pushing a empty handcart - which had oval shaped wheels - along
the street. As he watched the man struggle however with the contraption,
nicknaming him "Sissyphus", Duritz was suddenly overwhelmed by a
sense of admiration and compassion for the old man. Tears welled in his young,
doleful eyes.

Duritz desperately wanted to stay in the house, because of
Kolya and Jessica. His thoughts raced at the possibility of finding sanctuary
with the family he had once sworn to protect and save. Was this not more than
just coincidence? Was there a divine plan for things? Also, Adam had nowhere
else to go. At first he drafted in his mind a begging letter so to speak,
filled with soulful gratitude and promises of repaying his debt. Moreover,
although he felt bad about it, Duritz was willing to instil a sense of guilt in
his hosts to get his way. But shouldn't they fill guilty if they betrayed him?
Shouldn't he be pitied? But a gnawing part of the ex-policeman knew that any
and all of his arguments would be in vain - even if he had not done what he had
done to Jessica. He would be a burden to the household. He was a stranger. He
was a death sentence.

And so Duritz killed time - before the times would kill him
- lying on his back and drafting another note. A stubby pencil and scrap of
paper rested on the floor beside his makeshift bed. It was impossible for the
student, no matter how he phrased it, not to imbue his tone with a modicum of
gallantry. He would sacrifice himself. Jessica's wishes would come first. He
sincerely apologised for any trouble he had caused already, hoping that "Miss
Rubenstein" would understand. The ex-policeman was gratitude for what Miss
Rubenstein had done for him already in providing him with shelter for one
night. He would never forget her. The penitent inserted into his letter however
that he would try and see Kolya again, once he was settled. Adam folded up the
letter and placed it in his pocket. He decided that he would not just leave it
on the table and disappear. He would see Jessica for one last time.

Duritz woke up from his afternoon nap ten minutes or so
before Jessica returned. She was on her own. Kolya was out attempting to play
various water vendors off each other. The young man's intended memorable
phrases and facial expressions were forgotten. Postures undone. Words stuck in
the writer's throat upon seeing the enigmatic but disdainful looking woman who
held his fate in her hands. Adam smiled tentatively. Her face was unreadable.
Before Duritz could open his mouth in order to declare his intent to leave
Jessica spoke first.

"More out of gratitude to Thomas - than anything you're
owed - I've decided to let you stay for a few more days. After that though,
even if you have to be put out on the street, you're not my problem. And if I
have any trouble from you, you know what I can do. You're to eat what you're
given, do what you're told. You're also not staying under this roof for
nothing. Your provisions and valuables are to be shared. You're also not to
keep Kolya up like last night - we need our sleep. We work long days. I also
don't want you promising him anything. Do you understand?" the young woman
issued with severity. At first his features registered shame but afterwards an
unexpressed wave of something else washed over Adam's slaked heart.

19.

Thomas told his wife what she wanted to hear in his letter
to her - that he missed her and Wilhelm dearly and that coming home to them
again was the only thing keeping him going. After writing this though he added
that she was not to worry, that he was healthy and in good spirits. He asked
the same routine questions about what was happening in village? - and how was
her mother keeping? Some of the sentiments he expressed in the letter were
sincere; some of them weren't.

The disillusioned soldier finished the letter, not entirely
happy with it. A feeling of guilt or melancholy nagged him like a wife. But yet
Thomas was equally sure that he could not be bothered to re-write it. He was
tired again, indeed after his brief breakfast with Oscar he had gone back to
sleep. A physical as well as spiritual lethargy extracted the wind from his
sails. What with not feeling up to it - and arguing with himself that Jessica
would not have the heart to turf Adam out on the street without her telling him
first for fear of upsetting him - Thomas decided not to visit the Rubenstein’s
that day. He sympathised with what his friend counselled. He had been
neglecting his duties and his men. He was after all a soldier. And what if his
liaison with the woman was discovered? They would then all perish.

The list seemed to be endless but the increasingly diligent
secretary duly noted down the arrangements his Lieutenant crisply poured out in
regards to the party he was planning. Christian Kleist was in an uncommonly
relaxed and good mood. His polished boots were propped up upon his lion-footed
walnut desk and tapped away excitedly. His top button and collar were undone -
which was usually out of fashion for the fastidious officer - to reveal the top
of his broad, hairless chest. He leaned back upon his chair and rested his
interlocked manicured hands upon his trim stomach. He smirked seductively -
amused. Self-satisfied.

