The Train to Warsaw

by Gwen Edelman

  The waiter appeared, a ruddy-faced man whose uniform was too big, carrying oversize menus. Polski? he asked. English, said Jascha. The man looked at him in surprise. Very well, sir. What is it you are wanting?

  There was no venison, only some whitish pork chops served with a tasteless gravy. She put down her fork. I’m ready for dessert.

  He poured out more shots from the bottle of Polish vodka that stood on the table. At least that hasn’t changed, she remarked. The dining car swayed and they heard the shrieking of the wind outside. Jascha looked at his watch. We will be at the border in half an hour, he told her. Let’s order some chocolate cake, she suggested, to cheer us up. He refilled their glasses. She laughed. Jascha, she said loudly, soon I won’t be able to stand up.

  They made their way back to their compartment, weaving as they walked. The train was half empty. They passed a Polish family who sat squeezed together. The mother had laid newspaper over her lap and was carving slices of dark sausage onto chunks of bread. Her husband and children waited impatiently, reaching out stubby fingers, talking all at the same time.

  Farther on, an old man lay with his head back against the seat, his mouth open, the skin stretched over the bones of his face. Lilka shuddered. A group of sturdy businessmen in suits that strained at the seams sat together smoking, drawing diagrams on sheets of paper.

  Just before they reached their compartment, they passed through the platform between the cars. As soon as Jascha opened the door, they felt the sudden icy blast of the air and the shriek of the train as it sped through the landscape. In that small space sat an old peasant woman on an upturned bucket. She wore a voluminous wool skirt, her flowered head­scarf nearly covered her forehead. The train rattled, her bent figure vibrated, and she muttered to herself in an incomprehensible Polish dialect. We’re getting near the border, said Jascha. It’s just the Poles now. He turned to her with an ironic smile. We’re almost home darling. Jascha, she said warningly.

  They came into their compartment and collapsed side by side onto the maroon plush. God, I’ve had a lot to drink, she said and laid her head against his shoulder. That Polish vodka is no joke. He put his arm around her. Go to sleep, my sweetheart, he said. When you wake up we’ll be in Poland. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Her head dropped onto his shoulder. And there, not far from the Polish border, they fell asleep.

  They were awakened as the train ground to a sudden halt. Jascha sat up and looked out in alarm. He gripped her arm. We’re here. Lilka awoke with a cry. I can’t get out, she cried. It’s like a coffin in here. Open the gate, open the gate, the wagon is coming. He shook her. That’s enough. Wake up. It’s only a dream. The gate, she called out. They’ve closed the gate. She opened her eyes and stared at him unseeing. I was standing in line. And then I saw that they were closing the gates. We pressed toward the gate but there was no way through. And then the snow began to fall. Stop it Lilka, he said. We’re at the border.

  She sat up straight and pushed back her hair. She peered out the window. A white sign dusted with snow proclaimed in Russian and Polish and German: You Are Entering Poland. They still have the same huts, she said. Forty years later. They heard the barking of dogs and shouting. She clutched his arm. He sat rigid, looking out the window. What is it? she cried. What’s happening?

  They stared out the window. In the darkness stood a station attendant in a maroon uniform trimmed in faded gold braid, swinging a lantern that threw faint gleams of yellow light onto the platform. The German shepherds were howling, straining at the leashes held by the men in uniforms. Jascha, she cried, it’s not us, is it? He squeezed her arm tightly. No, he hissed. Of course not.

  What is happening? she asked. Can you see? Wait, he said. They’re taking someone off. A Jew? she whispered. He gripped her arm, his dark eyes cold. Stop this, Lilka, he said. As they watched in the feebly lit darkness, they saw that the police were dragging someone down the steps of the train. She was kicking out her feet in felt boots, her wide skirt ballooned out as they pulled her off. Look at that, said Lilka in surprise. It’s the old peasant woman in the headscarf. The woman was screeching at them in high-pitched tones like the squawking of poultry, her kerchief sliding off her skull. The snow fell on her, on the uniforms of the policemen, on the yellowish coats of the dogs. What has she done? cried Lilka. Is she a Jew? The police and the woman disappeared into one of the huts. My God, Jascha, she said wildly, clutching at him. He looked out at her from dark eyes. Witamy w Polsce, he said. Welcome to Poland.

