The Upright Heart

by Julia Ain-Krupa

  “What do you mean? How can you play that game?” I shouted in disbelief.

  “Nobody can take away my fun,” she told me, without even making a sound.

  VI

  These stones are perfect for paving roads. After all, you can’t find any new material nowadays. Everybody agrees: you’ve got to be resourceful. Just because the war is over doesn’t mean we have much.

  So how to do it? You bring a rope, a wheelbarrow or something solid on wheels, and a knife or two just in case somebody decides to mess with you. Often the Germans already damaged the stones, or else we were forced to do so ourselves, so why not tow them off? Half the work has already been done. Nobody is coming back to visit them, especially not in eastern Poland, where so many mass murders took place.

  Ah, but there are so many uses for these stones. They may be only made of granite, but sometimes you can still find a grave made of marble. You might even be able to remove the inscription and sell it off as a gravestone for a Pole. If not, you can always use the stones to build a new road. All you have to do is turn it over to hide the inscription, and nobody will ever know the difference. Look how easily you can make history disappear. We have a black market going among those of us who work in the cemeteries. Nobody is looking. Nobody can afford to waste anything useful nowadays. Nobody cares. Nobody will stop you. So maybe you do it at night, just so you don’t show off. After all, somebody might get mad at you for disturbing the dead or for some other nonsense like that. Who knows? They might even get jealous about your taking some of the town’s most valuable supplies without asking. But tell me, please, exactly whom would you like me to ask?

  VII

  Saturday evening as the sun goes down, Wolf puts on his jacket and removes the dressing from his forehead. He says a prayer. (How strange to do with no kippah, no tefillin, no tzitzit. Will HaShem ever forgive him?) He then takes his bag, the dog, and the boy and checks out of his hotel. There is a train leaving early the next morning that is headed west toward the countries that will lead him to the port, from where a boat will take him home.

  And how does he define home now? A bed to rest his head where he knows that he is not taking anybody else’s place? Familiar smells and sounds? A place that is filled with people he knows and loves? You can change a person’s language. You can take from him everything material, and yet you must leave him something to love. And if there is no person left for him to love, then give him an idea that will keep his heart beating for just a few moments more.

  And what about the boy? What will Wolf do with this miraculous boy? Who will care about him if he leaves him in Kraków alone? This is something he hasn’t decided yet. He could leave him money, his address in America, what more? The boy does not have any papers. Perhaps he could take him home with him. What would Chaja say? Surely she would understand. And how would the whole family adapt? How would the boy respond to living in a home with rules after being on his own for so long? There are so many questions and yet there is no time to answer them, and so together they go.

  Nights in Kraków are rarely like this. The cloud cover has retreated and the moon is so full that it is swelling with the luminosity of its own beauty. A rare occasion here. The occasional cloud does manage to pass over, and when it does, it creates a refraction of light, like a dim rainbow of the soul that curves around the circumference of the body of the moon, as if to say, now, this is love.

  How lonely the moon must be, the boy thinks to himself, as he walks ahead of the group. He is so caught up in his imaginings that he does not notice the woman following them. Anna has just finished her shift selling paczki—doughnuts—at a little bakery on Ulica Krakówska, her Saturday job. She had thought about attending mass, but when she recognized the boy, the one whom she had recently seen in the center of town, she felt compelled to follow him. She has been haunted by his face and wants to know more about him, and also about the foreigner and the odd, thin man who walks beside them yet manages to look completely apart. Maybe it is the madness of experiencing so much loss in such a short period of time, but lately she believes in signs. Anna often thinks back to what happened in recent years and wonders why she couldn’t have seen what was coming. How is it that she couldn’t have known what was to be? She ignores the voice in her head that warns her not to go with them, and follows them down the street. Something inside tells her that she must.

