Warsaw Requiem

by Bodie Thoene

  “No one died,” he answered. It was not like him to leave the explanation incomplete.

  “A wedding, perhaps,” Wolf said knowingly. And then he left the matter drop.

  The boy stared distractedly down at the ever-expanding mob. It was plain he wanted to be among his people. He turned as if to leave. The tip seemed of little importance. ”I have to go,” he said, touching his hand to his cap. His voice betrayed excitement.

  “The tip,” Wolf replied. “Just a minute. Only a minute.” He moved slowly toward the bedroom, where his wallet was.

  When he emerged, the boy stood rooted at the window. His eyes were wide with anticipation.

  Wolf moved toward the window until he stood silently at the boy’s shoulder. “Will there be a riot?”

  The boy scoffed. “A holy man is coming,” he said quietly. “No riot. You will be safe.” He seemed amused by Wolf’s question.

  Wolf slipped him a few loose coins, then opened the door for him. These Jews, he thought with disgust. A holy man, indeed! At that, Wolf stretched out in his chair beside the window. He had just raised his field glasses to scan the crowd when the bright flash of the morning sun reflected off the windshield of a car with blinding intensity. The dull throb of a headache clamped across Wolf’s skull like a vise.

  He lowered his head and closed his eyes against the pain. It did not diminish. Instead, the dull throb became a roar in his ear. Lights and shadows flickered at the edges of his vision.

  He blinked rapidly and tried to focus his eyes. Lights shifted and danced, distorting his eyesight until he was unable to see even his hand clearly. He held his fingers up before his face. He could see only thumb and index finger. The agony in his skull gripped tighter. Wolf completely forgot the gathering in the square below. He groped toward the bathroom and felt for the aspirin bottle. His hand knocked the water glass to the floor with a crash. He gulped the aspirin without water and then stumbled to his bed and fell across it.

  The light through the window seemed to focus down through the darkness that played across his vision. He struggled to sit up and draw the window shade, leaving the room in semidarkness. With a low moan, he lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Today was one day he would leave the Jews to their holy man. It did not matter anyway.

  ***

  The gruff, unshaven Polish taxi driver grimaced and ran his hand over the stubble of his beard in concern.

  “Something is up with the Jews,” he said in a displeased voice.

  Jacob and Alfie had been invited along so they might explore the Jewish district while Orde made his call on the family of Rabbi Lubetkin. Both of them leaned forward to stare at the mass of black-coated backs blocking all traffic into Muranow Square.

  A Polish traffic policeman was detouring all vehicles down Niska and away from the mob.

  “What is it?” Orde muttered to himself.

  “Oh, you know these Jews!” the driver scoffed. “Always something. A wedding or a funeral maybe. They always wear black, so who can tell?” He flicked his hand toward the crowd. Head out the window, he shouted profanities at them. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Blocking traffic! Troublemakers!”

  “Pull over,” Orde commanded, “at once!” As he paid the man he asked pointedly, “Were you among the crowd at St. John’s when the envoy of the pope came?”

  “Of course!” the man said.

  “Then you blocked traffic as well, my friend.”

  “The Jews have cost me my full fare!” the Pole exclaimed.

  “No! You have cost you the full fare! I do not ride with ill-mannered anti-Semites. At least not on purpose.”

  “No tip?”

  “A tip? Yes, here is my tip to you. Keep your mouth shut if you are an ignorant bigot. And cut off your tongue before you ever curse the Jews again. Or have you not heard that God himself will curse those who curse His chosen?” Orde’s eyes blazed like a fiery preacher during a revival meeting in a country parish.

  The Pole had never seen anyone quite so crazy looking. A frightening thing to have hanging over the backseat while a mob of wild Jews blocked escape in the front of the taxi.

  “Just get out!” he shouted. He made the sign of the cross as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  He had already shifted into reverse and was looking for his escape as Orde jumped from the vehicle.

  “What did you say to him?” Jacob asked. Jacob did not understand the exchange that took place in Polish.

