In the Land of Armadillos

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  When Pavel apprised him of these plans, the priest looked at him with pity, then shook his head. “No, Pavel. She belongs with her people. What if she has family somewhere?”

  He should have known better than to trust the priest. A few days later, an officer in a Free Polish Infantry uniform drove up, hopped off his vehicle, told his driver to wait. From the corner of his field, where he was forking straw over a conical heap of potatoes in advance of the first hard frost, Pavel had observed them zipping down the road from town. Funny. Before the war, there had been two cars in all of Włodawa. Now they were everywhere.

  It was a beautiful fall day. In the strip of forest that bordered the edge of his land, the leaves were turning red, bronze, caramel, and gold, like the colors in the little girl’s hair. Looking around, the officer spotted him, a gray man in gray work clothes against the rich palette of autumn. He shouted in four different languages, trying to get his attention. Pavel pretended not to hear.

  Carefully, the officer stepped over rows of straggling potato vines, trying not to muddy his shiny shoes. A mimeographed paper fluttered in his right hand. Pavel threw another forkful of straw over the potatoes.

  “Hey, farmer,” the officer said. “We meet again. Remember me?”

  Pavel looked into his face. The stars on his shoulder boards identified him as a captain. On his breast were pinned various ribbons alongside the Cross of Valor. No, he did not remember him.

  “Maybe you’ll remember this,” the officer said. “You’re the biggest anti-Semite in the county. My friend and I left a little girl with you. My name is Captain Arno Hammer.”

  Pavel concealed his shock. This decorated war hero in the peaked cap, starched uniform and ribbons, he was the same creature as the ragged resistance fighter who pledged to burn him alive? “Where’s your friend?” he asked, stalling for time. “The one with the dark hair. The brother.”

  The captain gazed off into the distance, studying, perhaps, the changing leaves at the edge of the forest. “Yosha,” he said stiffly. “You were right. He died before morning.” Pavel saw the muscles of his jaw clench. “Before he died, I made a promise.”

  Inside the cage of Pavel’s heart, fear opened its wings. With one wrong word, he would lose her. He couldn’t bear to imagine his hut stripped of her bed with the flowered quilt, or the dish drainer without her bowl and spoon resting next to his. Fear turned to rage, sparked through his system all the way down to his fingertips. So what if the captain had made a promise? Reina belonged to him now, a gift from the dark-haired partizan. Hadn’t he earned the right to a little happiness?

  He rested his hands on the handle of his pitchfork. “Then I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said, carefully weighing his words. “You should have come a month ago. The little girl was sick. She had a bad fever. She didn’t make it.”

  At first he was frightened by the blaze of emotion in the officer’s eyes. If anything happens to this little girl . . . and I mean anything . . . But the man formerly known as Arno the Hammer simply looked down at his paper, absently rubbing his thumb over the typed words. With a little sigh, he folded it back up, slowly, lovingly, and tucked it in the pocket of his uniform. Then his face crumpled. Suddenly, he looked ten years older.

  “Sorry for your trouble,” he said, the life gone from his voice. He got back into his vehicle and said something to the driver. They drove away.

  As Pavel watched the jeep disappear in the distance, he felt elated. So, happily-ever-after could happen for liars and collaborators just as it happened for princesses and frogs. He did a dusty little victory dance right there in the furrows, with his pitchfork for a partner. Nothing would change. Life would go on, a man and his adopted daughter eking out a quiet country existence at the edge of a potato field. She belonged to him now, only him.

  * * *

  She came back before dark, like a good girl. Pavel let his hand light on her head as she passed, then told her to put the animals in the barn. The dog loped behind her, his tongue hanging out.

  The fever started after midnight.

  He was wakened from a sound sleep by the noise of her teeth chattering. When he put his hand on her forehead, he was astonished by the amount of heat it generated. He fed her an aspirin, laid a cold, damp cloth on her forehead.

  She vomited four times in the space of an hour, twisting and churning on the white metal bed for which he had exchanged a bucket of eggs and three chickens. He sat by uselessly as she was assailed by pains that seemed unfairly outsize for such a pitiably small being.

