The Train to Warsaw

by Gwen Edelman

  Never mind, said Lilka and drew the bread basket toward her. Do you remember, he asked, when suddenly the waiters and the street sweepers, the bricklayers and the scum rose up until the lowliest drudge was higher than all the Jews? That’s what my mother couldn’t bear, said Lilka. She wasn’t the only one, replied Jascha.

  Lilka, her face creased with sleep, studied the basket of rolls and selected a poppy-seed roll. It’s not even warm, she said. She broke it open and held it up to her nose. Jascha, it smells of nothing. Do you remember the freshly baked poppy-seed rolls before the war? Warm and fragrant. Like paradise. Mechanically she buttered the bread and took a bite. No taste. For years I dreamed of biting into a real Warsaw poppy-seed roll. Like they used to bake at Rosen­stajn’s. Jascha peered into the basket. Well well, he said. Now that the Jews are gone they’re baking Jewish pastries. Look at that. Rugelach with raisins. Like my mother used to make. She looked up in surprise. You never talk about your mother. No, he replied.

  At Rosenstajn’s, said Lilka, the poppy-seed rolls came straight from the oven. You could lie down in that warm fragrant scent. She chewed slowly. The Rosenstajns were husband and wife. She was small and round and had skin as white as flour. My father used to say that was why he chose her. She could have been dark as rye, he remarked. Is that your sense of humor? she asked. No darling, he replied. He turned the pages of the Polish newspaper. I don’t have one. Rosenstajn looked something like Houdini, she said. Dark curls, short, and solidly built. But he had delicate fingers. Sometimes he gave me a little cookie in the shape of a star. Not that kind of star, she added. His wife used to bend down and pinch my cheek. Look at that flaxen hair, she would say. Just like a Polish princess.

  He turned a page of the Warsaw paper. Well well, he remarked. An old woman has been robbed and murdered. Only one? That wasn’t news in our day. Where did it happen? she wanted to know. On Nowolipki Street, he said. Around midnight. Our Side, said Lilka. What was she doing out so late? After curfew? He frowned. What are you talking about?

  When the Germans arrived, said Lilka, they soon discovered that it was the best bakery in Warsaw. Later when the Rosenstajns went to the ghetto, they brought in an ethnic German baker. But he couldn’t bake nearly as well as Rosenstajn. Rosenstajn had had two thousand years of practice, remarked Jascha. So they brought him back, gave him a special permit and ordered him to start baking. He was allowed to live in a tiny unheated storage space behind the shop. But he missed his wife.

  She looked out the window at the falling snow whipped by a gust of Russian wind. He used to visit her and come out through the tunnel on Ogrodowa Street. I know this, said Jascha. It was the Accountant who arranged it. He knew Rosenstajn from the former life. And do you know what happened? asked Lilka. Yes I do, replied Jascha. We knew everything that went on in the ghetto. We couldn’t have done business if we didn’t.

  My mother didn’t want me involved with you, said Lilka suddenly. She referred to you as “that smuggler of yours.” What else was I? he asked. Although she didn’t mind asking me to “organize” things from The Other Side when it suited her.

  Lilka pulled closed her woolen robe. You never liked her. No, he agreed, I never did. She was a beauty, said Lilka. With her pale blonde hair and big blue eyes. Everyone said so. Men were enchanted with her. Not this one, he said. Even in those days what she did was not permissible. She was trying to survive, said Lilka. How did that make her different from anyone else? he wanted to know.

  Once your mother asked me to organize a silk umbrella from The Other Side. I thought she was joking. To twirl as she made her way among the corpses? She was used to a certain kind of life, said Lilka. And the rest of us? he asked. Had we come from nowhere?

  Jascha poured out more coffee. It happened on a Tuesday that Rosenstajn left us for a better world. They had let some “tourists” in. Officers and their girlfriends, friends of Hans Frank, come there to amuse themselves, to gape at the dying Jews in the zoo of the ghetto. I heard the women, wives of officers, complaining in high-pitched voices. What a stench, they cried. Don’t they ever wash? How dirty they are, the Jews. And the children. They don’t even dress properly, they’re missing teeth. Is this the way Jews take care of their children? And all of them beggars. Disgusting.

