by Anna Patrick
(This is where you make your petition, explained Pola.)
‘Whoever recites this prayer, listens to it or carries it on his person, neither while travelling, nor in war nor in any other place will evil befall him. In whichever house he finds himself neither fire nor water will harm him nor any other harm come to him.’
We offer up these 100 days indulgence for the souls of all the faithful departed and they in their turn will watch over us. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.’
‘Oh that is beautiful. Perhaps this is blasphemous, but I’ve never liked the Hail Mary. It strikes me as cheating to use the words of the Angel Gabriel…’
‘And Saint Elizabeth…’
‘And Saint Elizabeth inspired by the Holy Spirit.’
‘Well, at least we can recite our catechism.’
‘Will you stop interrupting me?’
Pola grinned in amusement.
‘Now you were saying or was it blaspheming?’
‘Agh stop it.’ But she was grinning too.
‘Anyway, I don’t find it easy to say except for the last part. Our Lady’s Dream is so evocative. It’s powerful because it’s telling a story and you’re aware it’s not a dream but the future facing her beloved son and you empathise with a mother’s pain.’
‘Oh? And there I was thinking it was all about saving your skin and getting your petition granted.’
‘That is outrageously cynical.’
Pola chuckled, and they sat like two naughty pupils who had defied the priest in a confirmation class.
The friendship blossomed and Pola spent many hours talking to her in German, stopping to translate whenever she could not follow and correcting her increasingly fluid attempts to converse with her.
‘You’re not Jewish, are you?’ Marta asked her one day. ‘So why are you here?’
‘The jealousy of neighbours.’
She frowned and tilted her head.
‘I have an easy life. I speak German like a native so communication is not a problem. My job as a waitress gets me tips and a good meal every day. That makes a few of my neighbours spit. They watch me with pinched lips and clenched teeth and mutter under their breath as I walk past.
‘Someone must have reported me to the authorities for helping Jews. I cover my tracks so I don’t think they have any proof but who knows? The trouble is I doubt they’ll keep my job open for me and the arrest alone will have tainted me in the eyes of potential employers. It’s surprising how word gets around even in a large town like Krakow.’
‘How did you learn German?’
‘My mother died giving birth. My father was a doctor who specialised in tuberculosis, work that saw him travel abroad to various hospitals and clinics. He was away when she started labour early and the news of her death reached him by telegram. When he came back, it was with a German wet nurse who stayed beyond her contract and ended up being our housekeeper. She was a good woman. I loved her very much.’
‘What happened to her own child?’
‘Stillborn. She used to say “You saved my life, and I saved yours, so we’re quits.” It was like a little nursery rhyme but I didn’t understand the significance until much later.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She returned to Germany to nurse her dying mother when I was twelve. Later she wrote to say she was getting married. After about a year she gave birth to a baby boy called Hans. Communication was sporadic after that and they returned the last letter we sent.’
Pola lowered her head and pressed hands against eyes. She sighed.
‘Why did she have a son? He must be in his early twenties now and I can’t help wondering if he’s one of my customers.’
‘That would be an extraordinary coincidence.’
‘Yes, but not impossible, and the thought turns my blood cold. If he’s an ordinary soldier I can cope with that, but what if he’s in the Gestapo or the SS? What if he’s responsible for torture or murder? You saved my life, I saved yours and now instead of being quits your son is killing both of us. Oh hell. It upsets me so much.’
‘What about your father?’
‘He was a lot older than my mother but very hale and hearty. He died in 1934. We’d had our evening meal together as usual and he went to sit in front of the fire with a newspaper. I was doing paperwork in the study, trying to concentrate and he was snoring. I even called out: “Tatusiu, stop snoring!” But it was death rattling in his throat.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Marta, reaching for her friend’s hand.
‘Thank you. Yet I’m glad he died when he did and he didn’t have to see any of this horror. He was such a good and noble man that if he hadn’t died, I think Nazism would have killed him.’
Two days after their conversation, a guard called Pola out for interrogation. She did not return. Marta hoped and prayed that all had gone well for her; she missed her easy going friendship and assuaged her loneliness by continuing to talk to her in her head, practising her German at the same time. During the day she helped the other prisoners, telling them all she remembered about Catholic doctrine and practice. As Pola had predicted they shared their love of Our Lady’s Dream with her and she often said the prayer asking for their safe release.
The prison became crowded as they arrested more women. The brutality of certain interrogations continued. There were no more deaths, but the injuries inflicted on some prisoners so appalled her she shook as she lay down to sleep.
Twice they called her out to empty the slop buckets and once to collect the prisoners’ food where she watched, sickened, as her companion stuffed bread into her pocket for her own private consumption.
‘Go on, you may as well stuff your own pockets, they all do it.’
But Marta shook her head and let her get on with it. At least it explained why people were as eager to volunteer for the food run as they were to avoid the slop run.