  It was night when they arrived in Warsaw. They made their way along the icy platform into the terminal. People loaded down with suitcases and parcels rushed past them, bundled up in dark clothes, their pale faces made small by fur hats. Like refugees, remarked Jascha. Lilka stopped. It’s not the same station. No, darling, it’s not, he agreed. That station was bombed forty years ago. Have you forgotten? The smell of damp woolens and stale cigarette smoke rose in the air. In the fluorescent light young soldiers stood smoking, their faces pale and spotty, their old-fashioned guns hanging off their arms. At least they’re not the same uniforms, remarked Jascha. Aren’t we lucky?

  How drab everyone looks, she said. How dull, how colorless. Can this be Warsaw? Everything was different before the war. And this glaring light, so relentless. That’s Communist light, he replied. Where ­nothing must be hidden. She stood motionless. Jascha, she said, I’ve gone deaf. I can’t hear anything. Everything has gone silent. Come with me, he said. Take my hand. Let us step out into the city that is no more.

  In the darkness they stood in line for a taxi. Across the road a streetlamp burned dimly, its light nearly extinguished by the snow. Those in line huddled close together in their padded dark coats and dark fur hats, their heads bent. No one spoke. They can stand in line for hours, for days, murmured Jascha. They’ve learned to. A sudden bitter icy wind blew through their clothing and froze the skin on their faces. Dear God, said Lilka, hunching her shoulders, her breath emerging in a cloud, I had forgotten how cold it is here. Is this Warsaw? she asked, staring at the square modern buildings. Where has it all gone? Nothing is familiar. Don’t worry darling, he said, we’ll find something. She looked around. Atop the buildings old-fashioned signs shone dully in the snowy evening. She shivered. Can this be Warsaw? So ugly? So soulless? Jascha, it’s another place entirely.

  When they were nearly frozen, their turn came. The driver threw their suitcase in the trunk and slammed it shut. They stepped into the old car. The springs groaned as they sat. How much to the Hotel Bristol? asked Jascha. 40 zlotys, said the man, his face dark with stubble. That’s highway robbery. Jascha, whispered Lilka. We’re getting out. Go ahead, replied the driver. Jascha opened the door and a blast of icy air struck them. I can do it for 30, said the man. 15, said Jascha. What is this, a cattle auction? asked the driver. Who would the cattle be? asked Jascha coldly. 17, said Jascha. 20, said the man. Jascha shut the door. All right you thief. I only agree because of my wife, who is tired. Otherwise I wouldn’t be so reasonable. The driver turned around to look at Jascha. Jascha stared at him out of dark eyes. What do you do? the driver asked him. What could such a man do for a profession? Jascha smiled coldly. Smuggler, he replied. Jascha, said Lilka, what has come over you? Jascha thrust forward his jaw and smiled. Let them all go to hell, he said softly.

  They pulled up at the Bristol. A man in red livery trimmed in gold braid opened the car door. Welcome, he said, and leaned down to extend his hand to Lilka. May I help you, Madame? he asked in Polish. Very kind, replied Lilka. Ah, Madame speaks Polish. Madame is Polish, replied Lilka.

  Welcome home, said the doorman with a half bow. His livery was faded, a button was missing, one epaulet had nearly torn free. Jascha emerged from the taxi, his dark eyes glowering beneath his fur chapka. The hotel employee stared at him. The gentleman is certainly Polish, he said. He was once, said Jascha. There’s a suitcase in the back, he said curt
ly. He took Lilka by the arm and pulled her into the hotel. And don’t steal it, he muttered. They stole everything, said Jascha. Like vultures stripping a carcass. Lilka turned to him. Jascha, she said, stop it. We’ve only just arrived.

  In the once elegant lobby, lit with the white light of fluorescent bulbs, the painted marble of the columns was chipped, the long drapes sagged, the Aubusson carpet was dark with age. Lilka turned to him in dismay. Jascha, she said, what was I thinking? Never mind, he said. It’s done now. Go and sit down while I check in.

