by Gwen Edelman
One day just before she went away, she baked a cake. She wore an old apron and her hair was dusted with flour. She brought my favorite chocolate cake warm from the oven and cut me a thick slice. But I didn’t want it. I wasn’t hungry. Bring me an ashtray, he told Lilka. All through the war I felt guilty about it. This was before the ghetto. Even so, it wasn’t easy to find chocolate powder and sugar. She had worked hard to make that cake for me. And I had refused to eat it. Sometimes late at night, as I lay in wait for the sacks to come flying over the ghetto wall, I apologized over and over again to my mother, who went away and never came back. Why hadn’t I eaten that cake when I had the chance?
How happy she would be that I became a successful writer. When I was little I told her I would be a famous magician. And sitting at the kitchen table, I showed her my magic tricks. Later I told her I would be a famous writer. Already I was composing stories about chickens and rabbits and wolves and foxes in little lined notebooks. And she would indulge me by putting her hands to her cheeks and pretending to be frightened when the fox was about to eat the hen. I have never, before or since, he said, had such a good audience for my work. Lilka stared at him. As long as I’ve known you, this is the first time I’ve ever heard you talk about your mother, she said.
My mother liked my magic tricks, he said. Like the one with the egg that I would suddenly pull out from my sleeve. But when it broke she wasn’t happy. There was no money to replace it. She was as modest and shy as a schoolgirl. But she found a way to feed us. And to get the little notebooks in which I jotted down all my important boyish thoughts. They shot her in the street, he said. Long before the ghetto walls went up. At home the stew she had asked me to watch till she got back was still simmering . . .
Lilka sat down beside him and took his hand. She pulled the eiderdown over his shoulders. Do you think you can comfort me? he asked. We can none of us be comforted, she replied.
Locked up behind those Walls, he said, how I longed to go back to my side of Warsaw, back to my own house. I saw it in my dreams: the coal box, the kitchen table, my parents’ beds with the carved wooden headboards, my room which looked out on the courtyard. I could have walked there in ten minutes. But I didn’t dare. It had become the other side of the moon. Everything is danger, darling, the whole world is danger. Even you with your soft skin and wide smile are dangerous. Mankind is a plague. I cannot read tonight, he said. Call and tell them we’re not coming.
Jascha, she said softly, I used to wait for you so impatiently. I was always afraid you would never come. I imagined you had been shot or beaten, that I would never see you again. One night I waited for you until three in the morning. I sat by the window hour after hour watching for you. It was a moonless night. The only light came from the sentry post a block away. My mother was out for the night. The streets were deserted. I was terrified that something had happened to you. And then at last I saw you. Back from the cemetery in your greatcoat and high boots, your cap pulled down low over your face, your hand over your armband to hide the whiteness. You walked close to the buildings on the other side of the street. I ran down the stairs to let you in.
Once we were upstairs you opened your “ghetto coat” with the deep pockets sewn inside. Look, you whispered and brought out a small bottle of cheap vodka from one inner pocket. And this, you said, pulling out a loaf of bread and some butter and jam from another. After we ate and drank, you laid me down on the bed. I felt the rough material of your pants against my flesh. No one ever undressed completely. Who wanted to be dragged out naked into the street?
I’m in the Garden of Eden, you said. Here? I asked. Open your legs for me darling, you said. I want to go home. And we heard the birds singing. All the birds who had fled to The Other Side, the songbirds and the swallows and the larks. Why had we not listened to them? They had shown us which way to fly. We made love soundlessly. One day, you told me, when there is no more ghetto, I will shout the house down if I want. Jascha smiled. What a romantic schoolgirl you are, he said. Come here and let me eat you up.
The snow danced before the windows, and the radiator suddenly erupted in groans. This primitive heating, said Lilka. They haven’t advanced in a century. Beneath the eiderdown, Jascha turned over to light a cigarette. My father had a weakness for beggars. In the old days when they came to the door, he would give away our best pot, a woolen jacket that was barely worn, a good pair of boots. Once his older sister was there. Are you Rothschild, she cried, to give your things away like that? What’s in your head? My father shrugged. He asked and I gave. We were always short at the end of the month. And more than once they came and took away the furniture to pay off a debt.
