by Bodie Thoene
“I know enough,” Moshe said though his sandwich. “I am going to England. You be a rabbi. Victoria will marry some Bedouin camel driver, and the world will be a better place for it!”
“Be quiet,” Eli said again more wearily. He had not even thought of all that for hours.
“So where is all the passion and love for you, Eli? My big brother. How will you embrace a book at night and call it by her name? What has made you so happy tonight?” Moshe snatched the reference volume from in front of Eli. He held it up to the light and began to read. “Targum Jonathan o Isaiah Fifty-three! Ho! Eli, what love! What truth and light!” He threw the book back on the bed in disgust. “May you be eternally happy with your books, Eli.” He reached up and snapped off the light as if to make one final gesture of his contempt.
Eli was too exhausted to argue or explain. Indeed, this reference and several others he had found did change everything for him. He sat in the dark on his cluttered bed for a long time as Moshe kicked off his shoes and lay down to sleep without another word.
Eli did not resent his brother’s derision. He expected nothing less. Moshe could not understand. Perhaps Eli would have a chance to explain to him later. Yes. When it was all over Eli would sit him down and explain. Tonight Eli had found truth. And everything was different, even his love for Victoria.
***
Etta held tightly to baby Yacov as they hurried through the crowded streets of Catholic Warsaw.
“Walk faster, children!” she called over her shoulder to Rachel, David, and Samuel. “We will miss our appointment.”
Today’s appointment was with a photographer who promised quick passport photos at a reasonable price. It was worth venturing beyond the borders of Jewish Warsaw for such a bargain, Etta reasoned. Besides, this way Aaron would not know she was sending birth certificates and photos to her father in Jerusalem in the hope that her own passport might be renewed in the British Mandate and new British passports acquired for her children.
Aaron would not have consented. So Etta had taken this matter into her own hands . . . just in case.
“How much farther, Mama?” complained Samuel.
“Hush,” Rachel demanded in a frightened voice. Two young men leaning against a storefront eyed the little entourage with cruel amusement. They stepped away from the wall and followed after.
“Look! The Christ-killers have come out of their caves today!”
“Ignore them, children,” Etta commanded in Yiddish as her back stiffened with fear. She held the baby closer and reached around to pull the other three children in front of her.
“Listen to this, Wochek! The Jewish bitch barks to her litter in Yiddish so we cannot understand!” taunted one of the men.
“She looks very rich, Wolfgang,” the second muttered in German. “How do you think she gets her money? You think she sells herself to Poles, eh?”
Etta felt herself color with shame at the man’s remark. Her heart began to pound with fear. They could hurt her. Hurt her children and no one would stop them. Such things had been done before. Why had she left the ghetto? For a few pennies! To keep the passport photos a secret from Aaron! God forgive me! Help me!
“Maybe she will give us a free sample, Wochek. You think so?”
“Or maybe she will pay us!” The voice was exultant at the idea.
Other Poles on the sidewalk turned to look and smile with amusement. A few encouraged the young men.
Etta could see that Rachel had grown pale with fear. The faces of the boys displayed a confused sort of anger.
A still-burning cigarette butt was tossed at Etta’s face. She ducked and shielded the baby. Rachel turned, her bright blue eyes wide with terror. Walking just behind their two tormenters was the man she had seen in Muranow Square—the watcher! He, too, was smiling. His eyes narrowed with cold hatred.
“Ah, leave them alone!” shouted a thick-framed grandmother walking the other way.
That was all the support they received from the onlookers. Etta walked faster until she was almost running, pushing the children along in front. The long strides of the young men did not seem to be affected by her fearful pace. Still they jeered and mocked Etta. A hand reached out to snag the hem of her dress and pull it up.
Etta cried out and whirled around. The baby began to wail.
“Leave us alone!” Etta demanded.
In response, the men laughed louder and groped for her skirt again.
“Someone help my mother!” Rachel shouted. “Please!”
“Just a little taste, eh? I have never had kosher meat!” The amusement turned into a leer. This was no longer a game.
Tears stung Etta’s eyes. She tried to speak, but fear choked her as a crowd of men now encircled her on the sidewalk, cutting her off from Rachel and David and Samuel as they screamed for her. Yacov still cried his innocent protest.
The two men walked nearer. Their intent was evident in their eyes. Two other young men stepped between them. “When you are finished with her, I want a turn.”
“Don’t . . . please!” Etta begged. “Don’t hurt my little one!”
The watcher spoke. “Smash the little pig on the sidewalk! The Germans sent us twelve thousand Jews! What do we need with another one?”
The crowd of men grew silent—the silence of anticipation. Who would reach out first? From the outer ring of the growing circle, Etta could hear the weeping voices of her children calling for her. She shielded Yacov, covering his head with her hands. They would not tear him from her; she would die first! Silently she breathed the prayer of the dying. Small bits of the holy words came to her mind as she fought against the panic. O Israel . . . the Lord . . . our God is . . . Where is the Lord?
The young men reached out as if they possessed one mind. They took her by each arm. She struggled and screamed and fought for her baby.
Two more strong men grasped her ankles and lifted her kicking from the ground. They held her high above their heads like a sacrifice. The crowd cheered her anguish as she shouted to her children, “Run! Run!”
