The Memory Man

by Lisa Appignanesi

  He became his grandfather’s eyes and ears. He ran like lightning, forking between ranked German soldiers, scudding up tiny lanes, sniffing out the lie of the land, rushing home to report on what he had seen and the proclamations he had read. His grandfather’s role was to interpret the signs he brought him.

  The old man decided that he would need to return to his office as the edicts ordered. It would be too dangerous to try and cross the river now. The soldiers would be shooting on sight. If nothing else, it was clear that he would need to earn what he could, since Bruno’s bartering activities were too risky while everything was still in upheaval.

  A few days later when he was out in search of food, Bruno noted that a new set of orders had gone up on the walls. These concerned Jews. Jews were ordered to wear armbands with the Star of David on them to indicate their nationality. They had to register immediately with the Arbeitsamt for mandatory labour and with something called the Judenrat – the new committee that administered Jewish life. They were only allowed out on the streets between two and four, unless they had papers showing they were employed. They were forbidden to be near government offices, including the railway station; they couldn’t buy provisions from anyone in town or countryside, nor could they possess any of the new official currency, the German Occupation Marks.

  Bruno stared at these proclamations for as long as he dared. He wanted to tear them down, run around the city and rip them from the walls. He couldn’t bear the look on the faces of the two women who were reading beside him. Life was impossible under such orders. Life as a Jew was impossible.

  He began to understand more clearly why his grandfather had wanted officially to cut all ties with their Jewish past and why their baptismal certificates were so important. He thought it might be time to take on his new name. He was about to hurry home, using a roundabout route as his grandfather had counselled, to bring him the news, when he determined that, no, he wouldn’t be daunted. He had set out for food, and he must find some.

  He hurried on, past the limits of the city. German soldiers were stationed along the country road. Despite protests, they helped themselves to whatever the farmwomen had in their baskets and were bringing to market, then rudely tossed a few pfennigs at them.

  In the distance, Bruno spied the red flowered headscarf of one of the women he used to help with her provisions. He ran towards her. She had a basket of radishes in one hand and eggs in another. He asked her if she needed assistance. She shrugged and handed him the radishes under which he spied slabs of butter. He quickly stuffed as much as he could of these into his pockets and under his cap, muttering at her that otherwise, as she probably already knew, the Germans would get the lot for next to nothing. He was right. An arrogant character stopped them and helped himself casually from the baskets. The woman named a price that he merely harrumphed at. A few coins were thrust at her, and he told her to hurry along if she didn’t want trouble.

  By the time they reached the town, there were only a few radishes left in her basket. Bruno looked round and quickly emptied his pockets and cap of the butter and asked if he could have some radishes in return. She gave them willingly, plus an egg that she had hidden and suggested that he come a little further along the road on the morrow to help her out.

  At home, his grandfather was eager for news. Bruno gave him the food first and only then, once they had eaten a little, recounted the content of the edicts against the Jews. His grandfather said nothing. He simply sat and stared, his once handsome face lined and dismal. After a while, he patted Bruno’s hand. ‘Remember. If anything happens to me, remember everything I have said. Tomorrow I will report to work. Everyone must work.’

  Early the next morning, the sounds of heavy boots clattered up the stairs. They were followed by knocking and raucous calls in German to open the door.

  Both of them were dressed, his grandfather in his shabby work-suit and tie, ready to go out. He winked at Bruno and started talking loudly in German, complaining about this new generation and their lack of manners. ‘Keine Erziehung. No respect for the old.’ He pushed back his shoulders that these days were so often slumped and took on his former military bearing, as he pulled open the door.

  ‘I hear you. I’m not deaf yet. That’s enough.’

  Two SS men examined him with surprise.

  ‘You speak German?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s what I was speaking. I take it you do as well. There’s no need to make so much noise. I’m an old man.’

  The Germans looked sheepish for a moment.

  ‘Well. Do you want to come in?’

  They stepped into the small first room of the apartment on the widest wall of which his grandfather had hung an old crucifix.

  ‘My name is Adolf Torok,’ his grandfather continued. ‘This here is my grandson. No one else lives here. I’m on my way to work. He’ll be on his way to school as soon as you manage to open some again. Is there anything else?’

  The men looked at each other.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ the soldiers said automatically.

  Bruno closed the door behind them and waited until the footsteps receded. His grandfather slumped into his customary chair. ‘You see, Bruno? They’ve been taught to obey. As soon as you establish authority, they become docile. You have to give them what they understand. That’s, of course, if you’re lucky enough to look the part and have the additional good fortune of speaking a common language and aren’t shot first. We’re lucky men, you and I Bruno. Lucky men. Lucky to have the Führer as my namesake.’

  There was a touch of something wild in the laugh that ripped through him. It was an unfamiliar sound. ‘This time we didn’t need those documents, but we must keep them close, in any case. Now I want you to accompany me to my office. We must see what my fate there may be, and perhaps we’ll have a stroll towards the river.’

  The office in which his grandfather had worked was shut. A sign ordered all workers to report to the local Arbeitsamt.

  ‘That can wait until tomorrow. We’ve already had enough excitement for one day. And there’ll be queues.’

  They walked through the city. It had an artificial feel to it, as if nothing was quite real, neither the marching Germans, their uniforms too neat and bright against the blighted streets and their impoverished citizens; nor the open, but empty, shops; nor the once handsome buildings plastered over with their hundreds of decrees. At one junction, they saw a group of men and women wearing Jewish armbands being herded into a warehouse.

  ‘That’s how my namesake conducts his economy, Bruno. Slave labour to finance his battles. That’s why temporarily he thought he had something in common with our friends to the east.’