  Orde grinned broadly as the wheels of the taxi squealed against the cobbles. “Discussing the prophet Balaam.” Orde marched forward toward the mob—the five or six thousand people filling the square.

  Alfie was also smiling as he fell in line behind Jacob. With one backward glance, Orde could see that Alfie . . . Elisha . . . was looking upward toward the tops of the buildings. His eyes were bright with amusement. He raised his big hand and waved . . . a broad, signaling wave toward the Star of David that graced a synagogue poking up beyond the square. It was the sort of wave that said, “Yes, I see you!” But no one was there!

  Orde too felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He stopped at the outermost perimeter of the crowd and turned to Alfie. In a quiet, certain voice, he asked, “They are here, aren’t they?” Did Alfie understand the question?

  Alfie nodded happily, swept his hand to the top of the Star; then upward to a line of buildings at the far end of Muranow, on to the peak of the clock tower, and finally to the big house that was their destination. Then, one more startling gesture. Alfie smiled at the empty air just above Orde. At that moment, the murmuring thousands grew strangely silent. A corridor of humans parted as though a hand had opened the way for Orde and Jacob and Alfie to walk through. The path led straight to the house of Rabbi Aaron Lubetkin.

  There, on the sidewalk in front of the house, like soldiers waiting for the arrival of their general, a troop of fifty boys, from fourteen to nineteen, snapped to smart attention. Commands from a tall, gaunt, redheaded boy were shouted in English.

  “Ten-hut! Huh-bout-TURN!”

  Five rows of ten ragged soldiers each saluted Orde as he approached them and smiled slightly with appreciation. Orde paused, responded in kind, and then prowled the line as if inspecting the readiness of his soldiers. Alfie and Jacob hung back and watched in amazement. The soldiers did not have guns, but they carried broomsticks as though they were rifles. At the barked commands of their redhaired leader, they progressed through a series of maneuvers as Captain Orde stood back and watched them with all the dignity he would have accorded the Highland Light Infantry.

  A pattering of applause rose up from those among the spectators who could see. When it was finished, Orde spoke quietly to the leader of the group.

  “Captain Peter Wallich, First Warsaw Hashomer Platoon, reporting for duty!”

  “Your English is excellent, Captain Wallich,” Orde said. “And your men are well trained.” He eyed the stiff-backed rows up and down once more. “Where did you learn to drill?”

  “Books, General Hayedid.”

  “Books?”

  “Books. Rudyard Kipling, mostly. A lot of different books. And then there are movies. Errol Flynn.”

  “Ah.” Orde nodded once and suppressed a smile. He knew the movie the boy was speaking of. Charge of the Light Brigade. That explained a number of peculiarities in the demonstration. But no matter. It was a tiny, unequipped and untrained bunch, yet as Orde looked up toward the metal outline of the Star on the synagogue, he felt the certain presence of other captains and other troops and the approving nod of their Commander here watching today. God looks at the heart, Orde thought. And so must I.

  “Where are our headquarters, Captain Wallich?”

  “The basement of the Community Soup Kitchen.” A pause. A moment of embarrassment. “There are more of us than this. These are the best.”

  “A well-disciplined group. Admirable. Well done.” Orde did not let his gaze linger on the worn-out shoes or torn coats and
trousers cinched with string or cracking leather. “I will have a word with your community leaders, and then we will begin immediately. You may dismiss the men.”

  At this, the crowd began to disperse. Had they come to meet Orde, or, like Alfie’s angels, had they come to see the future army of Israel?

  From the corner of his eye, Orde saw the scornful expression on the face of Jacob Kalner. Was it any wonder he was not impressed? He had seen a hundred thousand Hitler Youth dressed and polished, carrying real rifles over their shoulders! He had heard their voices raised in one song, to one Reich and one Führer! What was this pitiful little show compared to what Jacob had seen throughout Germany?

  Jacob crossed his arms and watched as the Zionist Youth marched off in time. He looked with revulsion as the sole of one boy’s shoe flapped an extra beat. The hands of many spectators reached out to tap the boys proudly on their shoulders as they passed through the square and on toward the synagogue.