  Yes, the moon must live a lonely life, the boy repeats to himself, catching the glimpse of an ornate relief windowsill depicting an angel and a woman locked in an embrace. In the apartment beyond, an elderly couple count their money, discussing what food they will buy for the following week, and whether or not they can afford to eat meat. At least the sun has its own phenomenal heat to keep the moon company, the boy continues, passing by an empty building that was bustling with family life just a few years ago. A cold wind passes through the dark, empty doorway. The sun’s rays touch down to earth, to the plants, to the water, to the skin of its people, transforming everything it dares to impact and even that which it doesn’t. It affects people’s lives. It is nature. It helps new life to grow. There is an exchange of energy to keep it going, but with the moon things are so different. People look at the moon, and feeling just how far away it really is, they suddenly feel very alone. They can sense its light and its glow but they can rarely feel it on their skin, even though they long to know its touch. They cannot get close to it, no matter how hard they try, and sometimes that is a painful feeling, wanting to be near something that is so far away. They watch the moon shrink and they watch it grow, but they will never know what it feels like to lay in its arms.

  The moon is as powerful as the sun, but it works its magic in secret ways. Maybe that is why people say that the moon is feminine, because women are more mysterious than men. The moon has a magnetism that moves the waters in and out and up and down, and can do so inside a woman’s body, or at least that is what I have heard, but I cannot always rely upon other people’s stories to know the truth. Maybe I don’t care anymore about what the truth has to tell me, anyway. Maybe that is why I love the pill so much, because it helps me to see the world how I want to see it, and if I want everything to be happy, then it is. Look how my optimism has brought me good fortune. Now I have Wolf in my life, and even a little animal to love and hold. I admit I am afraid of losing them. Wolf is leaving on the early morning train, and I wonder what will happen to me then? Will he take me with him? I want to ask him, but I can’t. I am too afraid of what he will say. He has already given me everything. But oh how I long to stay with him. Even the pill will not heal this wound in my heart after he leaves.

  Will it be too sad for Wolf to go into Kazimierz tonight? This I wonder, as we walk there in single file. I am used to the death and the graveyards, but for him it is all still new. This place isn’t sad because it is a cemetery, no, of course not. It is always comforting to sit in the resting place of the dead. What is sad is the absence of names, of coffins that should be here, the secret presence of people who want to be buried, the ones who sleep in the rafters of the old factories, who swim the depths of the Wisła, who climb the roof of Wawel Castle trying to get closer to home. They are all stuck between worlds, just like the woman I saw wandering the tombs the other day, and just like Wiktor, our solemn guide, who means to protect and help Wolf, though I am not sure just how he can.

  But somebody still loves us. This, I do believe. I don’t know why, but I know that even while I sleep on the grass beneath the bridge I am never truly alone. There is always another day, always a pigeon to nestle in my arms, always a chance to begin again.

  VIII

  Last night I dreamt that the war had never happened and I was with my classmates on the outskirts of Łódź. We were playing hide and seek, and at a certain point I was the only one around. I decided to hike up a hill that was wet with mud. When I got midway, I stopped to take in the view. When I turned to continue walking, I saw someone lying on the ground. I moved toward the figure, and as
I got closer, I realized that it was Rachelka lying there, face blue, scattered black hair exposed, eyes closed, body buried up to the neck in a mound of mud. I wanted to wake her with a kiss, but just as I neared the earth she disappeared, and all that was left was a pile of white feathers that fell gently to the ground and a small paper sign that read Rachelka in painted cursive letters. It was as if a bird had disappeared in the wake of my kiss.