  What savages they are, these Jews. You wouldn’t see German children behaving this way. Sometimes the tourists were given whips and guns to amuse themselves with. Another Jew lashed or shot? What difference? They were all going to disappear anyway.

  As the tourists walked through the filthy streets, everyone fled at their approach. A man with a rotting blanket wrapped around him, barefoot in the winter snow, tried to get away from Them. But he could no longer walk. He didn’t look at Them. It was death to look at one of Them. His cheekbones protruded, his eyes were milky with death. One of the women with a breathless shriek flung a coin at the man. But he was too weak to pick it up.

  Lilka sat rigid, her eyes on the tablecloth. She ran a finger over a lump in the white linen spread. Look at that, she said, it’s been darned. She clicked her tongue. So shabby. What else should it be? he asked. Has anyone prospered under the Communists? She lit a cigarette and stared out the window.

  Rosenstajn was walking down Leszno Street, Jascha said. Suddenly he was grabbed by a German policeman who ordered him to run. Who knows why they chose him. What could he do? The street had emptied out in a hurry. The policemen wished the tourists happy hunting. Rosenstajn ran, zigzagging. But it did him no good. He was the only one, a perfect target. They shot at him as he ran. What a good time they had. The Accountant heard about it and sent a man to stop it. But it was too late. That was the end of Rosenstajn’s baking. The SS who patronized the place were very annoyed. They shot two Jewish policemen. What did they have to do with it? asked Lilka. Nothing at all, replied Jascha.

  Lilka put down her roll and wiped her fingers. I can’t eat anymore, she said. I’ve lost my appetite. Give it to me, said Jascha, holding out his hand. I’m ravenous. I could eat a dozen rolls, one right after the other.

  Lilka sat motionless. November 1940, she said. The gates were closing on the Jews. Do you remember, Jascha? My mother didn’t want to move. Move to northern Warsaw? she asked. Is that where they’re planning to put us? The place is a slum. But the world had changed. And my mother no longer occupied the same place in it. Ha, cried Jascha. Did anyone want to move? Why is your mother always an exception?

  My mother put on her hat and gloves. I’m going to headquarters, she said. When had her beauty ever failed her? I pleaded with her not to go. Mama, I cried, people go in there and they don’t come out. She patted my cheek cooly. I’ll be back, she told me. Mama, I said, you’re out of your mind. Why take such a risk? When Papa went out, he didn’t come back. Don’t mention your father, she said sharply. Jascha read the paper.

  How wrong you were, Lilka, she said when she returned. I met a very nice man. An officer. Very courteous. He complimented me on my German. He has promised to find us a nice apartment in the Jewish Quarter. They were not yet calling it the ghetto. Mama! I cried. My mother shook her head. She had gotten harder since my father disappeared. My innocent little flower, she said mockingly. She pulled off her gloves. Do you know what he said to me? Surely, my dear Frau Reifmann, you are not Jewish. I can’t hear this, said Jascha. She did what she could, replied Lilka. Enough, Lilka. Don’t provoke me.

  True to his word, my mother’s new friend found us an apartment on Sienna Street. The street they called The Champs-Élysées of the ghetto, said Jascha. Right up against The Other Side. Would you have rather we lived in a hole in the ground on Nalewki Street? she asked. No, darling, I’m just mentioning it.

  Lilka blotted her mouth with her napkin. The night before we moved to the ghetto, we had a visit from the concierge, Pani Kowalska. She climbed up the stairs, wheezing at every step. She was short and dumpy and her skin had a yellowish cast. One eye bulged fr
om her head. She appeared in a faded housedress, several layers of woolen cardigans and the scuffed slippers she always wore. Breathing heavily, her face flushed, she held out a shapeless swollen hand. Pani Reifmann, she said, give me your jewels. She smiled slyly. Better I should have them than the Others. Give them to me, she said softly. Where you’re going, you won’t be needing them. That time, my mother closed the door in her face. The next night she was back with “her cousin,” who carried a truncheon in his hand.

  And this, said Jascha, turning a page, is the Warsaw you were so anxious to return to.

