The Train to Warsaw

by Gwen Edelman

  If we don’t go out now, said Lilka, it will be dark. And we won’t see what has become of Warsaw. Good, he said. So much the better.

  Already the light was seeping out of the day. Snow fell from a pale sky. They huddled together for a moment beneath the hotel canopy, swathed in dark coats and fur hats. Lilka studied a map, tracing streets with a gloved finger, peering closely at the names. I don’t know what’s going on, she said. Have you ever heard of Solidarnos´ci Avenue or Jana Pawła II Avenue? And look at this, they’ve named a street after Anielewicz. That used to be Ge¸sia Street. And they’ve moved Leszno. I used to know this city inside and out. We’ll be lucky if we find our way.

  They stepped out into the afternoon. She squinted at the falling snow. I want to go to Marszałkowska Street. To see our apartment from before the war. Once upon a time, she told him, we had eight rooms, a conservatory, a piano. And a little bird in a cage. We had Limoges china and Oriental carpets. And a chandelier from Bohemia. The wind blew suddenly, disturbing the snow piled at the corners and crevices of the buildings, and they were covered in a shower of soft flakes. One day it was gone.

  He clapped his hands together against the cold. His breath rose up in steam. You’re going to be disappointed, darling. I want to go, she said. How stubborn she is, he remarked. Do you expect that Marysia will be there to greet you? That your parakeet will tweet? That the sun will shine on Warsaw? You want to ruin it for me, she said. No, my sweetheart, he replied. I want to protect you. He pulled up the collar of his coat. I’m freezing, he said. And now I have to go on this ill-fated tour. Well, come on, let’s not wait until all of Warsaw freezes over.

  The morning after a snowfall, said Lilka, Marysia, in slippers and a thin blouse, carrying a tub of warm water and rags, would go out on the balcony to wash the doors. The snow had climbed up the glass. Inside we were in a kind of igloo where you could barely see out. She scrubbed the glass until the outside world became visible—the cornices of the building across the way, the trees, the morning light. Why doesn’t she put on a coat? said my mother. When Marysia came back in, her slippers wet, her thin pale hair clipped to her head, my mother scolded her. I’m used to it, said Marysia. We used to walk barefoot in the snow on the way to market. You’re no longer in your village, said my mother. This is Warsaw.

  They crossed the square. In the center was a small fountain held aloft by three stone fish, their gaping mouths filled with snow. It’s just up here, said Lilka. She took his arm and pulled him forward. Jascha, she urged. We’re almost there. My darling, he said, you mustn’t be in such a hurry to be unhappy. The snow clung to their boots as they walked. New snow was piling up on old. A fierce wind came up and they bent forward against the force of it. Their eyes watered and their cheeks froze. The snow in Warsaw is endless, said Jascha. He pulled his scarf over his mouth as they struggled forward.

  It was the Jews who had to shovel the snow, he said. Sometimes They dragged them out without coat or shoes or gloves and gave them a primitive shovel. Never mind all that, she said. Dig, Jews, They said. Dig yourselves out of the hole you’re in. They were bored and They were cold. Who told them they would have to supervise Jews shoveling snow? And so even those Jews who had coats and gloves and boots were told to give them up. They were told to run with their shovels. They were told to dance with their shovels . . . We turn left here, said Lilka. She went ahead of him. Just up here, she cried.

  She stood in front of her old address, staring at a square modern apartment building that had once been white. From the bare functional windows hung cheap white net curtains. It’s gone, she said. Of course it’s gone, replied Jascha. Everything is gone, she said. Yes, he said wearily. That’s what happened. Can we go now? Wait, she said. No, I won’t, he replied. It has vanished. Every sound, every face, every brick, every doorway. Staring at it won’t make it come back.

  My father used to take me sledding in the Krasin´ski Gardens . . . she began. Yes, darling, he said. Now let’s go. People hurried past them silently, swathed in dark coats and heavy boots, hunched against the snow and the cold. No one looked at them. You see, he said, we’re invisible. Well that makes a change. You remember how they used to study your face, your eyes, your nose, the way you walked. You can tell, they said, by the expression in their eyes. Why must the Jews always look so unhappy?