  “Pitiful,” Jacob said.

  “Very good,” said Alfie, as if he wished he could line up so straight and march in step like that.

  “Pathetic,” Jacob said again.

  Orde did not blame Jacob for his scorn. And yet he could not let it stand. “What is it?”

  “Do they think they can make any difference against Nazi guns and tanks and planes?”

  Orde smiled and turned to Alfie. “How many soldiers are on our side, Elisha?”

  The light of admiration was bright on Alfie’s face. He spread his arms wide and looked up into the sky, where streaks of thin clouds passed above the earth like the trails of smoking chariots. “Look Jacob!” he cried.

  Against his own volition, Jacob looked up. He stared hard at the vapors passing overhead on the wind until it felt as though the earth itself were moving, not the clouds. Were they just clouds?

  Orde saw the goose bumps on Jacob’s arms.

  Alfie waved. “Auf Wiedershen.” Then he turned to Jacob. “They will be back. But don’t worry. The General is still here.” At that, Alfie pulled out the toy tin general he always carried in his pocket. The one he called General Jesus. “You want to put him in your pocket?” He tucked the toy soldier into Jacob’s shirt pocket.

  Orde smiled. “You are the one who told me he sees things.”

  Jacob nodded. He could not speak.

  The door behind them opened. Etta Lubetkin stood framed in the doorway. Had she heard their discussion? She too was gazing into the sky as the clouds dissipated above Warsaw.

  ***

  Other men of importance were meeting with Rachel’s father and the British Captain Orde. Two representatives of the Zionist community had come, as well as Father Kopecky and three other men whose positions Rachel did not know.

  While Mama tended to full teacups and little sandwiches on a tray, David and Samuel were banished to play outdoors. Rachel sat beneath the shade of the elm tree in the garden and watched as baby Yacov struggled to pull himself into position to crawl.

  Masculine voices drifted through the open window of Papa’s study. Although Rachel could not understand all the words, the tone of the conversation was unmistakable. Frightening.

  Rachel looked up into the green-leafed branches. Bits of blue shone through. Sunlight played against the leaves as they stirred in the slight breeze. Beneath the kitchen window, David and Samuel drilled with stick rifles over their shoulders in imitation of Peter Wallich’s marching troops. Rachel missed the summers when play had involved which tree to climb and what book to read or how much blackberry jelly to make. The sounds of summer were the same. The aromas from the kitchen still drifted out. But along with those sweet things came the dark voices of the strangers who had come to Muranow Square all with the same concern.

  “The children will be the first to suffer.”

  “The Nazis in Prague right now are making even children . . . “

  The grass was thick and soft beneath the blanket where baby Yacov lay. He lifted himself up on his pudgy arms and offered a drooling smile to Rachel.

  His eyes were bright and proud. Happy. He did not hear the droning voices speaking of threats against his innocence. His trusting confidence that all was right with the world and his patch of Warsaw made Rachel’s heart ache.

  “Mama says you are ready to crawl,” she crooned to him, hiding her misery.

  As if in reply, Little Yani pulled one knee under his stomach and then the other. Crouched on all fours, he was in position to crawl, but he did not know what to do next. He rocked back and forth. He became very excited as he looked at his hands and then at Rachel.

  She wriggled her fingers on the edge of the blanket. “Right here. Crawl over here and I will tickle your fat belly!”

  “Evacuation seems to be . . . “

  “Evacuation to where?”

  “The Catholic Poles may not be better off if . . .”

  “Your opinion, Captain Orde?”

  “Expect . . . siege against Warsaw . . . hold on until England . . .”

  Yacov put out one tentative hand. Now what?

  “Yes. That’s it! And now the other! Move your other hand.”

  The baby moved a knee forward instead. It was effective. He was crawling! Another drooling, surprised grin. Rachel praised him loudly as if to shield him from this terrible talk of siege and hunger and bombing in Warsaw—and the evacuation of babies!

  “The logistics of transporting little ones is . . .”

