Warsaw Requiem

by Bodie Thoene

  Tonight Alexander Hess sat alone at a table, half a bottle of schnapps before him on the table. He had paid for the right to drink it all in this place, he told the accordion player, and therefore the music must continue!

  He stood, bracing himself on the table as he gathered his cane in one hand and his bottle in the other. He swayed for a minute, then made his way cautiously to the open door of the cabaret. The music slowed, as if in hopes that Hess was leaving.

  “Play! I paid for it! Play until I say you can stop!”

  The barkeeper and the musician exchanged dubious looks. With a slight shrug, the barkeeper instructed the accordion to begin anew.

  “That’s more like it!” Hess shouted. He leaned against the door-frame and inhaled. His head cleared a bit as he looked up to scan the facades of the ragged buildings.

  Hess imagined the notes of his vulgar song drifting through the ravines of Heilige Geist’s streets. He could almost see the tune and the words creeping up the bricks and through the rickety iron balconies into the rooms of those he sought. “I am singing to you,” he slurred. “Listen! Whores and babies . . . hear me? Through your windows and your locked doors my shadow comes . . . to pull you down . . . down into darkness.”

  ***

  The distant sound of accordion music seemed a strange counterpoint to the stillness of the room.

  The pile of unwashed sheets lay on the floor, where Lucy had thrown them. There was no strength left for her to make the bed, and so she lay down beside the baby on the bare mattress.

  The light was dim in the room, and yet she could see that the still form beside her was beautiful. The gray, blood-streaked skin had turned a rosy pink. Ten perfect little toes. Ten perfect little fingers. The mouth was like her mother’s; the eyes blue, hair blond and wispy. Yes. Beautiful. Just the sort of child a man like Wolf had desired.

  She pulled back the fleecy towel. The spindly newborn’s legs were drawn close to the rounded abdomen as though the little one still lay within her womb.

  How she had prayed that the baby would be a girl! Wolf would have had less interest in taking a baby girl! But Lucy had a son, fine and healthy . . . beautiful. Perfect!

  Lucy tucked her arm around him and pulled him close. He turned his face to her breast instinctively, and she marveled at the miracle that one so new could claim her so immediately. As a girl on the farm she had witnessed the wonders of new life a hundred times. Puppies, calves, and kittens . . . mothers and babies, forgetting the trauma of birth as they settled into the sleepy tranquility of nursing.

  Now that miracle was hers. She guided the tiny searching mouth to her breast, wincing slightly at the first hard tug. Stroking the velvet crown, she laid her fingers on the soft spot of his head and felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

  “And here you are,” she whispered. “Hello.” She kissed him lightly and smoothed his fine hair, curling it around her index finger. Soft. So very soft. Everything about him astonished her, filled her with joy beyond measure!

  Everything her mother had told her was true. She did not remember the pain of giving birth; it seemed like nothing more than a vague dream now. The nightmare reality that Wolf was probably close on her trail, however, lurked like a dark shadow in her consciousness. She closed her eyes, then opened them slowly, as though her eyelids were weighted.

  “Are you tired, little ones?” Her eyes moved to the silver crucifix above her bed. “For unto me a son is born . . .” She could not keep her eyes open any longer. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you that Wolf did not find me. Thank you . . . for helping . . . us.” The child at her breast, Lucy drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

  ***

  They were playing music at the cabaret especially late tonight, Lori thought. She wondered if people were dancing together even now.

  The door to her bedroom was open enough for the light and sounds from beyond the kitchen window to filter softly in. She could just distinguish the white outline of her blouse on the back of her chair and her sneakers on the dark floor beside her bed.

  In odd harmony with the distant accordion music, she could hear the assorted wheezes and snorts of the four boys as they slept. She knew which boy belonged to each sound. Alfie snored soundly, like Papa used to after an especially long day. Mark wheezed in and rattled out. Jamie? That was easy. She had grown up listening to his asthmatic breathing. From the age of three she had gotten up in the middle of the night and padded down the hall behind her mother to stand quietly beside his bed and listen, to make certain he was properly tucked in.

  Old habits were hard to break. Jamie was big enough that she did not need to check him while he slept. Still, from the beginning of their ordeal, Lori had gotten up each night, tiptoed to his bedside, and straightened his blankets like Mama would have done. Big sister to little brother. Maybe she would never get over the urge to make certain Jamie’s toes were not peeking out, or that his sheets were not kicked onto the floor.

  She felt strangely like the character of Wendy in the novel Peter Pan—Mother of the Lost Boys. Lori had read the first German translation of the book when she was twelve. She had developed a terrible crush on the imaginary Peter Pan, and even in the cold months of Berlin autumn, she had left her window open in hopes the fairy tale might come true.

  And so it had in a way. She and the boys were sailing off to London, while Jacob was doomed to remain in the terrible Never-Never Land of Europe. The weight of their imminent separation made her realize that what she felt for Jacob Kalner was much more than a childhood crush.