"By the very fact that he'll probably hate me for it
I'm going to invite your old Corporal. Besides, we should really have someone
there from the rank and file so to speak. I warrant he'll be free that evening,
having nothing to do."

Dietmar's expression echoed his superior's denigrating view
towards his ex-Corporal. For whatever reason Dietmar had not thought of
Abendroth for a while, but the closer he had grown towards Christian the more
he had adopted a position of ill-favour towards the unambitious Corporal.
Initially, when posted to the ghetto and under Abendroth's command, he took to
the popular soldier. Indeed such was the way that Thomas looked after the new
recruit Dietmar even flirted with the idea that the Corporal was attracted to
him. But Dietmar realised that the Corporal favoured everyone - rather than him
in particular; he eventually felt some what spurned. Thomas even preferred the
company of that cliché-ridden oaf Hummel to his. So too why shouldn't he feel
bitterness towards the Corporal - for after all hadn't he ousted him from the
unit and set-up the posting to the SS? Being seduced by Christian - and all the
virtues he represented - only increased his antipathy towards the lowly
Wehrmacht Corporal.

"It'll be alright I guess as long as it's just him you
invite - and not that coarse Private of his. Two seconds from him quite
literally squeezing through the door and there will be nothing left of the
buffet."

"Oh no, don't worry about that. My plan is to have
Thomas Abendroth feel very much isolated on the evening," Christian issued
with a darkly mischievous glint in his eye.

Night plummets, like the temperature. Some people shiver,
some people hug. It makes little difference. There was a prayer meeting in
Jessica's building for the evening, being held in the basement. At first
Jessica asked Kolya if he would like to attend the service with her. When he
said no she then insisted, saying that he "should" and that she did
not want to go on her own.

"I can't be bothered, I'm too tired. What's the point
anyway? You'll be okay going by yourself. You have before."

Jessica looked hurt, partly because she had one eye on the
tactic of shaming Kolya into attending - and partly because she was indeed
disappointed and chafed by his tone. She suspected that his attitude had
something to do with the ex-policeman. It was not the first time that he had
tried to impress Duritz with a cynical or rebellious posture. As well as trying
to show how independent and wilful he could be it should not be underestimated
how much the youth just did not want to attend the prayer meeting, for various
reasons. The service would be boring in the dank basement - the old boiler
room. Kolya could not believe as he once did. He had also planned that evening
to play cards with Adam, albeit a King and two Aces were missing from the
ex-policeman's deck.

Jessica stared fixedly at her brother - her mother's
daughter. One did not know whether she was about to break down into tears, or
combust. The woman's glare was also understandably directed towards the
unwelcome guest. Although she knew Kolya was acting alone in his contrary
behaviour, the ex-policeman presence was behind it all she couldn't help but
feel.

"I'm not going to stand here and have an argument with
you about it," Jessica rigidly issued, standing and having an argument
with the equally entrenched teenager.

"What's God going to do if I don't go? How can he
punish us even more?" Kolya sarcastically replied. He briefly then looked
at Adam, to see his reaction, for was not this performance of his partly for
Duritz's benefit? Kolya found that the ex-tutor had his own part to play back
though. Duritz creased his brow. For the first time Duritz made it clear to
Kolya that he was disappointed in the boy - in his conceit and disrespectful
behaviour towards his sister. He could sympathise with the boy's lack of faith,
but that was another matter.

"You shouldn't really let your sister go on her own
Kolya. Besides, there might be food at the meeting - which is enough to give
thanks for is it not? We can always play cards another evening, or afterwards.
Funnily enough my schedule is free."

Duritz's touch of humour cleverly relieved the mounting
tension and offered Kolya, or rather his pride, a way out. Thankfully the boy
was man enough to take it, despite feeling a little patronised. As much as he
was up for another argument with his sister, to prove that he was no junior in
the house to her senior, he did not want to provoke any serious ill feeling.

Whilst Kolya retrieved his threadbare jacket Adam and
Jessica shared a moment. Restrained, yet grateful, she pursed her lips and
fleetingly smiled in appreciation of the ex-policeman's timely support. The
moment was brief, but long cherished on Adam's part.