  As she sat with her legs crossed, her blonde hair pulled back tightly, her fur hat in her hand, a man came over to her. He wore a pin-striped suit and his hair was slicked back. He bowed slightly. Does Madame speak Polish? he asked. She looked at him in confusion. What did he want? Identification? Yes, she replied at last. I do. Ah, Madame is Polish, he said. Such a beautiful woman. Might I invite you for a drink in the bar? She shook her head. I’m with my husband. She gestured toward the reception. What a terrible pity, he said. Are you visiting?

  Jascha was coming toward them. The man bowed. I wish you a pleasant stay. Who was that oily character? asked Jascha. He wanted to invite me for a drink. What chutzpah, he said. Lilka smiled. What a madman.

  A young bellboy took them up in the elevator. His hair was close cropped beneath his small hat and his skin deathly white. He walked quickly down the hall, their old leather suitcase knocking against his thin uniformed leg.

  He opened the door. Jascha and Lilka stood at the threshold. Prosze¸, said the boy. Please. And he indicated that they should enter. The bellboy put down their suitcase on the folding luggage rack at the end of the bed. They had not moved. Please, he said again, come in.

  Who had seen a more beautiful September than the one that struck Warsaw in 1939? The sun rose clear and golden over the city and already early in the morning the warmth lay on your skin. The trees were heavy with leaves, flowers blossomed from pots and trellises on the balconies of apartment buildings. Sunlight streaked the pavements and lay brightly on the stones of the old buildings. Young girls ate grapes greedily from their warm hands, the Azerbaijani vendors were selling lemonade, and sunlight glinted off the choppy surface of the Vistula. For a moment it was good to be alive.

  But on September 6th we heard that German panzers were on their way to Warsaw. We prayed that the sunshine would be blotted out. That torrential rainstorms would come and the roads become a sea of impassable mud. And mire all the German tanks and trucks. But the weather remained glorious. Thousands jammed the roads in an exodus from the city. On Monday September 25th at six in the morning the bombardment of Warsaw began. Two days later it was over. Poland had surrendered. Soon it was open season on the Jews.

  The walls of their room were covered in pale yellow and white stripes. A long white French desk with curved legs edged in gilt stood before one of the windows. A stiff leather folder with hotel stationery lay on top. The large armchair was covered in pale yellow silk and on the walls hung sepia prints of long ago Polish kings with white curls. Elaborate yellow silk curtains, now discolored with age, hung from the long windows. Well well, said Jascha, looking around. He sat down in the armchair in his hat and coat. Lilka sat on the bed. They looked at each other. What shall we do now? she asked. He shrugged. Drink, he replied. What else can we do?

  Order a bottle of vodka, she said. And speak Polish for God’s sake. She pulled open the drawer in the bedside table and peered in. Here’s the New Testament in Polish. In case we need it. You learned the Catholic prayers, didn’t you? he remarked. For those unexpected quizzes in the street. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, recited Lilka. Marysia taught me when I was a child. She didn’t want me to go to hell when I left this world. How about before you left this world? asked Jascha.

  He touched the worn silk of the chair. Never in my life did I spend a night in a hotel in Warsaw. My parents would not have understood. Go to a hotel? Like a foreign countess? Like a traveling salesman? Like a whore? Who goes to hotels? What need had we to go to a hotel? asked Lilka. Didn’t we have homes of our own? She sat on the bed’s high eiderdown and took up a corner of it between her fingers. Real feathers, she said. Like we had before the war.

  Jascha lifted the phone and spoke in English. Ach, what a stubborn man. That’s what you need, he said. Not some shrinking violet. She shrugged off her coat and leaned down to undo her boots. Well whether I do or not, take off your coat and hat. We’re here now.

  She got up and went to the window. She peered out into the falling snow lit here and there by muffled lights. I can’t see anything, she told him, except the falling snow. Warsaw has disappeared. He went over to the radiator and put his hand on it. There isn’t much heat, he remarked. No, she replied. That seems to be a problem everywhere here.