  “Can we speak of logistics? These are the most helpless . . .”

  “The smallest could be hidden among the Poles, as I have said before.”

  “Captain Orde, you have seen the corps of young boys who can be taken out on foot.”

  “Peter Wallich has been—”

  “We are attempting to acquire papers for . . .”

  And Little Yani crawled another step. He crept in unsteady excitement toward the sunlight that touched the edge of the blanket. Such an accomplishment would have given Rachel great pleasure some other time. She would have dashed in to summon her mother to witness the baby’s little miracle.

  Life had been that simple once. “So wonderful, Yani.” Rachel praised her baby brother as she picked him up and walked into the house, wiping away tears with the edge of her apron.

  ***

  Father Kopecky and Captain Orde left Papa’s study together. What else? The goyim! They had made their plans together—made their lists and talked about how Jewish babies must be taken into Catholic homes if the worst really came to Warsaw!

  Rachel was angry. She hoped they saw it on her face as they walked past her and Yacov and smiled their polite smiles! She wanted to shout at them. “You’ll never have my brother! Nor any one of my family! We would rather die together than be separated!”

  Instead she smiled politely and saw them to the door with other members of the Kehillot who had come to talk to Papa about hospitals and the overflow of children at the orphanage.

  Papa spotted her as she walked back toward the kitchen.

  “Rachel?”

  “Just going to help Mama in the kitchen.” She felt angry at Papa too. Was he actually thinking of sending Yacov off somewhere? Or David? Or Samuel? Or—God forbid—Rachel himself?

  “Come here, Daughter,” Papa ordered in a businesslike way.

  She sighed and entered the study without looking up at him. “Yes, Papa.”

  “You were impolite today.”

  She wanted to shout at him, but she did not. “I was nowhere close enough to anyone to—”

  “Enough!” He really was angry. “It is as hot as the fires of Baal’s altar today. So the window was open, and you sat beneath it purposely.”

  “Just under the elm tree, Papa. Because it is hot, and I was watching Yacov. You should like me to sit in the sun?”

  Papa was silent. He drummed fingers on the big desk. “And singing your brother lullabies, were you?” He paused and then began to sing the words that Rachel had indeed been singing beneath the window as the meeti
ng progressed.

  “Let’s be joyous and tell our jokes.

  We’ll hold a wake when Hitler chokes.”

  She shrugged. A slight flush of shame crept to her cheeks but not enough for her to admit. “Peter Wallich sings it with his Zionist Youth friends. They sing that and worse up and down the square all day. One cannot help but hear it.”

  “Yes. We all heard. The best men in the community. All trying to sort out major problems, and we all heard.”

  Her eyes flashed anger. She raised them in challenge to her father. “And I heard. You are planning to give us away if the Nazis come. Send us away to be Catholics, to live with the Saturday people! Well, I won’t go! I won’t leave Muranow Square or you and Mama and the boys.”

  “Enough!” Papa commanded in a tone he had not ever used with Rachel before. “While I was gone you developed an independent mind, I see.”

  “I won’t go to Palestine!” She stamped her foot. “Or watch my brothers being taken away! This is my home, and I will fight them and die before—”

  Papa rose to his feet. He had never seen such defiance in Rachel before. “For now you will be silent and listen to me. For I will never speak to you on the matter again. Sit.”

  She hesitated.

  ”Sit!”

  Rachel sat—primly and rigidly, to show her father she was not happy about sitting. He remained standing, as though this were the synagogue and he was in the bema and she was the congregation who would listen!

  His voice moderated. “We have a saying, Rachel, that he who saves one life has saved the universe. You have heard this. An important thing, you will agree?”

  She nodded. Of course. Everyone knew the saying.

  “So.” Papa stroked the beard that was only partly there now. “Perhaps the time is coming upon us when only one Jewish life will be saved. In the eyes of the Eternal the survival of only one Jew in all the world would be enough for Him to still perform every promise He made to Abraham. You will agree to this?”

  Rachel shrugged and smoothed the folds of her skirt.