by Gwen Edelman
The Saxony Gardens, she said and her face softened. We lived nearby. I walked here with my parents every Sunday morning. Dressed in a little blue coat with velvet collar and buttons, and a little fur hat. With my mother holding one hand and my father the other, we would walk down to the lake. There we would toss pieces of stale bread to the swans who sailed down the lake two by two, their black eyes dark as night, their long bills resting on their white feathered chests. My father would say: don’t let them fool you. They look so peaceful gliding along with their clean white feathers. But they are as bad tempered as camels. Even worse. And he would pinch my cheek. Even so, he would add, we will still feed them.
Lilka brushed the snow off a bench. Sit, she said. Just for a moment. I did not think I would ever again sit in these gardens. You’re crazy, he said. We’ll freeze. But at last he sat down beside her. There’s the little gazebo, she said, pointing. Do you remember?
The snow fell from a dark sky. The white flakes settled on their hats and the shoulders of their coats as they sat staring into the park.
I came out not far from here, said Lilka. On a summer day in July of ’42. How hot it was. The heat of the pavement came through your shoes. My mother had gone out the day before. She had bribed the policemen at the Grzybowska Gate. And paid a fortune for our false papers. We were Ewa and Lena Majorska. Mother and daughter. We were to meet on The Other Side at four in the afternoon. If I wasn’t at Grzybowska Square, she would come back at five. The same the next day. She brushed at the snow beside her.
When I came out on the Aryan side, I could not believe my eyes. Where was I? Instead of the never ending clamor of the ghetto, the dense and desperate crowds, the filth and the misery, the trash, the endless beggars, the emaciated and dying, what did I see? Clean streets, nearly empty of people. Over here it was summer. The trees were in bloom. There were flowers. Well-dressed men and women walked in the streets, children were playing. How quiet it was. There were carriages. In the window of a store, jewelry was displayed.
I was struck dumb. My head ached; I felt completely disoriented. As though I had come to a strange and unknown place. Nothing was familiar. For a moment I was blinded. I stood as though in a dream. But passersby were stopping and staring, and I saw I would have to move quickly. There were szmalcownicy everywhere, blackmailers who, for a few coins, turned in Jews who had escaped the ghetto.
They surrounded me. But I wore a cross around my neck and my hair was blonder than theirs. I spoke to them in perfect Polish. What were you doing in there? they demanded to know. I showed them my small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
The Jews sewed me a dress, I said. You’re a Jew, they said. How dare you, I cried. I’m going to report you. They hesitated for a moment, and then they spotted a sure thing. A woman with dark curls and a haunted expression had appeared beneath the Wall. They abandoned me and ran toward her. What did I do? I did nothing. I felt only a staggering relief that I had escaped. In those days, she said, it seemed as though you only benefited at the expense of another. You lived that they might die. You escaped that they might be caught.
And was your mother there waiting for you when you came out? asked Jascha. No, of course not. How did you know? asked Lilka. At Grzybowska Square where I had planned to meet my mother, there was Marysia.
There she stood in her cotton housedress, her wisps of pale hair pulled back with clear plastic combs. How happy I was to see her. Now, I felt sure, everything would be all right. She had brought a sweet roll for me in her basket, and I took it and ate greedily, the crumbs dropping from my mouth. Marysia, I said, and putting my arms around her small shrunken figure, I pressed my cheek against hers and my eyes filled with tears. She stroked my hair. My little one, she said. Look how thin you are.
I stared at the trees heavy with bright green leaves, shiny with sunlight. Is Mama all right? I asked. Marysia nodded. You’ll see her tomorrow. Well well, said Jascha, a mother cannot come to welcome her daughter back to the land of the living. Instead she makes a date with her German friend. Far more important. You don’t know that, said Lilka. He shook his head. Is this a Jewish mother?