  Two days later, said Lilka, the movers began to pack up what had not been confiscated. And then suddenly they stopped. They sat down, surly, smoking. That’s enough, they said. We’re finished. My mother was in another room. Mama, they don’t want to work anymore. What? she cried. Who do they think they are? But the world had changed. And people like my mother no longer held the reins of power. She went in to them, in her elegant suit, her French shoes, with her blonde hair. What is the meaning of this? she asked them. For a moment they were in awe of her. And then they remembered she was only a Jew.

  We’re not working until we get paid more. But we agreed on the price, said my mother. One small wiry mover stood looking at her, a cigarette hanging from his lip. We’ve changed our mind. It can happen to anyone, he added. The others smiled. My mother was not yet used to the new order. She stared at them in disbelief. And then she pulled herself together. She offered them this many zloty and not a penny more. Take it or leave it. Otherwise, she said, she’d get someone else. You don’t have much time, one of them ventured. They’ll be closing the gates. And if you’re not inside . . . He made a motion across his throat.

  That night as we sat among the boxes, Marysia came in, drying her eyes with a corner of her apron. Her thin hair was pulled back with clear plastic combs, and I could see her long creased earlobes that I used to tug on when I was a child. It will soon be over, she said. And you’ll be back.

  We stepped into the droshky my mother had hired on November 13th of ’40, two days before they closed the gates. We had one suitcase each. The rest was going by wagon to Sienna Street. Never have you seen such chaos. The streets were packed with people pushing handcarts piled high with furniture and bedding, mattresses, wardrobes, pots and pans. A whole life lashed to the back of a wagon. In their panic they collided; armoires and beds tumbled from their moorings and crashed onto the pavement.

  Horses reared; we were nearly struck by falling furniture. The porters had more than they could handle. People shrieked, cried out. An unspeakable din. The Jews were being cheated right and left. Just before they closed the gates, the panic was indescribable. The Jews were forbidden to remove anything from their apartments. Yet somehow the streets were full of carts hauling Jewish furniture.

  Small children were pressed into the bedding. They tumbled around, holding on, shouting out as the cart careened around a corner. Sometimes a badly balanced load fell over, sometimes a cart overturned. One wagon drawn by a skittish horse took off over the cobblestones and disappeared. The driver had lost control. Those who had households full of nice furniture, paintings, silver, Oriental rugs, gave up their lives. So did everyone else.

  A child ran after his family’s wagon. In the turmoil he had been left behind. At last the wagon was turned around and they came back for him. Sitting on the curb he refused to come. No, he cried, I want to live on my own. Soon he would. What chaos. The shrieking, the cries, the horses were driven nearly mad by the human hysteria. And over the cobblestone streets hung a bright November sky, the round disc of the sun shining in the blue skies.

  The drivers were charging a fortune. And those who had traded apartments with the Jews were cleaning up. Some of them stripped the apartments of everything that made them habitable and then turned them over. Others moved into the Jews’ apartments and then sold theirs again to someone else. There was no recourse to the law. There was no longer any law for the Jews. And then They came out and began to beat the Jews with truncheons. They tugged at Jewish beards until they had torn them out. A horse who had made the mistake of pressing his flank against one of Them was beaten to death . . . Lilka stopped, exhausted.

  At last we walked up the stairs to our new apartment and waited for the wagon with our furniture to arrive. We’re still waiting, said Lilka. That first night in the ghetto we slept on the floor. Papa, I whispered, come and rescue us. But he was not coming back. We were on our own. Shut up behind six foot walls. And everything that belonged to us left behind.

  Out the window the snow flew around as though pursued by furies. What madness, he said, licking his finger and turning the page of the newspaper. Go back? Didn’t we have enough of it Back There? She smoked one of her blond cigarettes, blowing the smoke out in a thin plume. Why have we come? Why indeed? he replied.

  I’m going to cancel, she said. Do it now, he told her. She tied her bathrobe and went to the phone. We ordered a car, she said. He’s already here? Well would you tell him that there’s been a change of plans. We will not be going to the ghetto after all. No, not at all. Thank you. She hung up the phone. He told me that I speak good Polish. She sat down abruptly. What’s the matter with me? My heart is pounding, I feel short of breath. Can it be, he asked, that you’ve forgotten what fear is?

