by Anna Patrick
We at sword point shall retrieve.
March, march, Dabrowski!
From Italy to our Polish land.
Let us now unite the nation
Under Thy command.
She sang the words imagining the Polish legions created in Italy in 1797 and commanded by General Dabrowski. Under Napoleon’s leadership they believed they were fighting for Poland’s independence. It was not to be.
The never-ending desire for freedom choked her. What a fraud she was sharing this space with true patriots. She loved her country, she did not doubt it, and sought inspiration in the sacrifices of her fellow countrymen, but she was a coward. Love for Ludek had brought her here not love of country.
She hated the Nazis and everything they stood for and yet she never joined the resistance. Did resistance in small ways count? Free rides on the tram when nobody watched, was that in the same league as blowing up communication stations or couriering vital information to the Allies? Hardly.
At university in Warsaw her outrage knew no bounds when Poland tried to introduce the segregation of Jewish students. She fought against the authorities with a passion equal to those of her friends. Whether from determination or sheer numbers, they won: Jew and non-Jew continued to attend the psychology lectures side by side.
Perhaps that was the problem: treacherous people lived in every country. That didn’t lessen the evil of occupation, but it made her less inclined to view any nation, even her own, as right. After all, she recollected with a sudden flare of anger, wasn’t it a Pole who had brought her to Montelupich three years ago?
God how furious she had been, stopped on the streets of Krakow, by a Polish policeman dressed in the navy blue uniform that gave them their nickname of ‘Navy Blues’ or ‘Granatowy’. A much too well-fed, boiled potato face, gave away his political leanings without the additional swastika badges on his uniform. There appeared to be something wrong with his watery blue eyes, which never stopped moving as he accosted her.
‘Madam, you are an Israelite.’
‘What are you saying?’ She sounded as puzzled by the turn of phrase as the accusation itself.
‘Come, my little Jewish maiden, I know just the place for you.’
With that he grabbed her arm with one hand and placed the other on his holster.
‘And don’t even think about running away. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot you and save us a lot of trouble.’
He marched her down the street as she berated him all the way. She demanded his name and when he wouldn’t give it to her, used the number on his uniform.
‘So, Mr 165, is this the way you earn your living? You round up innocent citizens as they go about their business? You’re not fit to be a policeman, let alone a Pole, how dare you dishonour your nation?’
On and on she went, driven by fury rather than fear, until they arrived at the police station.
‘Found another one, Sergeant, walking the streets in broad daylight. Unbelievable, isn’t it? Build them a nice ghetto where they can be together and look how they thank us. They are the limit.’
‘Well your timing is impeccable There’s transport out the back ready to leave as soon as Adam’s finished his tea.’
With the mention of transport, Marta swallowed hard, her heart thumped and her guts tightened.
‘Where are you taking me? I am not a Jew.’
Both men looked at her bemused.
Through clenched teeth, she repeated: ‘I am not a Jew. Why won’t you listen?’
‘Dear lady, please calm yourself. If you are not Jewish, you have nothing to fear. They will check your papers and let you go.’ The oily tone did nothing to reassure her.
Potato face sneered.
‘Not Jewish? I can sniff out your lot with a blocked up nose. You stink.’
‘I told you. I am not a Jew.’
‘Know what? If you look like a Jew and walk like a Jew and smell like a Jew, the chances are you are a bleeding Jew.’
Both men guffawed. Sick to the pit of her stomach, she lurched sideways and leant against a wall. The realisation her immediate future, possibly her entire fate, lay in the stupidity and malevolence of men such as these made her scalp prickle and dried her mouth to ash.
Inside the sharp-edged, rusty prison van, she sat on a splintered bench alongside three other women; two sat on the opposite side. One clutched a rosary and rocked back and forth while moving her fingers through the beads much too fast. Similar shades of blonde made her wonder if they shared the same hairdresser and then, more grimly, how soon their dark roots would show. The doors shut, and their eyes adjusted to darkness. The driver moved off like a rally driver and they crashed into each other at every corner and braced themselves with their feet and arms. They arrived bruised and shaken.
They took her papers and belongings while they screamed at her for not responding fast enough to their questions and orders. One woman translated their demands until they told her to shut her mouth and slapped her so hard Marta blanched in horror. Minutes later they shoved them through a door into a large room.
The lock-up was in semi darkness with no windows and only one bare lightbulb lit the space. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she discerned twenty or thirty women. There was another door half way down one wall and in the furthest corner buckets she assumed to be the source of the stench.
Some inmates looked at the new arrivals, others carried on their whispered conversations without a glance; the atmosphere in the room vibrated quiet despair. Most of the inmates were Jewish, she was certain of that. She turned to the woman who now sported a bright red mark on her cheek.
‘Thank you for trying to help me. I am so sorry they did that to you.’
‘It’s nothing to what they have done to others in here.’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘No, but it’s not a secret.’