Once a fortnight they used the communal washroom. The first time they showered, Pola returned with the rag-like towel concealed under her dress.
‘Why on earth?’
‘And what will you do when your period comes?’
‘Oh Lord, I never thought of that.’
‘No, good thing I did.’
Pola tore the towel into strips and distributed them.
‘Try to pinch a towel next time you shower, but be careful not to get caught. You don’t want to get beaten up over a sanitary towel.’
‘Don’t you want any?’
‘No need. I had fibroids in my twenties that resulted in a hysterectomy. Poor Tata cried because I would never experience the joys of motherhood, but I was delighted to be rid of my periods and with my mother dying in childbirth I could never understand why he was so upset, knowing I would avoid that danger for ever.’
‘Did you never want children?
‘No. I’m sure they bring great joy but they can also bring great sorrow.’
In the days that followed, Marta often remembered their conversation and wondered at her friend’s equanimity when she was so certain she wanted children. What would she have done if a surgeon’s knife had made her barren? It was a fate she couldn’t imagine.
Six weeks into her captivity, the door opened, and they called her name. A guard escorted her into a small office where a German official sat at his desk while an obsequious man hovered in the background.
‘This is your interpreter,’ the official said, waving a dismissive hand towards the stooge.
‘No interpreter, thank you. I speak German.’
‘Very well,’ responded the official while the redundant interpreter threw her an evil look.
The question-and-answer session that followed went through her family set up. He noted the names and last known addresses of her parents and grandparents. She confirmed her curren
t address and gave the name of two of her parents’ friends as additional referees, not wanting to implicate her friends in Krakow.
With the forms filled in, the official put down his pen and asked her to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’ Her mind emptied.
‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ she repeated and swallowed for no further words came.
‘I’m sorry, my mind is a blank.’
The official raised his eyebrow and looked disgusted.
‘Guard. Take her back.’
Once inside the lock-up, she burst into tears. Her rosary companion came up and hugged her.
‘I couldn’t remember the Lord’s Prayer. I couldn’t remember the words.’
Her sobs subsided, and she sat down, wretched with a hopelessness as dark as her surroundings. The days passed in a monotonous sludge of despair, a hollowness of spirit she had never experienced before.
One morning, she awoke to find herself surrounded by her prayer pupils, all kneeling and reciting Our Lady’s Dream. When they came to making their petition, they all, as one, asked God to give her the strength to carry on.
Embarrassed by their show of faith in a religion that wasn’t even their own, she knelt alongside them.
‘Thank you for showing me the way. I will never forget this moment and I will never stop praying for all of you.’
They blushed and rolled their eyes, moving back to their places. From that moment she redoubled her efforts to be helpful and even stole a towel when they next showered.
Two weeks after her disastrous interview, they called her out again. As she left, a chorus of voices proclaimed the Lord’s Prayer, to boost her on her way.
Inside the official’s office, she beamed as she said ‘Good morning’ and waited for his instructions, confident of finding the words to every prayer.
‘You’re free to go.’
‘What?’
‘I said you’re free to go. My colleagues in Warsaw have checked your credentials and you are free of the taint of Judaism at least as far back as your grandparents, which is all we require at present. Here are your papers. Now leave and make sure you don’t waste our time again.’
Fuming at the slur, she had enough sense to say nothing.
‘Guard. Show this woman out.’
Once on the streets she ran, oblivious of the looks she was attracting, until she reached the home of her friend Wanda Szymanska. Breathless, she banged on the door and when it opened, fell crying into her outstretched arms.
When they stopped hugging, she said: ‘Please say there’s enough hot water for a bath. I’m desperate for one, that and a cigarette.’
‘This would be a good time to give up for good.’
‘Deaf. Must be a blockage. Only cigarette smoke will unplug it.’
‘I give up. There’s a packet on the kitchen table.’
They sat up half the night as Marta told her story.
‘They’re not human beings, Wanda, they can’t be to torture people like that. When they threw people into the cell, they were so bloodied and bruised we couldn’t see which end was which.’
‘Yet, there is one good thing about the Germans.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘Their rule book efficiency set you free.’
‘My God, you’re right. It makes little sense when you think about it. They despise Poles as much as Jews so why go to all the trouble of checking my details? They could have left me there or sent me out on the next transport.’
‘Precisely and yet they didn’t because rules are rules.’
In the weeks that followed her release from Montelupich, life returned to normal. They had filled her job on the trams, but it wasn’t long before they offered her shifts on a different route and she was soon back in full-time employment. On her days off, she tried to find Pola but as they had never exchanged addresses, it proved a difficult task. Then she met Ludek and nothing else seemed important.
6
Ludek Golab sat pinned to the chair, shoulders drooped, head bowed. Wanda paced up and down, banging cupboards, slamming down glasses and spoons as she made tea. She tutted and shot dagger glances at him. Shaking, she spilt the boiling water and splashed her hand.