  IX

  This cemetery was founded in 1800. It stands at the edge of Ulica Miodowa beside a stone overpass where elevated train tracks run diagonally alongside the grounds. Surrounded by a high wall made of brick and stone, it is not as beautiful as Remuh, but Remuh is no longer a working burial ground. Active for more than two hundred years, Remuh burial ground was shut down in 1799. There were also two other new Jewish cemeteries in Podgórze, across the river, but with the creation of Płaszow camp nearby, they were gradually destroyed. Remuh rests behind the tiny synagogue of the same name, and there you can find the tombstones of many important religious and historical figures, including the great Rabbi Moses Isserles, after whom the cemetery is named; Joel Sirkes; Rabbi Yom-Tov Lippman Heller; and many others who ask to be remembered. Remuh lies on tenderly sloping ground, the perfect resting place for those who have reserved a place for their memory. One cannot peer at Remuh without wanting to enter, but it has been locked now for many years. The only way to enter is through the courtyard of Remuh synagogue.

  This cemetery where we stand at the end of Ulica Miodowa is still in use, though during the war, once the ghetto was built, it was closed for a time. The main pathway was destroyed, and so was the front. Many of the most beautiful graves were destroyed, especially those built of expensive material, such as marble, granite, and syenite. Those gravestones could be used to pave roads, or reused in other, new Christian cemeteries. Now that the war is over, there have been several instances of people taking gravestones, especially those valuable ones that remain, though this practice is more common in other regions of Poland.

  X

  There is something in the atmosphere tonight that makes Wolf pause at every corner.

  It is almost as if I am dizzy, he thinks, perplexed by his disorientation. Everything has happened so fast. What is most amazing is how the world can fall apart, and yet we are all alive, still standing, moving, breathing our air together as if we knew how to share. My heart, my limbs are cut off, and yet I walk down the street looking to the outside world as if nothing has changed, as if I am whole. One era ends, another begins.

  The little boy pauses at a stop sign to gaze up at the moon. Wolf notices his wiry frame, slight even for a boy of eleven. For the past five years this child has had hardly anything to eat. How can Wolf think to leave him behind? The muscles on the boy’s arms are pronounced, and his sandy hair stands on end, as if it too is on the lookout for trouble. How will years of struggle and malnourishment take a toll on his growth? It is hard to know. Somehow Wolf feels protected by this child, and yet he wishes that he had the capacity to protect him more. He decides that he will have to take him back to New York with him, no matter what. He tells himself that no matter what they have to go through to make it happen, he is ready to suffer the consequences. He has no power to abandon another soul.

  They arrive at the street that leads to the cemetery. It curves as if to create privacy and prevent outsiders from looking in. When the gates of the burial grounds come into view, Wolf is overcome by a wave of dizziness, and he finds it difficult to catch his breath.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go inside,” he says in a whispered tone, as if trying to convince himself, and grabs hold of the boy’s arm. The boy stops. The dog stops. Wiktor stops. Everybody waits for Wolf to continue.

  “But this is why you are here, to do this,” the boy says, pleadingly.

  “Yes, of course. You are right,” Wolf says, taking a breath and shakily buttoning his jacket closed. His next step is firm. The group continues.

  When they squeeze through an empty space between the cemetery’s locked gates, they do not notice the three men struggling with a well-rooted gravestone in the right corner of the cemetery. They walk to the left.

  “Maybe we should just smash the thing and sell it off in large pieces,” one of the workers suggests, his slim pants clasped shut with an oversize safety pin, a smoldering hand-rolled cigarette permanently resting between clenched lips.

  “No, we have to be more careful, otherwise there’ll be no point,” his overweight friend remarks, meticulously removing garden shovel after garden shovel of dirt from around the toppled headstone. “We’ll ruin the grave and have nothing to show for it.” The two men continue their hushed debate while their friend Paweł, an experienced stonemason ten years their senior, sits in silence on an old tombstone. He takes a swig from a small flask of vodka and leans back along the cool mausoleum to gaze up at the stars. As he lies down, a carefully engraved floral pattern winds around his head like a halo or a painted laurel wreath intended for the bust of an alabaster queen. It is hard to see everything through the newly sprouting branches of the big old trees, but much of the night sky is still visible, as it is still early spring. Little green shoots have no power to obfuscate the sky. Paweł pulls a toothpick from the deep grooves between his teeth and uses it as a baton to gesture at astrological configurations in the night sky. He cannot be bothered with his friends’ debate. They are the ones who work here, who ripped a hole in the gate. They are the ones who need to figure this out. He was asked to come along as an extra pair of hands, as muscle, as backup, and nothing more, so he is happy to keep his mouth shut. He would rather focus on the outline of the big dipper anyway.