He had come to Warsaw from Radzymin. Too religious for me there, he would say. They pray morning noon and night and talk of their blessed rabbi non-stop. I’d rather be with a woman any day. But when he was ready to marry, he went back to Radzymin for a bride. It was said he liked wild women, but he married my sweet timid mother. She was always slightly in awe of him. He liked that. I should have married someone like that, said Jascha. No one like that would have had you, replied Lilka. Ha, my darling, he said, how little you know.
My father drove a dray wagon and carted things all around Warsaw and over the bridge into Praga. Sometimes I went with him, sitting up next to him on the high seat. He told jokes and sang songs as he held the reins in his hand. But when 1939 rolled around, even my father got serious. He stopped. Why do I talk about this now? he asked. He smoked quietly. Why now?
They ordered him to transport Jews to the ghetto in his wagon. He did it once and that was enough. The next time he said he was sick. Does this Jew look sick to you? asked one of Them. They struck him. Another one kicked him. He doesn’t look sick to me. Drive, They ordered him. But by now he could barely stand. Let’s see if this makes him healthier, said one and struck my father’s head with the barrel of his gun.
Carefully Jascha pressed out his cigarette in the porcelain ashtray. In the wagon the Jews watched in silence. What could they do? They had a hard time calming his horses. They reared up and overturned the wagon.
I had the story from Mandel Kohner. He saw it from a doorway across the street. At first he didn’t want to tell me. I forced him to. And then I went to get the body. But it had disappeared. I couldn’t find where it had gone. No one seemed to know. I searched for days. He had disappeared into thin air. Like all the other Jews. And his horses and wagon. They too were never seen again. Jascha, said Lilka, you never told me this.
He loved fun. The slightest thing distracted him. He stopped for fairs and magicians and tightrope walkers and fortune tellers and pretty women. I have his eyes. And his hands. And pretty women? asked Lilka. That too.
That night Jascha put on a pair of gray flannel pants, a blue button-down shirt, a navy blue blazer. Staring at himself in the mirror, he tied an expensive silk tie she had given him. I want them to see how a proper Jew dresses, he said. You will look better than anyone, she promised him. What are you going to read? He held out his wrist to her and she fastened the small buttons of his shirt cuff. I’m going to read from The Way Down. The part about the young smuggler. Which part? she asked. Not his death? His death, he said. Why should I go easy on them? Why shouldn’t they suffer?
Choose another part, she suggested. He was only six. And the way he dies is terrible. Let them hear it, he said. Were they blameless? Ach Lilka, don’t be such a mimosa. Brush your hair, she told him. It’s standing up on end.
She pulled on a red wool dress and turned for him to zip it up. She bent down to the mirror and carefully applied her red lipstick. Jascha, she said. Maybe you should read something else. What are you afraid of? he wanted to know. I’m not afraid, she replied. But why should you provoke them? Just what the Jews always said, Jascha told her. Don’t provoke them, don’t attract attention. She stood before him and put her hand on his arm. You know I’m not like that, she said. But what purpose d
oes it serve now? They should know what happened, he replied.
He stared at her. Look at you, he said. You look just like a Pole. What else am I? she wanted to know. Do you think all Jews have dark curls? No, my darling, he replied. Only me. Or at least I once did. She reached up and straightened his tie. All right, he said, that’s enough. Now let us go to this absurd evening in which the last Jew is asked to plead his case.
The Writers’ House was packed. How strange, she murmured. Look at all these people. Do they all know of you? Of course not, he replied. They want to see what a real live Jew looks like. They haven’t seen one in so many years. A small man with thinning gray hair and a nervous smile came up and greeted them, bowing. Maziewski, he introduced himself. Honored guests, he said, we are proud to welcome you. Jascha glanced at Lilka. How kind of you to invite us, said Lilka. We too are honored. He smiled and kissed her hand. What a beautiful lady, he said. You look Polish. And speak such good Polish too, he added. I am Polish, she replied. Of course, of course, he said hastily. Come with me. We will have something to drink. And then we will go into the next room for the reading.