  Shall we go to Krakowskie Przedmies´cie? The Royal Route? she asked. And see the stage set that royal Warsaw has become? he wanted to know. Lilka took a small mirror out of her purse. She struggled to hold it in front of her face and as the glass steamed up, she applied her red lipstick. Just like your mother, he said. Always applying her red lipstick at the most inopportune moments.

  They set off down the wide Royal Route. In the open vista that stretched out before them, pale imperial buildings rose out of the snow on either side of the street. The gold domes and crosses of the churches thrust into the white sky. How beautiful, murmured Lilka. She turned to him happily. It’s just like before the war. No, darling, said Jascha, it’s not.

  Look, she said, there is the Royal Palace. But why is it so red? It wasn’t like that before. It was bombed, said Jascha. They’ve rebuilt it. Or tried to anyway. The whole place looks unreal. He pulled out a white linen handkerchief and blew his nose. I’m freezing, he said. Let’s go inside. But I want to see Nowy S´wiat, said Lilka. What a beautiful street it was. With elegant shops and cafes. Rebuilt, said Jascha briefly. Like a stage set, a Potemkin village. It’s no longer Warsaw. This is some other confection. He pointed ahead. There’s a cafe. Let’s go in. I’m stiff as a corpse. But we’ve barely seen anything, she protested. I’ve seen more than enough, he informed her.

  No Jews came to this part of town, he said. Verboten. Well here we are, he said. Now we can enter without risking our lives.

  In the wood paneled cafe Lilka unwrapped her scarf. She shrugged out of her coat and let it fall over the back of the chair. The place was packed. People pressed up against the walls and each other. She took up the menu. Look Jascha, they have pancakes. I want one with sour cherries and whipped cream. And a hot chocolate. Also with whipped cream. Just like a courtesan, he said. That’s the kind of thing they order. How would you know? she asked. I’m having a pancake with chicken and mushrooms and cream sauce, he said. Not some feminine cream puff of an order. Lilka removed her hat and pulled off her leather gloves. What a madman, she said, shaking out her thin bangle bracelets. Masculine and feminine orders.

  Around them sat people swathed in layers of clothing. What do they think about, the Poles of today? she wondered. What everyone thinks about, he replied. Whether they can afford a new refrigerator. Whether the kid is doing her homework. Whether the mother-in-law is monopolizing the hot water. Jascha looked around, the place was dense with cigarette smoke. They are sitting here as though nothing ever happened. Most of them were born after the war, she replied. Look at the babushka in the corner, he said, and that man with the pale blue eyes and pitted face. Were they born after the war?

  Jascha drank his hot chocolate and then asked for vodka. The waiter brought a bottle and two shot glasses. Jascha began to drink. How clever we were, he said. We thought of everything. We had a thousand ways of smuggling in anything and everything. We brought in contraband through the Wall and under the Wall and over the Wall. His eyes grew bright. We filled the hearses returning from the cemetery with black-market food.

  Beneath a thin layer of garbage we filled the garbage wagons with the goods. They were too fastidious to start rooting around in garbage.

  He poured out another shot and drank it back. They wouldn’t touch the hearses we stuffed with ­contraband —they were terrified of typhus. Fleckfieber! we would cry. We sent emaciated young children of six and seven to squeeze through the drains beneath the Wall. Sometimes they brought back too much from The Other Side. And they couldn’t wiggle back in. Then we had a problem. Lilka grew pale. Shhh, she said, you’re talkin
g too loudly. People around them turned to look. Let them look, he said. What’s it to me? He poured out more vodka.

  Large consignments of goods were stockpiled near the Wall on The Other Side. When night fell they were thrown over into the ghetto. I had Stasik on The Other Side. He could throw over 100 sacks in less than a quarter of an hour—one every nine seconds. He smiled. We had to keep him well fed. You need a lot of strength for that. Jascha, said Lilka quietly, stop. People are staring. He poured out more vodka. Let them, he said and thrust out his chin. Do you think I care? They should all be shot, he murmured.