One day in the ghetto, said Jascha, the Accountant said to me: you were seen at Cafe Hirschfeld last night. With the girl. I don’t want you taking her there. Don’t worry, I told him, she doesn’t want to go back. She went to school with Dora Goldschmidt. Now she sees her at Cafe Hirschfeld with a red shiny mouth sitting half-naked on Kazik the smuggler’s lap. She says she’ll never go back. Good, said the Accountant. I don’t want her there. I like her. She’s a nice girl. You mean that’s worse than what she sees on the streets? I asked him. That I can’t do anything about, the Accountant replied. That’s not under my control.
Lilka stared at him. You never told me that. Jascha shrugged. We’ve only been together forty years, he said. I haven’t yet had time to tell you everything. He blew his nose. But I will, darling. I will.
But there’s another reason I didn’t take you back to Cafe Hirschfeld, he said. The tip of his cigarette glowed in the darkness. And that was because your mother went there sometimes with Keppler. Jascha, said Lilka, what are you saying? Once in a while he came into the ghetto at night, said Jascha. Some of Them did. They liked to go slumming at Cafe Hirschfeld.
There was caviar and goose-liver pate at exorbitant prices right in the ghetto. There were singers, musicians, a floor show. Anka Blum with her dark hair and red lips used to sing ballads from before the war. German as well as Polish. The applause was thunderous. The champagne flowed. It was almost real life. All the smugglers hated your mother, he informed her.
There was a lot of scum there. But she was sleeping with the enemy. That went beyond what they could tolerate. But what could they do? She had high-level protection.
Jascha, said Lilka, why are you telling me this? Are you angry at the Poles tonight? Why do you take it out on me? Why do you torture me? He shrugged. I wanted you to know. She turned away from him on the cold stone bench. What a terrible man. I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me, she said. I’ll go back on my own. I’m sorry, my darling, he said. I thought you should know. Now? she asked incredulous. For what reason? I wanted you to know, he said, that I had nothing to do with what happened.
And now you tell me? Why did they do it? How had she harmed anyone? she cried. She was sleeping with one of Them, he said. And this they couldn’t tolerate. This was a betrayal they couldn’t accept. They would have done better to use their bullets for the Others, said Lilka. If I had known who they were, I would have killed them myself.
It happened on a Tuesday, said Lilka. On the Other Side. She had only been out for three weeks. No one dared to tell me. Later they said the Jews had arranged it. The Jews didn’t target their own. Why did they make an exception for my mother? Had she tortured anyone? Shot anyone? She turned to him. You knew about it, she said. I had nothing to do with it, he said. Why would they have involved me, knowing she was the mother of my girlfriend? It was only afterward that I was told.
Up above the moon slid out from behind white clouds. She watched him. I don’t think you’re telling the truth, she said. You knew. You could have warned her. She would have lived. I would have had a mother. Did we come back to dredge up all our old sorrows? asked Jascha. To poison our relationship? Why did you bring it up? she asked. What possessed you? I don’t know, he answered. Leave me, she said. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I swear to you, he said. I had nothing to do with it. Did the Accountant arrange it? she asked. Lilka, he said wearily, the Accountant was already dead. But he had arranged it, she said. He had only to fix the date. And when he died one of his smugglers took on the assignment. Was it Janek? Or Itzak? Tell me, she cried. I want to know. He sighed. Lilka, the Accountant has been dead for forty years. What does it matter? Well, that’s my answer, she said.
In the darkness she pulled off a glove and touched her frozen cheek. My mother,
she said, this woman who you wanted dead, did you a very great favor. Ha, replied Jascha. I doubt that. She couldn’t stand me. Your smuggler, she called me. You told me so yourself. Do you remember that day in June 1942? she asked him. Stop it, Lilka, he warned her. Well? she asked. The trees stirred. Her breath rose up in circles of fog. I was at the hospital, she said. What terrible heat. We had the windows wide open but the air lay heavy and still. The rooms and corridors were filled with the dying. Marek came running to tell me you had been seen with the others being marched to the Umschlagplatz. Where the trains pulled in and the Jews disappeared.