When Jessica came back however she returned with her
antipathy still intact towards her former tormentor. During the service she
could not help but feel, as she bowed her head and mouthed the same old Psalms,
that it was all so futile. Why had she attended? For Kolya? Because she had
made a promise to her mother's letter that she would? To still feel part of
something? Had she any faith left to bring consolation?

Thomas suddenly woke up as if he had himself been struck by
the lash of the whips which he heard crack and snap in the air outside. The SS
were practicing - and drunk - again. The whips, used to herd and punish their
charges in the Umschlagplatz, were the new toy of the fresh SS recruits. Some
doused the ends in vinegar to harden the leather. Some even inserted ball
bearings into the sinewy tips. There were instances when Thomas could laugh at
the sadists, when they clumsily struck their own backs and faces - but sorrow
enveloped the soldier when he witnessed the torture inflicted upon their
victims. The butchers even seemed to be inured to the pain of catching
themselves so long as the whip's venom bit into the Jews more. The Corporal had
half a mind to march down to the courtyard to confront his SS comrades and
remind them how late it was but he half hoped that the thugs would grow tired
of the sport on their own account. Moreover, not wishing to undermine his own
directive to his platoon that they should try to avoid friction with their SS
colleagues, Thomas tolerated the fracas. A burgeoning chill also overruled his
will to rise up from his bed; Thomas merely clutched his old blanket around him
more tightly - half burying his head beneath it - and tried to steal as much
sleep as possible before the gruelling morning.

20.

Time passes.

The vermillion glow of a charming sunset warmed not a single
heart, German or Jewish. If anything the inhabitants of Warsaw wished for cloud
cover to trap any heat in for the raw night ahead. Jessica's begrimed hands
trembled as she re-fastened the pin which kept the second of her two shawls
around her. Dry strands of ash-blonde hair crept out of her tightly bound
headscarf like spindly twigs. She looked twice her age, but beauty still could
be discerned behind her hollow cheeks and fatigued frame if one chose to look.
Her blistered feet dragged themselves along by the power of routine and fear as
she, along with her bedraggled work party, was marched back into the ghetto. She
yearned to just collapse.

The day had been longer than usual. Someone in the factory
had sabotaged some machinery, substituting water for anti-freeze in one of the
motors. The engine eventually cracked and production was halted to diagnose the
problem and remedy it. So too punishment needed to be fittingly metered out.
The labour force was ordered to fall in onto the factory floor. The culprits
were asked to confess - or rather people were instructed to name names. The SS
officer of the day took charge and announced that all were complicit and
guilty. He duly shot the first three random workers nearest to him (Jessica was
but two rows behind one of the victims who fell). The SS officer - taut,
impatient, and inexperienced - then ordered that another three Jews were to be
shot every five minutes until the conspirators were revealed. After fifteen
minutes the SS martinet, either fearing failure or wary of the time he was
losing in terms of production, ceased the punishment and merely ordered that
rations were to be cut for the week and that the time would be made up. Jessica
did not argue when instructed by her floor manager that she too would have to
make up the time, despite her needing to fulfil her duties at the barracks. As
much as the weight of the tragedy troubled her heart, Jessica was not alone in
feeling that in some way the sabotage had still been worth it. It had been an
act of resistance.

The thoughtful girl spoke to Duritz that evening about how
she felt.

"I know it might sound ill of me, but I think people
were still glad that it happened. We're all going to be transported anyway, why
not die for something instead of nothing? I walked through the ghetto today. So
much of it is empty, or emptying. Another block of people seemed to be moving
into our quarter from the neighbouring one. It is like you said, they're
tightening the net around us," Jessica issued sadly.

"I'm not sure if anyone can remember the precise moment
when it dawned upon them, but I think that everyone now realises their fate.
They won't stop the evacuations. It would not surprise me though if this sense
of fatalism also breeds a sense of liberation. Sabotaging production is not the
only means of resistance that has cropped up of late I gather. Kolya tells me a
few policemen have been attacked. And even when I left I heard stories of small
arms being stolen, as if someone were beginning to create a small
arsenal."

"What do you think will happen?"

"I'm not sure. All I know is that I'll be here for you
and Kolya if and when it does. I'm here to stay - like typhoid." Jessica
laughed and prettily tucked her hair behind her ear. The two young people
looked at each other with smiling eyes and a burgeoning fondness.

