by Gwen Edelman
Do you suppose the dining car is open? she asked. She pulled another chocolate from her purse. I’m ravenous, she whispered. What shall we eat? What shall we eat? he replied. We’ll have cabbage and pierogi, latkes and goose liver, roasted potatoes and duck dripping with fat and drowning in sour cherry sauce. We’ll mop it all up with black bread and finish off with Black Forest cake. What won’t we have? She smiled. How delicious. Jascha, she said happily, we’ll have a banquet. A banquet in the ruins, he replied. Jascha! No darling, he said, just a banquet.
They put on their fur hats and re-buttoned their coats. He put his hand beneath her arm. Come my sweetheart, let me escort you. Now even Jews can dine in first class dining cars.
It happened that when the leaves on the trees turned red and gold, Jascha received a letter from Poland. It lay on the hall table in their house in London, a cream colored envelope with a Polish stamp. Jascha looked at it. What is this? he asked. News from Poland after forty years? The news can only be bad. And he left it lying there. Open it, Lilka had said. No, darling, he replied, better not. She reached for the envelope. He put a warning hand on her wrist. Let me, she said softly. What’s the harm?
She pulled out a cream colored card. It’s an invitation, she informed him.
An invitation? he asked. Do they miss their Jews? Are they inviting us back after all these years? Come back, dear Jews? And in writing! She read from the stiff card written in a Polish hand.
To Mr. Jascha Kroll: We invite you, our esteemed Polish writer, to honor us with a reading of your work at Writers’ House in Warsaw on December 9th. We shall be happy to welcome you back and look forward to the honor of having you with us at Writers’ House. With cocktails and a light buffet to follow.
Jascha went to the freezer and took out a bottle of vodka. Ha, he said, slamming the door. First they want me dead. Now I’m a native son, an “esteemed Polish writer.” Who will come to this reading, I wonder? He poured out the vodka into two shot glasses. Three spinster schoolteachers, a couple of birds, six dead Jews? What chutzpah. They haven’t changed.
They sat together at the round wooden table covered in a dark red cloth. Why shouldn’t we go? asked Lilka. Her thin silver bangles clinked as she raised her glass. I want them to know what a great writer they lost. Who writes in Polish. Who speaks to them of all they would like to forget. And do you think, he asked, that they will want to be reminded? When you read from your books, they’ll be reminded. Reminded? he asked. They’ll run off into the snowy night. They won’t sleep for a week. We didn’t sleep for four years, she remarked, and lifting her throat she drank back the vodka.
I’m not going back to that hellhole, he told her. Not for anything. Not if you paid me. Not if Churchill took me by the hand. Write and tell them that. December? he asked in disbelief. When all of Poland lies frozen beneath the snow? When the wind sings in the chimneys and the water freezes in the pipes? Well the answer is no. You can tell them that. But Jascha, it’s our last chance. Soon it will be too late. Why? he asked. Are we leaving for the next world? She shrugged. We’re no longer young. Speak for yourself, he said. We’ll go for three days, she said. What can happen? Many things, he replied. The war is over, she told him. It’s not the same Warsaw. Is it not the same Poles? he asked.
You’ll read to them from your brilliant books, said Lilka. What’s the harm? He studied her as she drank. It’s you who wants to go back, you sly witch. Why don’t you say so? She took up the small wooden bird that sat on the table. Maybe I do, she said at last.
The room was in near darkness. What are we getting to eat? he asked. I’m starving. She got up and turned on the lamp. I couldn’t face cooking, she replied, so everything is cold. He lit a cigarette. Cold leftovers, he said mournfully. Once upon a time you cooked for me every night. This is what happens. Women lose interest. There was a time when your dearest desire was to spend hours cooking me my favorite things. I could say the same, she replied. You used to bring me stockings with a black seam up the back. You brought me chocolates. And pink soaps tied up in little packages. And now? Do you still want all that? he asked. She shrugged. Yes. No.
She set the table and brought plates of smoked salmon and dark bread, potato salad, beet salad, sour cream, lemons, a pot of butter, and the frosted bottle of vodka. He poured out two more shots of vodka. And spooned out a large serving of beet salad for her. Your beloved beets, he said. That’s the peasant in you. And you, she said, bending forward to light the candles, with your coarse black bread and your herring.