  In the last episode, her convulsions brought up only bile. “There, now you’ll feel better,” he told her encouragingly, patting her on the back. “Sleep it off.” Privately, he cursed his own stupidity. In speaking with the partizan, he had invoked the wolf, and the wolf had come; he never should have allowed those four words, she didn’t make it, to leave his lips. As long as he was already lying, he should have said she’d run away. He made her drink some weak tea, then went to his own bed in the other room. He had to get up early. After all, there were still potatoes to dig.

  He was wakened by a wet nose snuffling in his face. He pushed the dog away, sat up. From the other room, he heard moaning, a gibberish of Polish and Jewish. Glancing at the clock, Pavel saw that it was three in the morning.

  With a soulful grunt, Cezar rested his muzzle on the sheets near her pillow, his demonic red eyes shifting anxiously between the man and the little girl. Pavel began to worry. She had sweated through the covers. This time, when he asked her how she felt, she didn’t answer; her eyes were glassy, half open, he couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep. He found the thermometer exactly where he had left it in 1925, behind the glasses at the back of the top shelf in the cupboard. The mercury reached 106 before it stopped rising. The little girl needed a doctor. His heart began to thump heavily.

  Pavel took the small limp hand in his, turned it upward to kiss the soft pink palm, held it to his cheek. He had presided over this scene before, first with Kazimir, then Lidia. Slowly, he collapsed to his knees, watching the thin chest fight up and down, then buried his face in his hands. The minutes dragged by, one rasping breath after another, until he lost track of time.

  Outside, there was a blinding flash, followed by a loud crack, the sound of something crumping into the earth. Lifting his head, he could see that the atmosphere in the room had changed, the shadows subtly altered. He glanced out the window. There was a light in the barnyard. Squinting, he tried to make it out. Could it be a firefly? Not this late in the season. Was it someone with a lamp, trying to signal him? If so, he didn’t know the code.

  Curiosity got the better of him, luring him outside. The moon was a silvery disk in a gray and hazy sky, illuminating the stubbly fields where workers had already finished harvesting corn.

  The light was on the move now, floating up the road toward the pasture. Up and up he climbed, into the low foothills. As he drew closer, he was surprised to see the little girl, her hands cupped around a softly glowing orb.

  “Where is your shadow?” she demanded. She was wearing only a thin white nightshirt, barefoot in the cold mist. “Are you a demon? You have no shadow.”

  He looked at his feet, bewildered. What was she talking about? She must be delirious. But it was true. Though the moon shone directly overhead, he cast no shadow. He shivered. “Let’s go home, princess. You belong in bed. What are you doing out here? You’re going to freeze.”

  The orb pulsed, shooting rays of light to all points of the compass before dying back down to a spark. “I have to get this star back to heaven before it goes out,” she fretted. “See, it’s already fading. If I don’t get there in time, the sun won’t rise, morning will never come, and this night will go on forever and ever. Lend me your wings.”

  “I don’t have wings,” he said helplessly.

  But a rustling noise from behind gave him away. She was right, rising from his shoulders was a magnificent pair of gray feathered wings. Without hesita
tion, he wrenched them off and fixed them to her back. Delightedly, she tried them out. They made a fierce flapping sound, stirring up a strong breeze.

  She beamed at him. Her face was radiant in the star’s flickering light. “Thank you, Pavel,” she said. The wings beat the air. She soared straight up into the night, then vanished. On the earth where she had been standing, he saw the little wooden shoes he had made for her.

  Pavel scanned the black sky. Far above his head, the morning star dazzled to life, steadfast and bright, and he knew that her mission had been successful. He sighed with relief. It was cold. Now the long night could finally end. Hugging his arms around himself, he waited for her return.

  The sky began to lighten, the stars to wink out. It was almost dawn. What was taking her so long? And just like that, he knew. A sharp pain transfixed his heart. She was never coming down.

  Dark clouds scudded over the sky, lightning lashed the horizon. A sonorous voice came from above, addressing him. “Pavel Walczak!” it thundered. “You have My thanks.”

  “No!” he shouted hoarsely. “Give her back! She’s mine!”