She arched her back as she fought against the iron grip of her attackers. In her wild struggle she could see that traffic still moved in the street as people gawked from the opposite sidewalk.
The tiny infant in her arms bleated as she squeezed him too tightly in her fight to hold him. The crowd of Poles roared at the sight of the Jewish woman’s struggle. Legs kicking. Pretty head thrown back in a scream. And then the roar began to fade. Still she fought! She shouted out against her attackers as they held her high above their heads. But something changed. First to the right, and then to the left, the circle of men broke and moved back. The laughter died, leaving only those who grasped her. Once again it was their strength against hers. Her voice against theirs. Once again she could make out the sobs of Rachel, David, and Samuel. And then one authoritative male voice cut through the last remnants of her torture.
“Put the woman down! I said . . . on pain of excommunication . . . put the woman down!”
The laughter stilled as she was lowered, weeping, to the sidewalk. A tiny Catholic priest, no more than five feet tall, glared threateningly up at the men who had started it all. At the break in the crowd, the children ran to embrace their unsteady mother. The voice of the baby was hoarse now from his shrieks though the ordeal. Etta could not stop crying. The tears flowed silently down her flushed cheeks.
“We were just having fun with this Jewess, Father,” protested the first young man as the onlookers disappeared.
The priest slapped the man hard across the face. He reached up and clutched the collar of the second strong young brute, shaking him as if he were a small child.
“You are animals!” hissed the priest, who seemed very small next to the men. “You call yourselves Catholics!” He raised his voice to include the spectators who remained sheepishly looking on from the fringes. Even those few backed away, stepping on toes, bumping into the crowd gathered behind them. “Call on the mercy of Almighty God, for He is your
judge in this!” His eyes burned with rage. He slapped the face of the second man with the back of his hand, then shoved him away. “I know you both,” the priest whispered threateningly.
“Oh, Mama!” Rachel cried, holding Etta around her waist. “I want to go home!”
Etta could only nod. They had spent such a long time getting dressed up for the pictures. Now Etta’s hair hung down and Rachel’s bows were untied. The boys’ coats and ties were askew.
The fierceness of the priest changed to calm and gentle concern as he turned his attention to Etta and the children. “Are you all right, daughter?”
Etta shook her head. No, she was not all right. But she was alive. The baby was alive.
“Do I need to take you to a hospital?” the priest asked.
Etta closed her eyes, tying to control the weeping. She could not speak. Rachel replied for her. “Our doctor,” Rachel said boldly. She was angry—anger felt better than fear. “Herr Doktor Letzno is our doctor. He lives on Dzika Street. Yes. You may take my mother there.”
The priest eyed the young women with a hint of respect. She had taken charge. This was good. She was a younger version of her mother. Very beautiful, and very lucky that the men had not tried to rape her as well.
“My car is there.” He pointed to a small black sedan at the curb. There was never a question that they might refuse to ride in an automobile owned by the Catholic church. Rachel shuddered as she stepped in after Etta. They could not go home like this. Dr. Letzno would be their refuge for a while.
***
Two plainclothes members of the Warsaw police sat smug and patronizing in the wing-backed chairs of Eduard Letzno’s office. Etta faced them. She looked very alone and small on the wide leather sofa. Eduard sat at his desk. He stared at his hands in anguish. He was sorry now that he had called the police. Was he still so naïve as to think that there was a shred of justice remaining in Poland for a Jew, whether a man or woman?
“You say,” began the thick, red-faced officer as he scanned his notes, “that you were going to a photographer?”
Etta bit her lip and twisted the handkerchief into knots. “Yes. As I told you. We had an appointment.” Words came with difficulty.
“And why did you venture out of your own community for a photograph, eh? There are competent Jewish photographers.”
Etta glanced at Eduard. Should she tell them that she wanted passport photos? Eduard did not help her in this matter. He simply stared darkly at his clasped hands. “I . . . heard this fellow Wolenski was very good and not expensive.”
The officer flipped a page over the back of his clipboard. “Wolenski is known to us police.” He paused. His eyes became hard. “He publishes . . . certain kinds of photographs. Black market. Obscene photographs.”
Etta drew back as if she had been slapped. “But no! Passport photos—he advertises quick work.”
The officer smiled. So the Jewess wanted passport photos. “We will check with Wolenski.” His words were clipped, officious. “And so, you say you were simply walking along and—”
“But I told you.” Etta’s face flushed with shame. “They began to make . . . remarks. And then . . . advances.”
The chin of the officer went up as if to dispute her. “The young men in question reported the incident to us differently.”
Eduard looked up, startled by these words. “They came to you?”
“Immediately,” the officer replied. “The . . . incident . . . frightened them. They say this woman is the one who began it.”
“What?” Etta gasped. Again her eyes filled with tears.
“You are surprised?” The narrow grin of the officer was like the leer she had seen on the faces of the attackers.
“But I . . . why would I?” she stammered.
“They were under the impression that you are . . . a prostitute.” The grin remained unchanged.
“But . . . ” Etta could not speak. She caught Eduard’s eyes.