They stood in a small reception room where plates of hors d’oeuvres had been laid on a table covered with a white cloth. Maziewski poured out three glasses of vodka. Pan Kroll, he began, we are happy to welcome back such a distinguished writer. I myself am very much looking forward to this reading. Thank you, Pan Maziewski, said Lilka. How kind. The three of them raised their shot glasses. Prosit, they said and drank it back. Silence fell.
Well, said Mr. Maziewski, perhaps we should go in. Your audience is waiting, he said with a smile. Come with me, he said. There is a seat in the front row for Pani Kroll. And I shall lead Pan Kroll up to the stage where I shall give a very brief introduction. Following behind, Jascha muttered: don’t be so ingratiating. I’m just being polite, she whispered. Why? he asked. Do they deserve it?
The elegant high-ceilinged room had cream colored walls embossed with musical instruments of gilt. Gilt ribbons wove their way around the violins and the lutes. An enormous chandelier laced with gleaming rows of crystals hung from the ceiling. At the windows hung red velvet drapes. A room out of other times. Ladies and gentlemen, said Mr. Maziewski, I am proud to present to you tonight Pan Jascha Kroll, our own countryman, who has been living abroad for many years. He has had great success with his novels in Europe and America, and we are happy to welcome him back to his native land after all these years. Let us give him a round of applause.
Jascha stood before them, his chest pressed out. His white wavy hair stood up from his forehead, his dark eyes surveyed the room. They waited. But he had not finished looking. I am back in Poland, he began, after forty years. The audience began to clap. Why are you clapping? he asked coldly, and they stopped abruptly. The last time I was here, he said, I had some difficulties. They were silent. But, he went on, all this is over. Is it not? There was no response. As you know, a part of the population was shut up behind walls. They were growing increasingly uncomfortable. Several people coughed. And when the walls came down, almost no one was left. A man got up noisily. I won’t listen to this, he said. You can leave, said Jascha, but that doesn’t change what happened here.
I am going to read from The Way Down, he said. It is the story of a young smuggler behind the Wall and what becomes of him. He opened the book and read. How after many adventures, the boy, as thin as a dandelion weed, tries to crawl through the hole beneath the Wall to return to the ghetto with his loot. How he becomes stuck in the middle and can neither advance nor retreat. How a fight between those who are starving breaks out over his contraband. How he is beaten on both sides of the Wall until he lies motionless . . . Why must we listen to this? cried out a man with white hair. Wasn’t it the Germans who were responsible? It’s been more than forty years, said a woman in the front row. Most of us were not born. A man shouted angrily—did we not suffer too? Were we too not hungry? Did the Jews not bring it upon themselves? suggested a woman in a tight wool suit. People began to leave. Jascha read on. When he had finished, five people remained. He looked up and smiled at them. Well well, he said, the small band of survivors. And he closed his book.
I had not realized, said Mr. Maziewski, that it would be so harsh. I confess I had not read your books. But your name is known in Warsaw and I thought it would be interesting to have you read to us. Our former countryman who had been away for a long time. You might have things to tell us. I did not know, he repeated, it would be quite so . . . he hesitated. We too suffered, he whispered.
I regret, he said sorrowfully, that many people left. That was not polite. Thank you for coming. Thank you, Pan Kroll. Thank you Pani Kroll. Please enjoy your stay in Warsaw. I was only a small child, he said softly. I had nothing to do with it. Jascha stared at him. No of course not, he said at last. No one had anything to do with it. Mr. Maziewski bowed his head. I wish you the best of luck, he said.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. My wife is waiting at home, he said. She was not well enough to come. But she will want to know what happened. He put out his hand and Jascha shook it. Never mind, Pan Maziewski, he said. Go in good health. I have ordered a car for you, said Maziewski. Come with me. He motioned for them to follow him. Good night, Pan Kroll, he said. Enjoy the rest of your stay. Good night, dear lady, he said to Lilka. He smiled sheepishly. I will not tell my wife about your beauty.