  “Pavel, Pavel,” it chided him sadly. “Don’t you trust Me?”

  No, Pavel certainly did not trust Him. The Voice had taken Lidia and baby Kazimir, Marina’s husband, Jasinski and his family, the saddlemaker and his son the dark-haired partizan. All the poor souls he had betrayed to Hahnemeier, the thousands shot in the forests and cities . . . the ones who died in battle and the ones who’d been gassed, beaten, buried alive, and starved . . . as far as he was concerned, the Voice had a lot of explaining to do.

  Pavel bent down, searching for rocks he could hurl up at the sky, but the Voice was done with him, it had said its piece. Slowly, the clouds began to revolve, to rotate, a swirling phantasm of dancing green light that broke apart into the aurora borealis.

  When he startled awake, weak winter sun was filtering in through the glass. There was a patter of rain on the dirty windowpane, and a rumble of thunder sounded softly in the distance.

  Mercifully, the little face was turned away from him on the pillow. He was still holding her hand. With a dry sob, he pulled the small, light body into the cradle of his arms, upsetting a glass of tea standing on the night table.

  Her eyes flew open. When she saw what he was doing, she smiled. “I had the nicest dream,” she said.

  * * *

  Within the week, an unfamiliar wagon came toiling up the road, the driver taking the last rise before the farmhouse like he’d been doing it all his life. Pavel hardly recognized the saddlemaker, decked out in a new fedora, a smart overcoat, a suit, a tie. The last time Pavel had seen him, he’d been dressed like a farmer. Despite the years of tragedy and hardship, his pale eyes were friendly under the wide brim of the soft hat.

  “Good to see you, Walczak,” he said. He stuck out his hand to shake, and then his face broke into a wide grin. “I believe we are even for that harness I made you.”

  They had survived after all, hiding with a farmer near Okuninka. On one bad night in November 1943, a detachment of German soldiers had descended upon the Adampol work camp, collected all the Jews from their homes, and began prodding them toward the trees at the edge of the outlying buildings. Someone got word to the commandant; when he caught up with them, he was out of breath, as if he’d been running.

  They all stood around and listened. What are you doing? These are my best workers! they heard him shout at the commanding officer.

  He ordered the soldiers to wait there while he returned with the officer to the castle and made a phone call. An hour later, they’d returned, amid much laughing and backslapping. All right, then, I’ll see you next week. You won’t believe the size of the boars we’re bagging!

  Just like that, the crisis was over. Reinhart had turned to them, raising his hands above their heads as if he were bestowing a benediction. It was a misunderstanding, all a misunderstanding. Everything is fine. Go back to bed, he announced with a look of triumph and relief on his handsome face. Side by side, the Jews and the SS men who were supposed to shoot them turned around and trekked quietly back toward the castle.

  Who knew if Reinhart’s magic would work next time? The following night, the saddlemaker and his family filed out the kitchen door and into the sheltering arms of the forest. They were headed toward a farm a couple of kilometers away, run by an old friend who owed him a favor. Dawn was breaking before they realized that the little girl was missing. She was such a wee thing, only seven; perhaps she had fallen asleep or gone right when the rest of them went left.

  They couldn’t go back. Someone might have noticed they were missing or heard them calling her name. Besides, they had to reach the farmhouse before the sun came up. So, the saddlemaker made a decision, a decision no parent should ever have to make. They would keep moving forward.

  Oh, did the Mama cry. He’d gripped her shoulders. God will send an angel, he had told her.

  Here, the saddlemaker broke off. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his eyes.

  “Your son brought her here,” said Pavel gravely, cautiously. “A handsome boy. A brave boy.”

  It was early in the afternoon, unusually warm for an October day. Though she wasn’t expected back until sunset, a speck appeared on the horizon, a tiny toy shepherdess at the center of a toy flock.

  At the top of the ridge, she stopped. For a moment she stood absolutely still, then broke into a wild run. Past the bombed-out foundation of the manor house she ran, babushka flapping like a flag behind her. Past a scarecrow guarding the stubble of a razed cornfield, past a thatched wooden hut set in an ocean of rippling grass, past the dawdling creek that was a tributary of the Bug. Past Pavel.