  There was a knock at the door and they jumped. Jascha undid the locks. I’ll take that, he said, barring the way into the room. He took the tray from the waiter and set it down. There was a bottle of cold vodka, two glasses, a basket of sliced black bread, a pot of butter, and a plate of dill cucumbers. Jascha smiled happily. Look how delicious. He poured out the vodka into small glasses and offered her a slice of buttered bread. She drank. It tastes the same, just as good, she said. You silly girl, he said. Polish vodka will always taste the same. He drank it back and rested his head on the back of the armchair. Why do I feel so sleepy? he asked. As though I could sleep for a hundred years. Suddenly the radiator gave out a clanking sound and a long hiss. The Polish radiator, he said. A work of art in its own right. He took up the bottle and drank. Jascha, why not a glass? Well well, he said. Here we are. Out of the ghetto now. And on The Other Side.

  That night as the snow fell on Warsaw, they lay huddled together beneath the high white eiderdown. Far off they heard a church bell ringing out. She pressed her head into his chest and gripped his hand tightly in hers. At last they fell into a restless sleep. In the morning their eyes were dull and reddened. Lilka smoothed her hair back from her damp forehead. Lying in bed, she looked out bleary eyed at the snow falling from a leaden sky. Where have we come to? she asked him.

  I dreamed I was Back There, she told him. The snow was falling, just like now. The crowds surged through the narrow streets, the din was deafening. Beggars rode on a wagon piled high with rags, their faces blue with cold, their eyes feverish. In the midst of all that, suddenly I saw my father standing in front of the Wall. He wore his coat with the fur collar. He was hatless. How elegant he looked, his cheeks smooth, his eyes shiny. Papa, I cried, and went toward him. As I came closer, he held out a hand to me. Come with us, he whispered. We are already dead.

  Jascha lay on his back smoking. What is that? he asked, pointing up at the shadows on the ceiling. A sparrow? A nightingale? I like birds, he said. When they don’t fly, they hop, pressing out their chests like proper Polish officers. She tugged at the soft eiderdown. Why have we come back? Whose idea was it? he asked her.

  When I dream of the ghetto in London, she said, at least I am far away. Here I am close enough to touch it. I could walk there in ten minutes. To the ghetto? asked Jascha. It’s gone. Have you forgotten? She put a hand to her disheveled hair. But I’ve ordered a car to take us there this morning. Are you crazy? he asked. But Jascha, she pleaded, I want to see it one more time. The apartment where I lived when I was a girl. The Jewish Hospital on Stawki Street where I was a nurse-in-training . . . He shifted heavily in the sodden sheets. Lilka, what’s the matter with you? he asked. You know as well as I do that those streets have not existed for more than forty years. Cancel the car, he said sharply. We’re not going back to that place. How many times do I have to tell you? Every street, every house, every brick, every doorway. It’s ashes and rubble.

  The radiator clanked with a metallic sound. She lay quietly, her face turned away. Then there’s nothing. No, he agreed, there’s nothing. He blew his nose into a large white lin
en handkerchief. Now order some breakfast, he said, I’m starving. I wanted . . . I hoped . . . she began. Yes, darling, he said. Like all of us.

  They lay half-asleep, their legs entwined, her head against his chest. There was a knock at the door. Both grew motionless. It’s only room service, said Lilka after a moment. She threw on a robe and stood up. A short sturdy man with high cheekbones, straw-­colored hair, and unblinking blue eyes pushed a table on wheels into the room. He kicked at a small brake and pulled up two chairs. Prosze¸, he said. Frowning, Jascha pulled on a bathrobe.

  They sat opposite each other at the linen covered table. The waiter poured out coffee into china cups whose flowery design had faded with use. Milk and sugar? he asked. He had a square jaw which he pressed out into the middle of the room. We like it black, replied Jascha curtly. It’s snowing again, the waiter observed. You can barely see two inches in front of your face. As for the freezing wind, he muttered, the Russkies send it down from the Urals—a special present for the Poles.

  The waiter stopped pouring and looked at them with curiosity. We don’t get many visitors this time of year. Where are you from? he wanted to know. From London, replied Jascha. He took up the Polish newspaper that lay beside the plate. Where did you learn your Polish? asked the waiter. Jascha studied the headlines. The waiter stood motionless, staring at Jascha out of his fixed blue eyes. It’s not the same Warsaw, said the man at last. Jascha pulled out a few coins and handed them over. Slowly the man looked down into his palm. He lifted his eyes to Jascha. Have you come back?

  What chutzpah, said Jascha. To question us like that. He snapped the page of the newspaper angrily. They haven’t changed. Still sly and insolent.