It had not happened overnight but Duritz and Jessica had
grown closer. She first had to speak to him out of necessity. It also soon grew
unnatural and pronounced that Jessica's tone would be terse and antagonistic
whilst Adam always spoke to her with kindness and respect. But she still did
not, could not, trust him. But they could not avoid each and Jessica did not
wish to prolong the strained atmosphere in the household. It took more energy
and time to be blunt with the policeman than civil. Duritz was also some adult,
male company. Thomas had written a letter informing Jessica that it could be a
while before he could visit again, delivering the note during an afternoon when
he knew Jessica wouldn't be there. Frustrated and hurt at being all but
abandoned Jessica took her mood out on the sheepish messenger who gave her the
unwelcome letter. As well as missing the German's company though Jessica was
rightly worried about how they would fend for themselves without the soldier's
extra rations, especially now with Adam being a part of the household. The next
evening Duritz tapped upon the wall next to where Jessica had drawn the curtain
to her room.

"Yes?" the troubled woman impatiently replied.

"Sorry to disturb you. I have been talking to Kolya, he
says he might be able to get a good price for some of my things. He reckons
he'll be able to trade my books for food. Apparently there's also a market for
paper and writing implements."

"Kolya will sort it out then. What are you talking to
me about it for?" the woman said sourly, clutching the absent soldier's
letter in her hand from having read it again.

"I just thought I'd let you know. I thought you might
be concerned about Thomas' letter the other day. I'm sure he'll be in touch
soon. I just thought I'd let you know that we'll be able to manage still for a
while."

"What do you know? What has he told you?" she said
almost pleadingly.

"Probably as much as he's told you I'm afraid. I'm sure
he has his reasons." Duritz did not reveal how his friend had appeared ill
when he had visited him, for whatever reason. He tried to reassuringly smile at
the thorny woman but his expression faltered in its failure. He turned and made
his exit.

Later that night the girl was blighted by the thought that
she was being cruel to the ex-policeman (though but half of her suffered from
this sense of guilt; the other half argued that he deserved far worse
treatment). When Jessica witnessed the pained and almost lovelorn look on his
face the evening after, as Kolya began to put his books and possessions into
bundles for prospective buyers, Jessica felt sorry for the ex-tutor. She tried
to tell him that it wasn't necessary now to sell all of his favourite books,
that he could keep some of them back - along with writing materials - but
Duritz merely smiled, appreciating Jessica's rare softness and consideration
towards him. He then jokingly dismissed the idea.

"Thank you, but it'll be okay. Besides, as much as some
people in the past would have appreciated the gesture, I cannot now eat my
words. We'll need the food in the weeks to come."

That same crisp evening, by the light of a fresh candle
which would reach a stub by the early hours of the morning, Jessica lay in bed
and avidly scanned some of Duritz's writings which Kolya had stored and bound
in string in her room, ready for him to sell over the following days. The blank
paper on the other side was still of value to some people. At first she
consumed extracts from a diary that Duritz had kept during the fall of Warsaw
and the initial months of the occupation. At the top of the notebook the
diarist scribbled the following quote - which made an impression on Jessica all
the more after reading the rest of the entries.

"In the hope of preserving from decay the remembrance
of what men have done. Herodotus."

"The phoney war - as I called the battle for Poland -
is now over. The fight for our lives will begin in earnest during our
occupation. If only our Polish army had fought with as much energy and purpose
as they worked today to take down the barricades and the defences they had
constructed to keep our enemy out... I was taken back to my childhood this
afternoon: the colourful banners spearing upwards; the endless well-ordered
formations of men flanked by giant horses and imperious, homogeneous-looking
soldiers. My mind turned back to a picture book in a library which I devoured
and re-devoured as a child, on Rome. What is all history but the praise of
Rome?...

To take my mind off things - or to prepare for the
prospective, dreaded actuality - I picked up Stephen Crane's "The Red
Badge Of Courage" today (one of those American novels that is not so much
derided in Eastern Europe, as just plain ignored). You should've witnessed the
amused/dejected expression upon my face as I read the passage when our narrator
expressed the following in regards to his surprise that war could rear its ugly
head again in such a civilised and progressive society - for surely

"Secular and religious education had effaced the
throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the
passions."

I say you should've witnessed my face, but who am I writing
this to, or for?...