  At the table next to them sat a woman, her pale blonde hair pulled back from her face. She stared, fascinated, at Jascha. When he looked at her, she lowered her eyes flirtatiously. She touched her mouth with her cold fingers. I’m trying to figure out where you’re from, she said. Jascha looked at her out of dark heavy lidded eyes. You first, he told her. The woman shivered. Are you Polish? she asked. What do you think? Take a good look. She flushed. I don’t know, she whispered. I’m from right here, said Jascha. The remarkable city of Warsaw. I got my dark eyes from my mother, a Russian princess. But I’m Polish all the same.

  This is my sister, he said indicating Lilka. The woman shook her head and forced a laugh. I don’t think that’s the truth. She’s very light and you’re dark. She looks Polish and you . . . Ask her, said Jascha. The woman turned to Lilka questioningly. That’s my naughty older brother, said Lilka. I go with him to cafes so he won’t pick up too many women. The woman nodded nervously. I think I will go home with this woman, said Jascha softly. Go ahead, said Lilka.

  He watched Lilka closely. She ate her pancake with deli­cate bites. When she was finished, she laid down her knife and fork and got up. I’m leaving now, she said, and put on her coat and hat. You do what you like, he replied and lit a cigarette.

  She walked half a block before he caught up with her. He grabbed her arm. Why do you do this? he cried. She pulled his hand off. Did you think I would just sit there while you seduced that Polish girl? Can’t I have any fun? he asked peevishly. Please, she replied, be my guest. He took her arm and she shook it off. If I’m not there when you get back, she said, I’ll see you another time. Where are you going? he asked and gripped her arm. You better go back, she suggested. How long will she wait for you? You didn’t wait for me at all, he said. Jascha, she said, don’t start that. I didn’t know. I thought you were dead. Everyone else was.

  You’re ruining it for me, he said. What a child, she replied. I don’t want to talk to you. He walked beside her and gripped her arm tightly. Do you know what Graham Greene said about love? He called it The Ministry of Fear. As soon as you love, you fear. You have something to lose. After the war, what more was there to lose? You don’t know how free that makes you. Everything has already been taken away. He held her tightly, his dark eyes on her. But you won’t leave me, he said. I won’t let you.

  Why do you torture me? he asked. What are you talking about? she asked. You make me love you. Oh Jascha, what nonsense. She walked rapidly. And I don’t want to, he said. She stopped and looked at him. He took her chin between his gloved hands. You are closer to me than my own skin, he said. She watched him. The snow fell on them.

  I remember, she said at last, that Edward had an appointment with a Polish novelist by the name of J. Kroll. By then I was living with Edward in London. And working for him reading Polish novels and doing translations. I had never heard of the Polish novelist J. Kroll. Edward asked me to read the manuscript of his novel The Way Down. The whole thing had been handwritten in Polish on butcher’s paper. Edward was intrigued. What can this be? he asked.

  I turned over those waxy sheets covered in tiny handwriting, one by one. I read it without stopping. Edward asked me what I thought. Brilliant, I told him. Surreal. And black as night. A masterpiece. Make an appointment for him to come in, he said to me. I want to meet this man.

  It was a Thursday afternoon in the month of June 1949, she said, blinking at the snow that fell on her lashes. The buzzer rang and I went out to answer the door. There you stood with your dark curls and dark eyes, back from the dead. You were as thin as during the war. I felt faint. I hadn’t seen you in seven years. I could barely stand. Who is J. Kroll? I asked you. What happened to Jascha Krasniewski? You smiled and shrugged. A new invention, you said. On either side of the walk the pale pink and yellow flowers stretched their slender necks toward the warmth of the sun. The birds chattered, the bees hummed in the softness of the summer afternoon. I have never, she said, neither before or since, known such happiness. He stared at her. You wicked witch, he said, you want to break my heart.

  The next day, all those years ago, she had gone to his tiny London flat. I remember your flaxen hair and your blue eyes, he had said, your round arms and beautiful hands. I’m falling into a honeypot. Easy to fall into, difficult to climb out of. Through the open window the sunlight fell on her arms and her hair. She played with the thin bangles around her wrist. She saw the sunlight on his chest and watched his square fingers as they knocked a hard-boiled egg on the table and peeled off the white shell. Say my name, he said. I want to hear you say my name. I can’t. Not yet. I don’t know where I am, she said softly. No, he agreed. I thought I would never see you again, she had told him. Not me, he said. I knew I wasn’t yet done with you, my sweetheart.