  She watched the snow falling. I remember the winter of 1940, she said. We were cold all the time. They had closed the gates and we couldn’t get out. The snow fell and already people began to die. It didn’t take long. 186 calories a day. Do you remember, Jascha? Those were the rations for a Jew. Sometimes it snowed for days without stopping. The cold entered into your bones. You felt that your eyes would freeze in their sockets. Polish winter, he said. When was it ever different? When God in His wisdom froze Poland, He should have frozen all the Poles along with it. How wicked you are, she said. Not wicked enough, he replied.

  Lilka ate a sweet roll. All over the ghetto, the pipes froze. The whole place became a giant dunghill. In the midst of all that, my mother had managed to bring her fur coat. She wore it with a stylish hat. Until the Jews were ordered to give up every shred of fur they possessed. On pain of death. Every fur coat, fur collar, fur cuff had to go. You could spot a Jew by a coat with the collar removed. No one had warm coats any longer. Then the Poles arrived, looking for furs at fire-sale prices. My mother sold hers for a fraction of what it was worth. The mink coat my father had given her when I was born.

  Lilka heaped sugar into her cold coffee. I imagined the German soldiers on the Eastern front in long mink coats with generous collars. Oh darling, said Jascha. Don’t be silly. They remade them. They didn’t want their soldiers looking like old Jewish ladies, did they? Bad for morale.

  Lilka took up her white napkin and dabbed at her mouth. My parents used to stroll together arm in arm, she said. How elegant they looked. She in her black velvet hat with the veil that he had bought for her in Paris, he in his beautifully cut navy blue suits and silk ties. But one day my father could no longer go out.

  My mother told me to read to him, play the piano, recite Mickiewicz poems to him. She played cards with him, brought him newspapers and books. He couldn’t bear being cooped up in the house. He was restless all the time, drumming his fingers on his desk, smoking endless cigarettes. One day he decided to go out. With your looks, said my mother, it’s impossible. A short walk, he told her, and then I’ll be back. I want to see what’s happening out in the world. I’ll lose my mind if I don’t get some fresh air. And he held up the false papers he had paid so much for. I remember he was wearing his soft camel’s hair coat, his dark hair combed back. She tried to hold him back, clutching at his lapels, pleading with him not to go. Lilka, she said, help me. But how could we stop him? He was determined. And telling her not to worry, that he’d be back in a moment, he kissed her and went . . .

  She pressed out her cigarette in a saucer and lit another one. For years I
used to think that if I went back to Warsaw I would find him. There had been a mix-up. He had been taken away, but he had survived. He had come back and was looking for us. If I could only get back to Warsaw, there he would be . . . He sighed. My darling, he said wearily, do you think you are the only one? Everyone dreamed these dreams.

  After that my mother became tougher, harder. Wasn’t she always that? asked Jascha. Beneath the French perfume and the pearls? What do you know about the way she was? asked Lilka. She was the one who arranged for me to be a nurse-in-training at the hospital, who got me my “ticket to life.” At that time, They still wanted to give the illusion that only the healthy were being shipped off to work in the East. Hospital personnel were still exempt from deportation. He studied the newspaper. And she managed to smuggle money into the ghetto so we could eat. She had never cooked, we always had a cook. Now in the midst of the crowds and the filth she was out on the street every day organizing food with the rest of them. Well well, said Jascha. Good for her. He turned the page. She glared at him. There’s nothing I can say about her without you making some negative remark. What she did was unacceptable, he said. Since when are you the moral arbiter of the ghetto? she cried.

  She stuffed a chunk of bread into her mouth. Do you know everything? Do you understand everything? she cried. You don’t. The white marble clock on the mantel was ticking. A woman in white marble held the round enamel clock face in her arms. Does she never get tired? asked Jascha. Who? demanded Lilka. He pointed to the clock. She shook her head. What an irritating man you are. He looked at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. Your mother went out once a week by the Grzybowska Gate to meet her German officer. How do you know that? cried Lilka. Did the Accountant not know everything? He put out a hand to her. That’s enough for now, darling. No, she said fiercely and pushed his hand away. Don’t give me your hand.