  How she wished now that she had not let herself love him! This was no fairy tale; there was no promise of happily-ever-after in their future. And there was no calling back the love she felt for him. Every minute that passed was a reminder that there was one less moment she could see him; hear his voice; delight even in the simple pleasure of listening to him breathe as he slept.

  Lori was awake—more awake than she had ever been; awake in ways she had never dreamed of. Her heart beat faster as she though of Jacob’s kiss, of kisses that had followed to stir up this hunger in her for more.

  Her mind warned her that tonight she must not go into the other room to check her lost boys, or she too might be lost! She could feel his presence even at a distance. There was no use lying to herself about it, was there? She had left the door open tonight not so she could hear the sleeping boys, but in the hopes that Jacob would come to her. She looked at the vague light and wished that his shadow would block it out.

  She prayed that she would fall asleep, that she would not dream of him again. But she did not wait for an answer to her prayer.

  Slipping from her bed, she pulled on her robe like every other night. Time to check the boys. That was her excuse as she willed him to wake up. It was not Jamie or Mark or Alfie whom she slipped in to check. They could go on breathing without her! But Jacob! Would his breath stop once she had left him? Would his heart cease to beat because she was not with him?

  Lori wondered about the breaking of her own heart as well. How could she leave him? Was that not like leaving a part of herself for the vultures who swung low over Danzig? And if she had to leave her heart with him, could she not give him more than words to remember her by?

  She blinked at the shadowed shapes in the room, hardly daring to believe the thoughts that filled her mind now. Go back! You will hurt him more by this!

  But she did not want to return to her room. Every step away from her own bed was an act of defiance. She did not care! She would not go back to bed alone.

  Alfie slept on a mattress on the floor, with Werner-kitten curled up on his chest. The two younger boys were tangled lumps among the sheets on the double bed beneath the window. She pretended she had come to tuck them in. She straightened the blankets and ran her hand across Jamie’s tousled hair like always.

  Jacob did not stir. He slept on a mattress at the foot of the bed. She wanted him to wake up and find her here, doing her duty as Mother to the Lost Boys.
She brushed past him, resisting the desire to kneel and press her lips against his mouth; to stroke his cheek and wrap her arms around him in surrender before they had to say good-bye.

  The strength of her emotion frightened her, warning the rational side of her that it was not safe to be so near him tonight.

  As if he sensed her presence, Jacob drew a deep breath and shifted slightly on his mattress. She turned to stand over Jamie. The Little Mother. She told herself that she had come into the room to tuck Jamie in. You are lying, Lori. You know why you came.

  The whole truth made her hands tremble as emotion swept through her with a power she had never felt before. She tried to picture the face of her father. And then Mama. What would they say if they knew, really knew, what she was feeling?

  God help me! She did not dare turn around to the shadowed place where Jacob slept. It would be too easy to join him there and be lost forever in another kind in darkness.

  Gripping the cold iron headboard of the bed, she tried to pray, tried to steady herself and master her desire so she could walk calmly back to her own room and close the door behind her. Escape! Yet how she longed for him to open his eyes and see her there! How she ached to have him take her hand and pull her down to spend a night in his arms!

  Only one touch. What would it hurt? She turned from pretense and stooped over him as if to brush his forehead with her fingertips.

  From the darkness, his big hand reached up to grasp her painfully by the wrist. He held her there above him a moment and then pushed her back from him, sending her sprawling on the floor. The rough gesture made her gasp; startled her back to her senses.

  She started to speak, to explain that she had only come in to—

  He stopped her with a whisper. “No, Lori. Not like this. Not now. Go back to bed.”

  How had he known what she wanted? How had he read her intentions before she even touched his face the first time?

  She drew her outstretched hand back and covered her eyes as desire for him was replaced by the hot flush of shame. “I was just—” she tried to explain in a hoarse whisper. She knew whatever explanation she gave him would be a lie.

  “Don’t!” His voice was almost angry.

  “I didn’t mean . . . to wake you.”

  “Yes, you did,” he challenged.

  The steady breathing of the others changed to snorts and whistles of disturbed sleep.

  “Tucking Jamie—” Tears of shame stung her eyes. The metal of the bed frame dug into her back.

  “Go back to your room,” he warned. “Lock the door! You hear me? Lock it!”

  From Mark’s side of the bed came a confused mumbling. “What? Is the door . . . huh?”

  Jacob spoke in a loud voice, as though he wanted everyone in the room to wake up. “Go to sleep, will you!”

  Lori stumbled back into her room. She slammed the door and locked it, although now there seemed to be no need for such precautions. Jacob had shamed her. He had good reason.

  “Oh, God,” Lori whispered miserably, “what have I . . . what was I doing?”

  ***

  The morning light was another miracle for Lucy. She and the baby were still alone. The priest who had called out her name had not followed her, had not found her. Wolf had not come for the child. For all this, she raised her eyes to the sorrowing Christ and thanked Him. She could not let herself think any further than each minute of safety. The future was too uncertain, too frightening; and so she thought about the past, and she thought about now.

  Lucy had seen the mother cows up and about the morning after giving birth. She had witnessed her own mother get up from the birthing bed after a few hours to respond to the cry of another child in the house. Why, then, should Lucy not sit up slowly and swing her legs over the edge of the bed?