  The gate is locked for the night, but the stonemason and his friends have left a gap large enough for a man to pass through. As for getting stones out, the men have a plan. Tonight the moon is so bright that every path is lit and there is no need for a lantern. It is the perfect night for doing this.

  Wolf and the boy squeeze through the gates.

  Anna stands breathless outside the cemetery gates, peering onto the scene. What the hell am I standing here for, anyway? she shouts internally, but for whatever reason, she is unable to move.

  As they proceed toward the left side of the cemetery, Wolf and the boy are so focused on the task at hand that they are oblivious to the three men at work behind some trees on the right. They do not notice Anna standing behind them, breathless at the gates. Even the boy does not see Olga lying on the ground. She is doing her best to disappear into the earth, though she knows it is an impossible dream. Wiktor senses the presence of someone else like him, and moves off from the group to find this person. Olga lies there recalling an image of two swans floating along the Wisła River earlier today. Love and devotion are everywhere in nature, but she cannot keep anything for herself. When she sees the tall thin man standing above her, she does not blink an eye.

  “I am ravaged,” she says to him without even opening her mouth to make a sound.

  “I know,” he responds gently, bending down at her side, removing his hands from his pockets to demonstrate that he has none to show.

  “I have nowhere left to go, and for some reason my spirit cannot move on,” Olga says to the man. “I want to cry, but I cannot. I am empty.”

  “I know,” he repeats, speaking in his Silesian dialect. He reaches down to scoop her up into his arms. “Come with me,” he says. Olga rises to follow him, her long gray skirt rustling in the wind.

  Wolf places his bag on the earth beside the newly erected grave of Róża Berger. She was fifty-six years old. She was killed in a pogrom in Kraków on August 11, 1945. People are coming back. People are coming home. Those Jews that remain in this town are working to find the bodies of their families and friends all around Poland, so that they can return them to Kraków and bury them where they belong. Wolf doesn’t see them, but he hears them call. He removes his prayer book from the bag and strains to see the Hebrew letters in the moonlight. The little dog sniffs around t
he surrounding area, where there are plenty of hidden treasures beneath the old twisted vines, the moss that for more than a century has spread across these grounds, blanketing the earth with its love and devotion.

  “Bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh.” These are the words that come to him from the Torah as a way to begin. “I traveled back to Poland so that I could be close to you. I thought I would feel you here, but you are already so far away. We regret everything. We weep for you.” Wolf looks up at the night sky as a great black bird flies overhead, the sound of its wings stirring the leaves on the trees. The bird rests on the upper branches of a tree. Wolf takes a deep breath and sighs, “Please look over those of us who remain.” He begins to recite “El Malei Rachamim,” the prayer for the soul of the departed, with the quiet soulfulness of the brokenhearted. “God who is encompassed with mercy.” With each word a weight is lifted from his chest. Soon he feels light. For a moment Wolf imagines he could leave this world behind, shirk his responsibilities and the unbearable pain of living with so much loss. But then how would he do justice to his life and to theirs? No, he must remain here, in Kazimierz, in Poland, in America, on the ground.

  The dog lies down in the dirt and listens to the song of his new master, glassy blue eyes tilting toward the heavens. The boy steps off to the side, in the direction of an intact family grave, and sits down on the cold stone lip of a tomb. He feels shy about Wolf’s words. Wolf has distance from the war in a way that he cannot. For Wolf there is a process of mourning and praying and remembering, but for him, there is only a way to live. He leans back against the cold stone tomb, unknowingly mimicking the posture of the man lying at the cemetery’s opposite end.