I, along with others in the cafe, heard some shots fired
from around 500 yards away this afternoon. We thought it was just another bout
of drunken or triumphal exuberance from our German victors. It was soon
reported however that the soldiers, although drunk, had not fired into the air
- but into two young Jewish men. An explanation for the act was given though.
The Jewish men were looters, it was reported by a German Corporal. There are
some pieces of irony that even I will not be amused by...

..."Just because it's a losing battle, does that mean
that it's not worth fighting?" I heard someone exclaim the other day,
trying to rally the once God-fearing, now German-fearing people. There was both
a certain nobility and stupidity in his call to arms I warrant...

...Where do we draw the line? No, of course we are not going
to draw a line - no matter how much we descend into hell. But where should we
have drawn the line? The knocking off of a cap? Beard pulling? A law
restricting kosher slaughter? A ban on using the trams? Forced labour? Robbery
and extortion at gun point? Indiscriminate beatings? Murder, in the name of
enforcing all of the above?...

...For half of my adult life I've been bemoaning my fate, or
rather my anonymity. How I'm neither as rich nor famous as I deserve. For once
I'm grateful for my lonely, unlauded existence. I understand the Gestapo have
been methodically, rapaciously driving around the city, visiting Jewish
families and "confiscating" their possessions. Many have been shot,
whether resisting or not. So too I have heard that many of our so-called
intellectuals have been silenced...

...What might have been considered a strange event - some
two weeks or so ago - occurred today. Three young SS soldiers sitting outside a
cafe decided that they'd commandeer every Jew in earshot and make them bow down
to them. Around forty people meekly stood in line as, puffing out their chests
in mock-imitation of their own officers inspecting them, the self-labelled
Master Race made each of us bow before them. An old man - who probably could
not have bowed even if he wanted to such was his decrepit state and arched-back
- refused to comply. Defiance and terror fought for control of his expression.
He was killed. For all of the thunder and horror I experienced upon hearing my
first ever gun shot at close range I believe that I am now getting used to it.
Am I alone in this? Another man was hesitant, or just slow in complying - and
he was similarly dispatched. There were around forty of us, just three of them.
We could have overpowered them easily. It just needed one or two to spark
things off. Suffice to say my bow was perfect. No actor, of the Stanislavov
school or any other, ever had a greater motivation in playing his part... I
hate myself... I can take any comment dished out by my neighbour, and suffer
any slight, for I know I'm more loathsome than they can possibly imagine. And I
am far too proud to let my fellow Jew punish me. That's my task - or God's. In
actuality though, it's the Germans who do it.

...I'm ill. My innards are empty, but for the agony which
boils and stiffens inside. Soon the rest will be silence. I'm thankful. I'm
afraid of looking at myself in the mirror. Have I those same dead eyes and
hollow features that I saw - and ignored - on those children in the street? I
passed them by as if they were already dead. Would people do the same to me
now? Do I care? No. Only now, perishing, have I realised what it takes to
survive in this Darwinist's paradise."

After reading this final entry, dated a couple of days
before Thomas descended upon the dying Jew's apartment, Jessica eagerly went
back to read more of the conceited and despairing student's diaries. She could
not help but laugh though sometimes at his sarcastic humour and be fascinated
by his wild, unorthodox intelligence. Reading further back she even felt sorry
for the angry young man, sympathising with both his fury and sadness. There
were tears in her eyes as Jessica read about the death of his mother, his
loneliness and bouts of depression (where this prodigious student who could
have had any career he wanted - this teacher - just wallowed in self-pity at
times, not eating or sleeping). He kept writing how he was wasting away and
couldn't do anything about it. More than once Duritz articulated his desire in
regards to suicide being the answer to his prayers. Half the time he spoke to
God, the other half he was concerned with all the rational arguments as to why
God didn't exist. Thoughts were disjointed, as was the regularity of entries.
She surmised that Duritz had lost or discarded large portions of his writings.

Lastly she discovered and devoured - as if the perfect
dessert to a moreish meal - reams of poetry which Duritz had composed in his
youth. The pages were limp and yellowing yet still eminently readable (most
seemed to be works in progress, such were the crossings out and editing
exhibited on some of the pages). The last verse in one of the pieces caught the
once spirited girl's eye in particular. She then carefully read the fragment in
its entirety.

"Beach Combing.

The amber eye sulks indiff'rent