His dark expression became instantly angry. “Frau Lubetkin is the wife of a rabbi,” he said evenly.
“What has that to do with the charge, Doktor Letzno?” The officer shrugged.
“It was just as I have told you!” Etta cried.
“We have witnesses who say differently. The two men whom you first solicited on the street. And then there are many others who will testify . . .
“But the priest! He stopped them! He will tell you!” Etta clenched her fists in anger and humiliation.
“The priest stopped the little prank. He brought you here. He says he did not realize that you are a prostitute, or he might have let the men teach you a lesson.” He cocked an eyebrow. “So much for the priest.”
“Eduard!” Etta wept openly as she looked to him for some help against this insanity. How could they say such things? How could they look at her and think such things?
“Frau Lubetkin is a devoted mother and—” Eduard’s voice threatened to lose control.
“Many prostitutes are good mothers,” said the officer, smiling. “Soliciting in Warsaw is against the law. We could put you in prison. There are fifty men who will testify in court as to what you are and what you were doing.”
“But they attacked me! They threatened the life of my baby!”
“All a part of the sport. Jewish prostitutes should service their own kind. There are hotels near Muranow Square, are there not?”
The doctor rose from behind his desk. He moved to stand between the gendarme and Etta, who now sobbed uncontrollably. The officer smiled up at him. Eduard did not strike the man, although it was an effort to restrain himself.
Eduard’s words came in a hoarse croak. “You have made your point,” he managed to whisper. “No need to insult Frau Lubetkin or her family further.”
“Insult?” The officer glanced innocently at his taciturn partner. Both men were amused with their game of baiting. “I am simply warning this woman that if she ever solicits in the Catholic section of the city again, I shall personally arrest her. We can see to it she is in prison for three years at the least.” He leaned around Eduard and fixed his steely gaze on Etta. “Do you understand, madame? Your children will be quite changed when you get out of jail. Much older. The littlest bastard will not remember you.”
“Enough!” Eduard shouted. He did not touch the vile man in front of him, lest he also be thrown into prison.
“Remember you are leaving Poland, Dr. Letzno,” menaced the second officer. “Unless you violate the law. Or perhaps strike a Warsaw gendarme. You know how difficult it is to leave the country or obtain a passport if you have a police record.” At this, the man looked expectantly at Etta. Had she heard his threat? No passport with a police record. No escape to Palestine, even for the wife of a rabbi. “You do understand, do you not?”
Eduard stepped back. Yes, he understood. Etta was too broken to comprehend this evil game, but Eduard understood perfectly what they were after.
He cleared his throat and looked over their heads, through the window where a few snowflakes drifted down. These men had not spoken with the attackers. Nor had they contacted the priest. The photographer was a just a photographer. “How much do you want?” Eduard asked.
The officers exchanged glances as if such a thought had never entered their minds. “There are fines, of course. Public disturbances. Soliciting openly . . .”
“There will be no more need of fabricated charges. We all know you can say what you like. You can find witnesses who are not witnesses and they will say what you tell them. I am a realist. Frau Lubetkin is innocent . . . the kind of innocence men like you will not understand. And so, it is time to speak openly. What is your price for leaving her alone?”
28
The Last Waltz
The soft light above the piano shone on Anna’s hair. From across the room, Theo closed his eyes to etch this image of her in his mind like a treasured photograph. She played the gentle music of Brahms’ “Waltz in A flat.” She swayed with the music and smiled as though sh
e were dancing. The melody filled the tiny flat with the same elegance and warmth that had once been theirs in Berlin.
Theo knew that the surroundings did not matter. Even playing on a battered old upright piano had not dimmed the brightness of Anna’s soul. This melody Theo would take with him; this vision he would cherish.
Outside, a strong wind chilled the city of London, breaking water pipes and sending everyone scrambling for the warmth of a fire. Theo would take his fire with him. Kindled and fueled by moments like these, memories of Anna had kept him warm. When every other image had hardened and died around him, he had stretched out his hands to the face of Anna. Dreams of her had kept him alive. Certainty of her prayers and faithfulness had commanded him to live when it would have been easier to die. And so, once again, he would carry Anna with him in his heart. He would think of her in London, here at the piano; moving to the music of a Brahms’ waltz.
As if she heard his thoughts, her hands paused in the middle of the melody. Did she feel his eyes loving her? She did not turn around. The wall clock ticked on with the rhythm like a metronome.
“Theo,” she asked quietly, “who have they asked to present the plan in Berlin? You did not say.”
He did not answer, but continued to gaze at the golden light of her hair.
Her shoulders sagged. “How long will you be gone?” she asked. Her words seemed choked. She would not beg him to stay—would not put her love for him before what she knew must be.
He put his strong hands on her shoulders and stooped to kiss her hair. “A short time, they tell me. A few days.” His voice sounded light and reassuring in spite of what they both knew. “I will be given a British diplomatic passport. You must not worry.”
She nodded and rested her fingers on the ivory keys. What was there to say now? “The Lord will . . . be with you.” She began to play again.
Theo sat beside her on the bench. “I have always loved this waltz,” he remarked, comforted somehow by her understanding, “loved the way you played it.”