Jascha raised his glass. Let us drink to two refugees from the former city of Warsaw, he said. Sometimes late at night they remember the trees, the bread, the birds of their native land, and the soft sounds of their own language.
She pressed back her blonde hair and raised her glass. Let us drink to our return, she proposed. We’ll go back. No darling, he replied. We won’t. Outside a dog barked. Look at you, he said, your mouth is red with beet stain. Just like children in Poland before the war. When they harvested the beets the children’s faces were red with the juice of beets. Wipe your mouth my sweetheart, I don’t want to think about it.
He smoked and ate at the same time. She helped herself to another forkful of beets. I’m the only woman who would put up with the smell of that tobacco, she said. Quite a few others did, he said. I doubt it, she said, chewing slowly, you’re too difficult. He smiled. But that’s what women love, my sweetheart. She cut into the dark bread and placed a slice of smoked salmon on top. Don’t speak to me, she said. He laughed. What a crazy woman, he said, his mouth full.
I dream of Warsaw all the time, she told him. Sometimes it is closer to me than anything. She pried open the jar. Just once more, she said, lifting a herring out delicately from the brine, I would like to see the street where I lived when I was a girl. She placed the herring on a piece of rye bread, added a thin slice of onion and handed it to him. Is that so terrible?
Lilka placed another herring on a piece of bread and pressed it into her mouth. If my mother could see me eating like this, she said with a laugh. Who did she think she was? asked Jascha. The Countess Razumovsky?
In Warsaw I want to walk down Marszałkowska, she said. Where we used to stroll before the war. And stop to look in the shop windows. My father wore his coat with the fur collar. My mother wore a small black velvet hat with a veil. I remember, she said, when the wind shifted and the scent of pines blew in from the Praga forests. And all of Warsaw smelled like a pine forest. His mouth tightened. When the wind shifted the smell of burning gagged us, he said, the place was rubble, the sky was black with ash, the facades had crumbled and the streets were full of corpses. That’s your precious Warsaw. She turned her face away. Why do you ruin it for me?
Your beloved Warsaw is ashes and rubble, he said. There’s nothing left. Not a building, not a house, not a street that remains from before. Everything you knew is gone. Burned. Finished. Kaput. Forget your idea of going back. Have they changed the sky? she asked, her cheeks flushed. The air? Has the Vistula changed course? He sighed. My darling, you sound like a schoolgirl. Ach, Lilka. Poland is a morgue.
Her thin bangle bracelets clinked against each other. Then I’ll go alone. Ha, he replied. Let you return to Poland on your own? Let you wander in the kingdom of the dead on your own? How could I? I would have to come and rescue you. Oh Jascha, don’t be so silly. It is no longer allowed to pull the earlocks of Jews in the third class carriages, he said. Nevertheless even now, forty years later, it is hardly a child’s garden of verses in our beloved homeland.
The radiator clanked and the heat began to rise with a hiss. Lilka brought out a small chocolate cake. Is it the one I like? he asked. She nodded. With marzipan? His eyes grew shiny. Oh darling, he said. Come and sit on my lap. Let me hug you and kiss you. I’ll take you to Paris. We’ll go to Fouquet’s. I’ll buy you stockings with a black seam up the back. Like before the war. I don’t want to go
to Paris, she said. Take me to Warsaw.
She cut the cake into paper thin slices. He watched her. Do you think you are still Back There? Are you saving a sliver for tomorrow and another for the day after? She put one of the slices in her mouth and then another. Will you hide one under your scarf? he asked. Another in your underwear? Leave me alone, she said.
I’m going to call Warsaw tomorrow, she said. Call the ghetto telephone, he said. I still remember the number. I’m not staying in the ghetto. I’m going to stay at the Hotel Bristol, she said, chewing her cake. What? he cried. The most expensive hotel in Warsaw? And who may I ask will pay for that? I will, she said, licking her fork. You’re crazy, he said. Where will you get that kind of money? I will get it, she said. He watched her. What a sweet girl, one might think. But behind that blonde hair, those big blue eyes, and goyish face lies Judah Maccabee. And who did I learn it from? she wanted to know. From you, my angel. She served them both another slice of cake. Eat, she said. Now that we can.