  The saddlemaker swept his daughter up into his arms. They stayed that way for many minutes, hugging and crying and whispering to each other in their secret language. Desolation settled like a flock of crows onto Pavel’s shoulders. Ahead of him, he thought he could see the future, a bleak gray landscape of loneliness stretching onward for the rest of his days. Overcome with longing, the potato farmer turned away.

  Misunderstanding, Soroka let her slide out of his arms. “Come on, get your things,” he urged. “Mr. Walczak has done enough for us.”

  Inside the cottage, Pavel had her all to himself for a few precious minutes. Odd how she was already packed, her clothes neatly folded and waiting in a moth-eaten suitcase that she must have scavenged somewhere. In wordless sorrow, he watched as she added a single item, her nightshirt; it joined a three-tiered embroidered skirt that was almost new, a flowered apron trimmed with ribbon, warm wool stockings. Finally, she donned a pink coat with a real rabbit-fur collar and a pink cap. Since the end of the war, he had been able to trade for some pretty things.

  He helped her snap the suitcase closed, buckled it securely. “What made you come home so early today?” he asked, already knowing what her answer would be.

  “Fallada,” she replied in her lispy voice. “He said, ‘Tati is waiting for you at the farm.’ ”

  There was nothing left to do. He tied the pink straps of the cap in a bow under her chin. He wanted to stoop down and give her a kiss, but he lacked the courage. In the end, all he did was lay his hand on her shoulder as he carried her suitcase to the porch.

  “Did you say thank you to Mr. Walczak?” Soroka said, taking the suitcase and putting it in the wagon. Suddenly, she was bashful, hiding her face in her father’s coat. She released him only to slide down to her knees beside the dog, to bury her face one last time in his matted, mangy coat. Cezar sat very still, his wolfish tongue lolling between his teeth, his stringy tail beating against the saddlemaker’s trousers.

  As the wagon bearing her clattered away, the dog trotted behind until it crossed over the property line. After that, he sat down on the road and watched until they disappeared.

  * * *

  For three days, Pavel didn’t come out of his house except to care for the animals. The cow, lowing for the meadow, could be heard fro
m half a mile away. At the end of the third day, there was a knock on his door. Marina was there, bearing a pot of potato soup, this time with meat. She stayed in his bed that night and every night after that. They were married before Christmas.

  Cezar lived on for another five years, undistinguished in every way. The biggest, blackest, meanest, ugliest, smelliest dog in the district continued to be a loyal and indefatigable shepherd, snapping at strangers, pitilessly executing mice, rabbits, weasels, and the occasional companion animal, even after it hurt him to walk, his joints grown stiff with arthritis. If he was indeed blessed with the power of speech, he never shared it with his master. Sometimes Pavel addressed the dog, hoping he would speak. But Cezar merely looked at him, then dug contemplatively behind his ear with his hind leg. He died in his sleep on a cold wet winter night, stretched out before the fire, like any other dog. Pavel buried him under a tree behind the house.

  After burning herself one morning on a hot frying pan, Marina reached into the cupboard for Lidia’s salve and was impressed by how speedily it worked. She sniffed it. “What’s in here, anyway?” she asked him. “I smell honey.”

  He told her the ingredients and the method for making it. Marina turned the jar over and over again, thinking.

  The next week she made a big batch of Lidia’s recipe, put it into clean jars, and wrote Lidia’s Magic Cream on the lids. Wrapping them carefully in old newspaper, she put the jars in a wooden apple crate, loaded the crate into the back of the wagon, and drove to the market square in Włodawa. Marina sold three jars that Thursday and twenty jars the following Thursday. The cream healed burns, soothed dry skin, made scars, wrinkles, and age spots disappear. Within weeks, she was selling a hundred jars a day.

  In 1955 Marina formed the Lidia’s Magic Cream Cosmetics Corporation. The jar of salve made from beeswax, honey, and the resin of a particular pine tree could be found in medicine cabinets and cosmetics cases all across Europe. Which was a good thing, because after fifty years of digging potatoes, Pavel needed a rest.