She fell silent as shame and regret flooded through her. Everyone knew life for Jewish people had become unbearably hard. From the beginning of the occupation, those wearing the Star of David invited ridicule at best or a sadistic beating at worst and every shade of humiliation in between.
But what could she have done in the circumstances? She would never have turned away someone asking for her help, she felt sure of that, but to pay too much attention to what was going on, or comment on it, or actually intervene, was to guarantee the same treatment for yourself.
Like everyone else, she was desperate to survive.
When they set up the ghettos and started the transports and the rumours circulated about their ultimate destination, then pity abounded but the courage to do more, in her case at least, proved lacking. Difficult enough to risk your own life, but if they caught you, they rounded up and killed your entire family. It wasn’t a decision anyone took lightly.
An organisation called Zegota and countless individuals sought to help them. Although she always donated money – and God knows she had little enough of that – she didn’t get involved. And now here she was sharing their fate. Would she have done differently if she had known she would end up here? On balance she thought not and shame overwhelmed her.
The other prisoner sensed her inner turmoil.
‘What’s your name?’ Her voice was matter-of-fact but not unfriendly.
‘Marta. And yours?’
‘Pola.’
5
‘Listen, Marta, let me give you some advice. Try to learn German if you can. When they interrogate you, they will make you pay for a translator and you’ll never know if they’ve allocated you a decent human being or one who has sold his soul to our new masters and will say anything to please them. If you’re familiar with the language, you stand a better chance.’
‘Pay for a translator? But what if you have no money?’
‘They go after family or friends. They alwa
ys get what they want.’
‘Will you teach me?’
Pola said nothing for a moment.
‘Please and if there is anything I can do to help you, I will do it.’
‘Help the others. They need it more than me, but I will teach you as much as I can.’
‘Thank you. Can we start now?’
‘Goodness, you’re keen.’ Pola laughed, attracting attention from the prisoners nearby and then she spoke loudly enough to be heard across the room.
‘German lessons starting here for anyone interested.’
Somebody spat and muttered an expletive, but several came alongside as Pola sat down with Marta.
‘We’ll start with the obvious commands such as empty your pockets, hand over your papers, stand over there.’
They spent the next few hours learning by rote.
‘Enough. Absorb what you have learned so far. We’ll continue again tomorrow.’
Marta thanked her again and stood up, stretching arms and legs. She felt tired and desperate for a cigarette but pleased at how much they had managed to cover. As she walked around the room, she noticed the woman from the prison van clutching her rosary.
Kneeling down, she said: ‘Excuse me, Madam. My name is Marta and I don’t have my rosary. May I use yours while we pray together?’
The woman looked with narrowed eyes and her grip tightened.
‘I won’t steal it from you.’
The woman shrugged and looked away, as if to say what did it matter when they had already stolen everything of value, but she held out the rosary.
Marta took it reverently and holding the crucifix, made the sign of the cross saying, ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.’ The woman imitated the actions in silence.
Still holding onto the crucifix, she said the Apostles’ Creed. No reaction. When she moved onto the first bead the woman joined in. As she said the words, the familiar rocking motion began and Marta moved a hand across to stop her.
When they finished the prayer, she moved onto the next bead and they both said the Hail Mary in unison. She was humbled to see how many women were joining in the prayers.
When they finished, the woman waited until the small crowd dispersed, then held the crucifix.
‘The sign of the cross and then?’
‘The Apostles’ Creed,’ she said and taught her the words. She was a diligent pupil and by nightfall was reciting the creed in full.
‘Will you come and pray with me tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Sympathy spread through her body as she vowed to do more.
Pola was deep in conversation with another prisoner, heads bent towards each other. Something drew her to the older woman’s open, round face and the way she held herself, upright without being stiff like a sunflower turning to the light. She estimated her to be in her late thirties, or early forties, and was certain that the long, caramel coloured hair, plaited down her back, was genuine, matching darker eyebrows and blue-grey eyes.
Not wanting to interrupt, she looked for a place to settle. There was a small space alongside one wall and she sat down, leaning back against the damp brickwork; eyes closed, she repeated the German words and phrases.
The door was unlocked and against the brighter light of the corridor she watched as two burly men threw in a ragged bundle which smacked to the floor. Pola was the first up.
‘What is it?’
‘Not what, but who?’
With gentle care, Pola lifted away bloody rags. When she revealed the bloody, swollen face, eyes closed in purple pouches, tears welled in Marta’s eyes.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered.
‘Not now, Marta, you can pray later. Help make her more comfortable.’
Pola’s voice broached no argument and Marta pulled herself together and did as she was directed. She took off her cardigan and folded it as a pillow beneath the woman’s head lifting it a fraction with the same infinite care she had seen Pola use. She helped to arrange her arms and legs to aid recovery and covered her with a shawl donated by another prisoner.
‘That’s all we can do. We’ll assess the damage when she comes round.’
Marta nodded, unable to speak. A short while later, the door opened again, and the guards pointed to two women.