  The baby slept as Lucy washed herself and gathered the sheets to slip the bundle outside the window on the roof of the adjoining building. She shuffled to the stove and fixed herself a cup of tea and two pieces of toast.

  At the soft cry of the baby, she felt milk fill her breasts. She bathed him, changed his diaper, and doctored the stub of the umbilical cord before she made up the bed and lay down, exhausted, to feed him.

  Like her mother, like the animals on the farm, Lucy was doing what she must do. She found there was at least strength enough for simple tasks.

  Unbuttoning her cotton gown, she let him nuzzle her breast and settle into contented nursing once again. She stroked his head and whispered sweet things to him. She told him how lucky she was that he was her own, that she had not even imagined such love or perfection. They grew drowsy together as the morning sun rose to heat the tiles of the roof just beyond the window, warming the room as well.

  Lucy thought of small tasks she would perform when they awakened. To the gentle rhythm of the baby’s breath, she sang the lullaby her mother had sung to her:

  “I am small,

  my heart is pure,

  no one lives in it

  but Jesus alone . . .”

  And then, as if someone had sung the song to her, Lucy fell fast asleep.

  ***

  “I am certain it was your sister.” The young priest looked past Wolf as though he could still see the face of Lucy.

  “Pregnant.” Wolf clenched and unclenched his fist. He was furious at the ineptness of the priest, but he dared not show his anger. “Still pregnant?”

  The priest nodded. “She could not have run far in such a condition.”

  “But the boy lost her.”

  “At the far end of the fish market. Philip was simply dwarfed in the crowd. He could not see over the heads of the people, you see. And so your sister escaped him.” He frowned and spread his hands in a gesture of apology.” There are only two streets she could have taken. You see here.” He passed the small square of the parish map across the desk. “The lad says he last saw her here.” He pointed to a street corner and then slid his finger toward the two remaining streets where she might have turned. “That leaves you with three square blocks where you might inquire of her. Certainly someone will recognize her. Some shopkeeper or green grocer.” He smiled a weak smile.” It is not so very hopeless any longer. Herr von Fritschauer. And I will pray for her that she might be restored to those who love her and the child.”

  Wolf’s hands trembled with barely controlled rage, which the priest mistook as the emotion of a brother for his wayward sister. “I will not forget what you have done,” Wolf said in a low voice. Indeed, he would never forget this show of incompetence—Lucy had been warned now! By now she could have packed up and moved out of the district! She could be halfway across Europe by this time! No, Wolf would not forget. He half-suspected that the priest had warned her himself! Perhaps the story of the chase through the fish market was all a deception as well.

  He stepped out of the cool church into the hot sun high above Danzig. Replacing his white Panama hat, he stood on the steps of Heilige Geist Church and scanned the square.

  Setting his eyes toward the arched portal of the fish market, he retraced the steps she had taken as she fled. There was a small chance—very small—that she had not left the area. It was very near the time she was due to deliver, he knew. There was always that one chance that she had not made it out of the city.

  19

  The Most Precious Gift

  The flowers that Father Kopecky brought to the home of Rabbi Lubetkin were picked, he explained, in the gardens of the great Warsaw cathedral. He presented them to Etta Lubetkin in thanks for the pound cake she had baked for him last week.

  “Catholic flowers,” Rachel said, eyeing them skeptically.

  “They are as kosher as matzo balls,” Mama scolded as she trimmed the stems and arranged them in a vase of water.

  “Probably grown at the base of a graven idol,” Rachel whispered.

  Etta sniffed them. “All the same, they smell wonderful.” She began to gather the leaves and stem pieces into the newspaper that the priest had wrapped around the bouquet.
Etta stopped and peered at the headline. Then she looked at the date. She dropped the leaves into the rubbish container and, completely forgetting the vase of flowers, read the newspaper.

  “PEACE HOPES WANE

  OUTLOOK BLACKEST SINCE 1914

  DANZIG NAZI DECLARES ‘OUR HOUR IS COMING’”

  Black-and-white headlines had suddenly made the scent of the flowers unimportant.

  “He brings us gifts wrapped in a prophecy of our death,” Rachel said gloomily. “Why does he bring us fresh fish wrapped in such terrible news? Why not fish that is three days old? And why flowers that are pretty? More appropriate to pick dead flowers and give them to us. Is he trying to scare us into leaving, Mama?”

  Etta shook her head. She did not know anything for sure anymore. Twice the newspapers the priest had passed along in this unobtrusive manner had been German papers, Nazi publications with full stories of Jews fomenting rebellion in Czechoslovakia. According to the paper. Jews in Warsaw plotted to join Poland with Communist Russia and attack Germany!

  And always he asked how progress was coming with the passports. Would they soon have visas to leave Poland? What plans did they have if the visas did not come through? Would they travel under false documents? Had they prepared the children to talk the ordinary jargon of Polish Catholics in the countryside? Such things were important—as important as a warm coat in winter and a good pair of shoes and socks when one had to walk a long distance!