They got into the taxi. Wasn’t that a bit harsh? asked Lilka. Not harsh enough, he replied. Before the door was closed, the taxi began to move. The smell of alcohol hung in the interior. The driver drove quickly and the old taxi skidded in the snowy street. Hey, said Jascha, slow down. The man took a hand off the wheel and raised his palm. Not to worry, not to worry, he said and sped up. Jascha, she whispered. Stop the car, said Jascha, we’re getting out here. Nie nie, shouted the driver loudly. I can’t leave you here. How will you get back to your hotel? Look at the snow. We’ll get back, replied Jascha. Let us out. The car began to swerve. They were thrown against the seat in front. Hey, cried Jascha. At that moment there was the sound of metal crunching as the taxi hit another car.
The driver began to swear. Why do you distract me while I’m driving? he cried. Now look what’s happened. The driver of the other car appeared at the window, banging with a large gloved fist, shouting for him to open up. Now the police will be coming, said the driver in despair. Roll down the window, cried the man outside, and he banged again and again in a fury.
Jascha turned to Lilka. We’re getting out, he said. I’m not waiting for the police. But Jascha, she protested. We’re in the middle of nowhere. And it’s dark. He opened his door. Quick, he said, we’re getting out. Where are you going? called the driver angrily. You have to stay. This has nothing to do with us, replied Jascha. He and Lilka came out into the night.
The snow was falling heavily and the air was frigid. Dear God, Jascha, she said. We don’t even know where we are. Never mind, he said, I’m not getting mixed up with the police. Did you learn nothing during the war? Jascha, she said, I’m so angry with you. He took her arm. It’s better this way, he said. The streetlamps were few and far between, their light dimmed by the snow. She stumbled. An icy wind stung her face. She pulled her scarf over her mouth and nose. Where are we? she asked. As they turned the corner she looked up at the street sign, half obscured by snow. Dear God in Heaven, she said. This is Grzybowska Street. We’re back in the ghetto.
He stood motionless, his face alert. Well then, I know exactly where we are. The Z´elazna Gate is up ahead. We continue on Grzybowska. Past Zielna and your beloved Marszałkowska. Onto Królewska. You mustn’t worry. We’ll soon be out. But when they came to the next crossing, he turned around in confusion. What’s happened? he asked in surprise. They’ve changed the streets. Maybe you’ve forgotten, she said. Ho ho, he replied. I have forgotten nothing at all. I know every street in the ghetto. Follow me. But they had come to a dead e
nd. The wind whipped up the snow and blew it into their faces. They bowed their heads. I don’t understand, said Jascha, peering up. All right, he said after a moment, if we can’t go left here, we’ll take the next left. But there was no left there either.
We’re lost, said Lilka. We can’t get out. Lilka, he cautioned her. If I don’t know every street in the ghetto, what do I know? I can’t go on, said Lilka, and she pressed her face into her scarf. I’m frozen. Of course you can go on, he said. This is not the worst that ever happened to us. Yes, but now . . . Come come, he said, what has happened to my brave girl? You wouldn’t have behaved like this Back There. Back There I had no choice, she said. And now? he asked.
In a moment, he stopped again. What is this street? he asked. This wasn’t here before. Never mind, he said. We’ll go through and see where we end up. She held tightly to his arm. The darkened streets were empty and silent. Look how deserted it is, he said. They’re all gone.
At last they came out onto Bankowy Square. Ahead of them they saw the shadowy silhouettes of trees, their black branches twisted against the sky. The Saxony Gardens! said Lilka. Please, Jascha. I want to see them again. Get a postcard instead, he suggested. It’s my last chance, she said. It’s dark, it’s bitterly cold, it’s snowing, it’s nighttime, said Jascha. Is this the right moment to visit a park? Come in with me, she pleaded. Just for a moment. Ach Lilka. You’re driving me insane.
They entered the park. Let’s sit down on a bench for a moment, she said. Like in the old days. Have you taken leave of your senses? he wanted to know. You can’t sit down, you crazy woman. In this cold? You’ll sit down and you won’t get up. You’ll freeze to death. What’s the matter with you? They walked together down the allée white with snow. Jascha, she said happily, it hasn’t changed. The allée was lined with classical statues that stood on tall stone plinths. Here was Summer with a basket of fruits, and Spring with garlands of flowers. Snow lay on the stone baskets and garlands of the mythical women, and collected in their stone tresses. Above them the stars lay dimmed in the night sky. Look, said Lilka, the pond is frozen solid and the swans are gone.