Many nights they dreamed of food. They saw loaves of dark rye bread flying through the air, pails of cherries spilling out on the ground, piles of shiny apples, tables of endless cakes, buckets of chocolates. In waking life the refrigerator had always to be full of food, the shelves stuffed with all manner of canned goods. God forbid, he said, that we should run out of food. They kept chocolate bars in the drawers of their night tables. And often during the night they got up and came into the kitchen in their nightclothes and sat down for an entire meal as the stars shone down on them from the black night sky.
I dreamed that I was hungry, he would tell her as he ate eagerly. I dreamed that I was dying of thirst, she would say. Who else could we live with if not each other? he would ask. Who else could understand?
After dinner they would go out for a walk or to the casino. He was too restless to work at night. It was in the afternoon that he struggled with his stories in the room at the end of the hall. Once upon a time the words had poured out of him and he had become famous. Now, he told her, I cannot find my way. So many stories. But I seem to have lost access to all that. As though it were all buried deep within the earth and I cannot dig it out . . .
Many years ago, Lilka told him, Hagar was wandering in the desert with her small son Ishmael. There was no water. They walked and walked. Soon they would die of thirst. Hagar prayed to God for help. And He answered her. Hagar, look, He said. The well is in front of your eyes. And she saw that it was. Jascha turned to her in surprise. Where did you learn that? From you, she replied.
Near midnight when the moon rocked in the night sky, he said to her: brush your feathers, darling, schnell schnell. We’re going to try our luck at the tables. Several times a week they went out to the casino. Often they stayed until three or four in the morning. Sometimes as they walked home, the sky had already begun to lighten in the east. Now they walked through the darkened London streets, still slick with rain. It will soon be winter, she said, pulling her coat tightly around her. Why won’t you wear a coat, you stubborn man?
They came to a black door and rang the bell. Inside they showed their passports to a broad shouldered man and were buzzed through to the gaming room. Let me see, she said and reached for his passport. Inside the Polish passport with the golden eagle was the photo of a much younger man. I forgot how handsome you were, she said. I still am, he replied. Why do you keep this? she asked. You always say that the name and memory of Warsaw should be blotted out. He took back the passport roughly. That’s not the whole truth. Now let’s go and play.
They sat together at the table covered in green felt with squares of red and black. Shaded lamps illuminated the numbers. Beyond the tables the room lay in darkness. Tonight I’m feeling reckless, Lilka said, and she placed a stack of chips on the 28. You’re getting a bit too reckless, he remarked, eyeing the stack. Never mind, she said gaily, I’m going to win tonight. And if I win on the 28, you’ll come to Poland. Who says so? he asked. Faites vos jeux, called out the croupier. Rien ne va plus.
This is where I feel at home, he would tell her. Here there is no time or space, no day or night. All your problems disappear and only the numbers exist. Unlike her, he took risks. He would place a large pile of chips on one number and then put them on the same number again. And again. Numbers are mystical, he told her. Each has a meaning. When I look at the numbers on the felt, I remember my ancestors who understood the universe that separated the 3 from the 4. He sat at the table, smoking continuously, intent on the silver wheel as it spun round and round. At those moments she couldn’t talk to him.
When he won, he was happy and all of life seemed good. When he lost, shadows appeared beneath his eyes and the end of the world seemed imminent. Why do you get so worked up each time the ball drops into the slot? As though your life depended on it? she asked him. It does, you silly girl, he replied and blew out a cloud of that foul black tobacco. From one second to the next, your fortunes change—just like during the war.
He inhaled deeply and blew out small smoke rings. Winston Churchill said: play for more than you can afford to lose and you will learn the game. That’s me. He let slide a stack of blue chips onto the 7. During the war you could disappear from one moment to the next. A turn of the wheel and it was all over. Lovemaking was never as good as when you might die in the next moment. A girl’s soft thighs were never as enticing as when they might disappear from one moment to the next. Only the casino where you can lose everything from one moment to the next reminds me of that other life. A girl’s? she said. What girl?