I was out of my mind. I went from window to window looking down on the square. But I couldn’t see you anywhere. Not surprising. Thousands of people were squeezing into the Umschlagplatz. I ran to the hospital phone. But the phone was in use and though I shouted and cried, the man refused to get off. So I raced down the stairs. In the square, which was now packed, I saw some of my colleagues; doctors and nurses who were trying to bring out a few sick Jews. I asked each one whether they had seen you. No one had. I began to run. I ran all the way home to my mother.
She was sitting quietly in a chair by the window. I was nearly hysterical. She turned her cool glance on me. So emotional, she remarked. Mama, I cried, Jascha has gone to the Umschlagplatz. You must get him out. She sighed. Do you know how much it costs these days? she inquired. The price has gone up. She fanned herself. What terrible heat, she said. Mama, I pleaded, give it to me. I will pay you back. Even if it takes my whole life. I was sobbing. Lilka, she ordered me, pull yourself together. She brought me a glass of water and spread some jam on a piece of bread. I couldn’t eat.
Mama, please. I can’t do it, Lilka, she said. Do you know how much 100,000 zlotys is? And we may have to survive a while longer. I fell to my knees like a Pole. Mama, I said to her, gripping her knees, I cannot live without him. He is my life. She clicked her tongue, but I saw her gaze move away. Maybe she was remembering her love for my father. Go back to the hospital, she ordered me. But Mama . . . Go, she said.
Later I learned she had called Berndt on The Other Side, and he arranged it with a phone call. He was furious with her. He told her never to ask him something like that again. Do you think, he asked her, that I am in the business of saving Jews? My mother was very angry with me. Jascha gripped her arm. It was the Accountant who got me out. Lilka shook her head. In the end, I suppose Berndt saved Jews after all, she remarked. One Jew, said Jascha. Yes, she replied. But it was you.
For a long time they sat silently side by side on the snow covered bench. The frigid wind blew the snow against their faces. Why did you never tell me? he asked at last. Go, she said to him. I don’t want you here. Lilka, he said, we have to go back. It’s colder than the devil. Soon we’ll be frozen. You can go, she said. I’m staying here. He turned to her in the darkness. Shall we die in Poland after all? he asked her.
Back at the hotel, Jascha poured out vodka. Drink darling, he said to her. Lilka sat in the armchair by the window in her coat and hat. She held out her hand mechanically for the glass. I have no feelings left, she said dully. Jascha closed the curtains. Haven’t we seen enough snow? he asked her. He poured himself out another glass and drank it down. Let’s go to bed, he said. I’ve had enough of Warsaw to last me another three lifetimes.
That night in the darkness he took her in his arms. Come to me, my darling, he said. He kissed the flesh of her throat, her mouth. How I waited for you after the war. Here is the one, said Adam to Eve, whose impending arrival rang through me like a bell all night. That was me, my sweetheart. Night after night as I waited for you. He kissed the soft skin between her legs and then knelt between them. Her thighs opened, her mouth softened and she half rose to meet him. My beloved, she murmured. He entered her with the passion of a young man. Let me come home, he cried out.
That night they were as though young again. She lay on the sheets soft and open as a young girl. Again and again he rose up and entered her. And when at last they lay breathless, their legs entwined, their skin slick with moisture, Jascha turned to her and took her in his arms. The Promised Land, he said. In the moist twisted bedclothes, they closed their eyes and slept.
It was still dark when she began shaking his shoulder. Get up, she cried, tugging at him. He awoke in terror. What is it? What is it? What’s going on? he asked, his eyes wide with panic. Jascha, we have to get out! What’s the matter with you? he asked, his face creased with sleep. She struggled out of bed, throwing aside the tangled sheets, and reached in the near darkness for their battered leather suitcase. I have to get out, she repeated. Otherwise it will be too late. He turned to look at her. For God’s sake, Lilka, what’s come over you? My heart is beating, she said. I can’t catch my breath. Calm down, he said, and come back to bed.
She began pulling their clothes off the hangers and throwing them into the suitcase. Will I need this? she asked, holding up a woolen jacket. How many kilos are we allowed to take with us? Lilka, stop all this, he protested sleepily, there’s plenty of time. It’s still night. It’s not, she said, it’s six in the morning. He reached out to pull the quilt over himself. Our train is at five this afternoon, he said. We can wait till then. Calm down. And let me go back to sleep. He turned over.