  You got up from your seat and I watched you come toward me, said Lilka now. You pulled me to my feet and took me in your arms. Your skin was warm and smelled of tobacco. How strong you were. I had drunk too much and could barely stand up. Why did you give me so much, I murmured. Only a peasant drinks like that. I reached out a finger to touch your dark curls. I don’t know where I am, I told you. You put your arm around my waist and led me down the hall to the bedroom. Then you carried me over the threshold. I’m going to undress you in Polish, you said, and make love to you in Polish. We’ll go back to Warsaw together, my Polish sweetheart, Warsaw before the war. I was only a child, I told you. Never mind, you said. You’re not anymore.

  Several stars appeared in the darkening sky. The skyline grew fainter and the contours of the new Warsaw blurred. Your book came out, said Lilka, and created a sensation. You became famous overnight. Who was this handsome dark-haired refugee who had survived all this? Had these things really happened? Black as pitch, they said. Language and images so unrelenting you have to blink—or turn away. Translated into eighteen languages. Reviewed everywhere. And wherever I went there was The Way Down in the window of every bookshop. We had moved in together, but I barely saw you anymore.

  And then you went to Frankfurt. I’m going to the Frankfurt Book Fair with Edward, he had told her, as they sat having breakfast one morning in London. It’s the first Frankfurt Book Fair since the war. What better, says Edward, than to present a Jew who speaks to us from out of the ruins. Jascha bit into a poppy-seed roll. Edward says I’m going to make his name. My book, he proclaimed, will light up the night sky. I’m going to be a famous author. He didn’t tell me you were going to Frankfurt, said Lilka. Does he tell you everything? Jascha wanted to know. No, she answered, of course not. And certainly not in this case because he knows what you will say. And what is that? You’ll say: I want to go too. Well I do. But you can’t, darling. It makes no sense. And you’ll distract me. I have a job to do there. Jascha, she had said, everything will change. Yes, he agreed. It will. Don’t be sad, darling, he had said. Nothing lasts forever.

  I should be there too, Lilka had said. Aren’t I the translator? They’ll want to ask me about that, she went on. No, darling, he replied, they won’t. They want to meet the author himself, not the translator. Well I could go unofficially. He shook his head. Not this time my angel. This is my moment. When I lay on my back on a hillside in Poland, with the cows chewing peacefully all around me, I dreamed of the moment when my words would fly up like a flock of birds and everyone would know my name. Although of course it’s not really my name.


  The streetlights came on and flakes drifted down over the smudged yellow globes of light. You went off to the Frankfurt Book Fair, she said to him now, and left me behind. How angry I was with you. I went to the office but I couldn’t work. I could only think of the two of you at the Fair and me stuck at home. You didn’t call. Edward didn’t call. I sat at my desk, looking out at the bare trees, and remembered when you came the first time. Day after day I waited for news, waited for you to come back. And at last one morning Edward came. But you weren’t with him.

  Edward came into the office animated as I had rarely seen him. It was a triumph, he said. Even better than I imagined. They were comparing him to Kafka and Gogol. Brilliant, original, terrifying, black as night. He laughed happily. They’re saying The Way Down might be the greatest wartime novel of them all. They couldn’t praise it enough. He took out that black leather pocket notepad of his and began to read. Eighteen countries, he said. I’ve sold it in eighteen countries. He smiled. Not bad is it? I’m quite proud of myself.

  Kroll was perfect, he said. The women fell in love with him—they all wanted to go to bed with him. And the men wanted to listen to his stories all night. He was funny and charming and just strange enough to excite them. What a character. Larger than life. He was interviewed by magazines, newspapers, even television. The man can talk. What a storyteller.

  He emerged from the rubble of Warsaw, they wrote, armed only with a manuscript written on butcher’s paper. It couldn’t have been better. Edward’s eyes shone. This is going to be Gloucester Press’s biggest triumph. There’s lots to do, he said. I’ll want you coming in more often for the next few weeks. She had sat motionless, twisting a paperclip. Edward, she said at last, when is he coming back?