At the end of a losing streak she would plead with him not to put any more money down. I’ll get it back, he would say. At the last moment, when all seems lost, the earth spins on its axis, your luck changes, and you win it back. And sometimes he did. When he won big, they would go to the bar and order champagne. And he would slide his hand up her leg and ask if they should do it right there. On top of the bar. Let them see, he crowed. What do we care? We’ve won!
Again and again the long thin wrist of the croupier shot out from the white cuff and spun the wheel. Lilka placed another stack of chips on the 28. Sorry, darling, he said as her stack was raked off the table. Lilka carefully counted out thirty chips and placed them once again on the 28. Third time lucky, she said. Light me a cigarette. Stop, Lilka, what’s gotten into you? You’re playing like me. And he reached out to take back her chips. Leave them there, she warned. The wheel began to spin and she leaned forward to watch. As the wheel spun, the light glinted off the silver grooves, the black and red numbers blurred. Lilka watched, motionless. Now the wheel slowed at last. The silver ball rocked and nearly fell into the 29. Prosze¸ prosze¸, she murmured. Please please. The ball hesitated for a split second and then dropped with a click into the 28. She turned to him triumphantly. Jascha, I’ve won! Straight up. On a number. Thirty-five to one—750 pounds! She laughed happily as the croupier’s rake pushed toward her the high stacks of chips. Did I not tell you? I invite you, she said, to three nights at the Hotel Bristol. In the former city of Warsaw.
They walked home through the dark rain slick streets. It was meant to be, she informed him. Ach Lilka. So superstitious. Like everyone Back There. One woman saw the word Ge¸sia Street written on a sheet of newsprint and was convinced that the next roundup would be on Ge¸sia Street. Nearly everyone saw a significance in numbers. If they suddenly saw the number seven written somewhere it meant trouble in seven days. Or there would be a raid at #7 on some street or another. And so on. If there is a crazier way to predict the future, I would like to know it. Don’t be so harsh, she said. When you are that helpless, why not tether yourself to a number? What else is there to cling to? Are you now a philosopher? he asked.
She took his arm. Come back to Warsaw with me, my Jascha. When have I ever asked you for anything? She stared at him. Well, once. And I gave her up, didn’t I? he replied.
Two days later she went to get the tickets. How many did you get? h
e asked her.
That night, as the dog across the garden howled at the moon, she began to pull her clothes off the hangers and fold them into a suitcase. I’m coming, he said. And he threw two sweaters into the suitcase. Why do you do this to me? I want to return to Warsaw like I want the cholera, he informed her, and threw in a pair of socks. In the morning they went to the station.
In the dining car the tables were spread with dingy white cloths, there were white plates with faded silver rims and dull metal cutlery. Only a third of the tables were occupied. Who goes to Warsaw in winter? said Jascha. Only a madman. A tall bony maitre d’ with a long melancholy nose came up to them and indicated a table for two by the window. At a nearby table sat a good-looking man in a double-breasted suit with his dark hair slicked back in the old manner. He examined Lilka as she passed. Unconsciously she lifted a shoulder gracefully. Why do you do that? he asked. Do what? That coquettish gesture of yours when you lift your shoulder. I don’t lift my shoulder at all, she said irritably. The maitre d’ pulled back her chair and she sat down. He handed them menus. I’m ravenous, she whispered.
Why are you looking at him? he asked. I’m looking at everybody, she replied. I want to see who our fellow passengers are. I’ll tell you who they are, he said, they’re traveling salesmen. All of them? Most likely. They spend their lives on trains, carrying their heavy sample bags, doing a bit of currency speculation on the side, and bringing a little thrill to lonely housewives all over Eastern Europe.
That man for example, he said, pointing to the one who had watched her. He has three different housewives along the line. In Berlin, on the border in Rzepin, and across the Polish border in Kalisz. But they must buy first before any fun. Those are the rules. They sit together on her couch and examine the merchandise together as he runs a hand smoothly up her leg and she squeals. She shook her head. With you, everything is a story. And why not? he wanted to know. How else will we entertain ourselves on endless train rides?