I dreamed I was on the Umschlagplatz, she said, caught up in the crowd pressing toward the train. It was a terrible mistake. I didn’t belong there. Behind me hundreds of people shoving and screaming. What a terrible din. They were pushing me forward toward the open car. I turned around to run and the crowd parted to let me through. But I was paralyzed and couldn’t move. I no longer remembered how to run. The crowd looked at me pityingly, they shook their heads. And then as though regretfully, the crowd closed around me and pushed me up into the train.
Not me, I cried, I’m not going. I’m still young. There was an old man in a black coat. Grandfather, I pleaded, I’m still young. But it was not my grandfather. He had been shot on his way to the bookseller of Nalewki Street. The old Jew looked at me with hooded eyes and he shrugged. Alles rein, he said. Everything inside. I was already inside. I was suffocating. And then they slid closed the heavy wooden door and shut out the sky. And there was darkness. Grandfather, I cried.
Jascha sighed. It was a dream, he said. That’s all. Now calm down. It was long ago and it’s over now. He watched her throwing their clothes into the suitcase, crumpled and unfolded. He reached out a hand. Come and sit down, he said softly. She shook her head. I can’t. Lilka, be reasonable. Jascha, please, she implored him. He watched her face. All right, he said at last. But we can at least have breakfast. Hurriedly she began to put on her clothes. No. We can’t. There’s no time. You have to get dressed. And go down and check out. We’ve got to be on the first train out of here. She put on her boots. There’ll be a terrible crowd at the station. We want to be sure to get on. Boz˙e Mój, he murmured. My God. He struggled to the bathroom, turned on the tap in the sink and washed his face with cold water.
They set off in the freezing half darkness. Warsaw lay quiet in the early morning frost. She sat stiffly against the frayed fabric of the taxi seat. Jascha sat beside her smoking, his eyes red rimmed, his chin rough with stubble. There had been no time to shave. They sat silently, watching the city roll past.
The taxi pulled up in front of the station. The driver got out and pulled their bag from the trunk. He took the money and wished them a good journey. Well well, said Lilka. At least he didn’t ask us where we were from. He didn’t have to ask, said Jascha. He knew.
Dawn was coming up over Warsaw. The city lay soft and silent beneath the snow. The gilded baroque domes of the churches began to glow beneath the lightening sky. What a beautiful city it was, said Lilka as they stood on the pavement. Before the war. Say goodbye to Warsaw, she said. We won’t be back. I said goodbye to Warsaw forty years ago, he replied. I thought . . . she began. I know what you thought, he replied. The strangest thing, she told him, is that
I have forgotten London. Forgotten our life there. Forgotten all those years. As if they never happened. It will come back to you, he told her. She bound up her hair in a knot and pulled on her fur hat. It’s as though I never left Warsaw. Why, she asked him, did we have to?
They stood together on the platform. In the early light of dawn, a group of three workmen stood at the end of the platform, their toolboxes beside them. They wore rough padded jackets and pants and mangy chapkas on their heads; their cigarettes hung from their cold lips so they could keep their hands in their pockets.
Lilka pulled back her sleeve and looked at her watch. How brave they were, she said softly, those Jews who fought against all odds in April 1943. The women too. Even They were surprised at the courage of the Jewish women. During the eight weeks of the Ghetto Uprising, I had an irresistible longing to go back to the ghetto. I wanted to be with the Jews who were fighting Them with antiquated guns and homemade Molotov cocktails as the ghetto burned and the buildings collapsed.
The Jews had built a whole system of underground bunkers. As the ghetto burned it was nearly impossible to breathe in the underground bunkers, and those who could came out into the light of day. They fought in the sewers, in the basements, in the attics. But They were armed with incendiary bombs and tanks and flamethrowers and all manner of sophisticated weapons. And we had nothing. The Jews wanted to die fighting. How did we know They would set the whole ghetto on fire?