Not again, she thought, unable to bear it. But the callout turned out to be routine as they left to collect the prisoners’ supper of bread and an urn with two metal cups to share out the contents.
She waited and received a small piece of bread and some lukewarm brown liquid that could have been anything. Unable to forget the image of the swollen face, she ate mechanically. Sleep did not come easily that night, and she tossed and turned on the hard floor, often blinking eyes wide open in terror, conscious of a constricting lump in her throat and a weight pressing down on her chest.
When morning came, a deep sleep brought vague, terrifying images and a sense of foreboding.
Somebody shook her shoulders, and she awoke startled. Pola was sitting next to her with a steaming mug and a piece of bread.
‘Here, drink it while it’s hot. It’ll do you good. Don’t linger over it or they’ll get annoyed about the mug.’
The warm liquid seeped into her stomach. She gave back the mug and chewed the bread. Pola handed back her cardigan.
‘She didn’t make it. The internal injuries were too grievous.’
‘Oh.’ Deflated she made the sign of the cross and prayed.
Later that morning, Pola announced her German lessons, and a harsh voiced old woman answered from the other side of the room.
‘What the hell’s the point you stupid bitch? Do you think they’ll think twice about beating you up because you speak their God-forsaken language?’
The intemperate language shocked Marta, but she had to admit she had a point. The brutal death had unsettled the whole group; those who had forgotten about their plight for long enough to chat about family and friends now sat motionless and silent; among others she could sense an almost palpable tension and, she realised, a mutinous hatred.
She made the effort to move across to Pola. A few more joined them but they were a smaller group than before. The atmosphere affected Pola. Instead of giving a lesson she sang a beautiful German lullaby.
Marta understood little but enjoyed the haunting melody convinced Pola’s voice was soothing all of them.
A sudden buzz of anger like a hive disturbed and a scrabbling movement in the far corner proved her wrong. Two women were trying to get up and being pulled down by friends, but they wrenched themselves free and marched across to Pola.
‘How do you say ‘I am Jewish’ in German?’
‘Please don’t,’ said Pola, but the prisoners were adamant.
‘If you don’t tell us, we’ll say it wrong and we don’t want that. Help us say it in perfect German, help us show them we’re better than they are, help us be who we are, instead of these frightened rats they’ve turned us into.’
One of Pola’s pupils stood up and responding to the madness raised her chin.
‘Wir sind judische Frauen’.
Beaming, the three sauntered to the door arm in arm, shouting out ‘Wir sind jüdische Frauen.’ They pounded fists against the door, repeating their proud declaration again and again. The rest of the room looked on horrified until the door opened and they walked past an open-mouthed guard.
Nobody spoke for a long time; nobody moved for a long time except to wipe away tears; nobody could believe what they had witnessed, and each gave the action their own interpretation which erupted in whispered debate.
‘Such courage,’ said one.
‘Such stupidity,’ countered another.
‘Well, I’m proud of them.’
‘Me too, I wish I had the courage to do the same.’
‘You sho
uldn’t be proud. There’s no courage in suicide and that was suicide pure and simple.’
‘The act of a madman.’
‘Did you see those faces? They looked euphoric.’
‘Bewitched, more like.’
‘Plain crazy.’
Pola sat holding her head in her hands.
‘What do you think will happen to them?’
‘If…’ she hesitated a moment. ‘If they are lucky, the guards will shoot them.’
Hours passed. The mood in the room remained sombre. Marta gathered herself to find her prayer companion and knelt down to say the rosary with many others joining in.
‘Looks like you’ve got more pupils than I have.’ Pola joked as they sat together eating supper.
‘Have they told you their favourite prayer yet?’
‘No, what is that?’
‘Our Lady’s Dream.’
‘I’m not familiar with that one.’
‘Someone found it scribbled onto a piece of paper and left on the altar of the Church of the Three Crosses in Warsaw, not long after the Germans moved into the capital.’
‘I used to attend that church. What are the words?’
‘Perhaps I should let them tell you. There can’t be many things they can teach you, so I’m sure it would please them.’
‘Oh, Pola, don’t tease me. I’ll pretend I’ve never heard it before and I’d much rather know in case they never share it with me.’
‘I’m sure they won’t do that, but I will recite for you:
Our Lady’s Dream
Lord Jesus came to her and asked:
‘Mother, are you asleep?’
‘I fell asleep,’ says the Virgin Mary, ‘but you, dear Son, awakened me. I saw you in the Garden of Gethsemane, stripped of your garments, when they spat on your Holy Face, when they crowned You with thorns, when they nailed You to the Cross. They pierced Your side with a spear, whence flowed water and Your Sacred Blood. Then they took Your Body down from the Cross and laid it in my arms.’
And the Virgin Mary wept.
Jesus replied most tenderly:
‘Most Holy Mother, whoever recites this dream or listens to it or carries it upon his person will gain 100 days remission from purgatory and on that day he will not die a violent death without having received My Sacred Body and Blood. And whoever asks anything of You, or Me, Mother, will OBTAIN it.’