‘Ow. See what you’ve made me do?’
‘I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?’
She groaned and collapsed in a chair.
‘I’m worried sick.’
‘This is all my fault. I sensed danger, yet I let her go. What does that make me? A coward and an idiot. Why didn’t I keep my big mouth shut?’
She clapped her fists together; the hollow sound reverberated around the kitchen. Desperate to keep active she plaited her strawberry blond hair and pinned it up around her head.
‘She has form, Ludek. Madcap actions were her speciality at school. Oh the stupid, stupid girl.’
‘But why did I agree to it? Did I lose my sanity? God in heaven, what possessed me?’
The same thoughts ricocheted through Wanda’s head but seeing Ludek berate himself in such heartfelt fashion abated her anger.
‘Marta is so determined nobody can stop her if she believes she is doing the right thing.’
‘Regret is pointless. I’ll invent a story, hand myself in and take the consequences.’
There was a new glint of determination.
‘That is insane. Do you imagine they would release her just because you turned up in a suit of shining armour waving a banner of righteousness?
‘Take me; let my beloved go!’ She waved in a dramatic flourish.
‘The first thing they’ll look for is any inconsistencies in your stories and then you’re both done for.’
Ludek pinched his nose and averted his face.
She slammed her fist on the table, jade eyes blazing.
‘Don’t you dare play the martyr? Go to the Gestapo and you jeopardise Marta and your resistance cell. Have you any idea how they torture people?’
‘I would never betray them.’
‘Nobody knows how they would react to torture.’
‘I’d lie.’
‘By the time they finished you wouldn’t know the difference between the truth and a lie.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ His eyes widened.
‘Oh my God, is that what they are doing to Tusik? Right now? It’s unbearable. What can I do to help her? I love her so much.’
He sobbed.
‘Does Marek know?’ His older brother had brought him up after their parents’ death and remained a stalwart influence.
‘Not yet.’
‘Listen. In Warsaw, Marta would already be dead. We are lucky the regime is more relaxed here. The chances are they interrogated her and she satisfied them with her story. She’s as safe as she can be in Gestapo hands. You’ll be able to help her once they transfer her to Montelupich.’
‘How?’
‘By sending parcels. No, don’t react like that. Imagine what it means to a prisoner? To know somebody on the outside is thinking about them and doing whatever they can for them?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘I’ll go to the prison, check she is there and ask what you’re allowed to send and how often. Now is there anything else?’
He shook his head, still numbed by the enormity of his actions, then mumbled something about visitors.
‘What was that?’
‘I don’t suppose they would allow her visitors.’
‘Highly unlikely and dangerous,’ said Wanda, in a businesslike manner. ‘Now you’d better go. What time is your shift tomorrow?’
Ludek worked as a machinist in a wood mill outside Krakow.
‘I’m on early shift so I need to be there for six.’
‘Come when you’ve finished work. I should be here
by then.’
Arrangements made, they hugged.
‘Be brave.’
‘If anything happens…’
‘I will. You don’t have to ask.’
They both knew nobody left their home in the morning confident of returning safely in the evening. Too many things could go wrong from street round-ups to reprisal shootings to a sudden bullet in the head for showing insufficient respect to a German officer who had passed you on the pavement. No wonder fear held your hand every step of the way.
Ludek left the building and for a moment desperately, childishly, wanted to run all the way home to his brother just as he had done when they were growing up. Running wasn’t a crime, yet, but it attracted attention and it was never wise to do that; so instead he set himself a steady pace and tried hard to keep control of his emotions while remaining alert for danger.
He lived on the southern side of Krakow in the parental apartment where three of the rooms were now let out to supplement their meagre income. Marek was eight years older and had effectively brought up his younger brother following the long illness and then death of their mother when Ludek was just ten years old; their father, having died on army service in 1919, was just a distant memory.
Ludek loved his brother without question but also respected him as the head of the household. He never forgot what he owed his brother who worked so hard at his job in local government – a job he found no pleasure in – just to keep them going; but more than financial security, he knew that any happiness and emotional security he had experienced growing up was down to his brother’s unfailing patience and brotherly love. Marek had become for him a father and a mother rolled into one. He, in turn, took his responsibilities seriously and tried to provide everything he thought his younger brother needed to grow up a rounded human being.
It was with this ambition in mind that he had taken fourteen-year-old Ludek to the theatre to celebrate his birthday. The schoolboy’s face was alight; he fidgeted in his seat and observed everything, nudging Marek whenever he spotted someone famous. When the orchestra tuned up and an expectant hush fell over the audience, he leaned forward, goggle-eyed, lips parted. The colourful costumes and spellbinding words mesmerised him. During the interval, he stood sipping a drink, eyes glazed. Marek shook him to get a response to his questions. When the play ended he shot up and clapped and cheered.