  The sight of a train rattling over the bridge caught their attention. ‘I see they have the trains running smoothly again. You know what they used to say in the old Berlin just after the Great War?’ His grandfather cackled. ‘They said Germany would never have a revolution. Because the trains had to run on time. Did your father ever talk to you about that? No, no, of course not. You were far too young. So sad. Well, Bruno, now, despite everything, the trains are still running on time. Come, I have an idea.’

  They wound their way down to the yellow railway station that always reminded Bruno of Vienna. Gestapo officers stood by the front doors. To the side, where there was a way through to the old left luggage office, a man in a railway guard’s uniform hovered.

  ‘Ah, he’s here,’ Bruno’s grandfather smiled. ‘My friend, Pan Staszek. Let’s go and have a little chat with him. He owes me a favour. I arranged some papers for him.’

  It was the first time Bruno realized that his grandfather’s cunning extended to help those beyond their immediate circle.

  The two men chatted while Bruno listened. Pan Staszek confirmed that the trains were running again. With a degree of punctuality. And yes, it was just possible to go to Krakow.

  Bruno wondered if this mention of Krakow was another of his grandfather’s ploys. Evid
ently, he didn’t trust anyone. The men had lowered their voices so that he could no longer hear. He watched the station door. Most of the people coming in and out wore either German uniforms or Polish Railway uniforms. But there were also one or two women about. No men. Of course. All men were meant to be at work. His grandfather was running a risk being here. He waited impatiently, and at last his grandfather was back at his side.

  ‘All is well, Bruno, we go to Krakow in three days’ time. You come with me to get your picture taken, then leave the rest to me.’

  The early-morning encounter with the Gestapo had evidently breathed fire into his grandfather’s veins. For the next few days, he was all activity and when that evening he presented Bruno with his German ID, it was with the old smile of triumph he had when he had landed a particularly plump trout. ‘It’s as genuine as can be, Herr Bronislaw Sienkiewicz.’

  He bowed to Bruno. The next day they took the first morning train to Krakow. Their papers withstood two checks by guards. Bruno watched the nonchalant manner in which his grandfather handed them over all the while carrying on a conversation with Bruno about the milling of barley or the families of fish found in Poland.

  They got off at Tarnow and walked south, away from the tracks, hoping that they might meet a friendly farmer who would take them part of the way. The fields were flush with summer heat, and the walking was hard. His grandfather, Bruno noticed after a few miles, was short of breath and needed to rest in the shade. He urged him into the first copse, where a dog came barking at them, followed by a toothless farmer in an old floppy hat. He gave his suited grandfather a derisory look then looked at him again more closely.

  ‘Is that you, then, Pan Torok?’ He grinned, showing bare gums. ‘Neither of us getting younger, eh? Hard times these. I’m just supplementing the farm produce,’ he cackled again and pointed to the pouch he was carrying.

  ‘Well done, Pan Tadek. We’re on our way home. Needed a little rest in the shade.’

  ‘I can give you a little something to help you along.’ He tapped his pouch again.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  The old man drew out a bottle and handed it over. His grandfather took a large sip then coughed and grinned. ‘You old rogue. Still brewing the devil’s drink, eh? Too strong for the young one here. But thanks. We’ll be seeing you.’

  They hurried along after that and by mid-afternoon had reached the house. It looked oddly deserted. They cast worried glances at each other. Then Bruno ran forward, shouting: ‘Mamusia, Mamusia, Anna.’ A dog’s fierce barking met his call. He was there on the other side of the door, but no one opened to his knock. Bruno dashed to look through a grubby window. At first he saw no one, then he spied a movement beneath the kitchen table. It was Anna, he thought, Anna hiding. A stone settled in his stomach.

  He called her name again. This time she heard him and came racing to the door with a stool. She unfastened the bolts, all the while shouting at the dog to get down. She leaped into her brother’s arms, while the dog prodded at him with his pointed snout. He had a shaggy pelt of indeterminate colour and mournful button eyes.

  ‘This is Bolivar, Bruno and…and…’ She was suddenly aware of their grandfather. She looked up at him shyly, uncertainly.

  ‘Come here, my little one. Come and give an old man a kiss. They’ve left you all alone?’

  Anna’s words fell all over themselves in a confused rush as she tired to explain that Pani Alina had gone out to work and Mamusia had gone to Krakow last week to see some friends and maybe get some money, so she was guarding the house with Bolivar, their new dog, Wasn’t he beautiful and everyone would be so excited when they found out that Grandpa – and she rushed to kiss him again – was here with Bruno. Bruno. Her darling brother.

  Bruno worried. He could see the worry reflected in his grandfather’s face. Little Anna should not have been left alone. The situation must have been desperate if she had. And she was so thin, her eyes deep caverns in her heart-shaped face.

  She seemed as so often to read her brother’s mind. ‘Oh, you mustn’t blame Mamusia, Bruno. She had no choice. She had to see a doctor.’

  Bruno could see that his grandfather was about to ask for what exactly, but he clamped his lips.

  ‘And you can’t blame Pani Alina. We’re very poor now. Pan Mietek has stopped helping us. And Mamusia’s not very good at fishing. And they stole the cherries from the little orchard. On top of that Mamusia’s German friend in the village, the major who helped us so much, has been sent east. So she had to go. She’ll be sooo happy that you’re here.’

  Anna had grown up too quickly, Bruno thought. As if she were already a girl his own age, or even older, despite her smallness.

  ‘I’ll go fishing first thing tomorrow. We’ll have a feast and fatten you up. Won’t we, Grandpa?’

  Grandfather nodded, preoccupied. ‘I’m going to go and have a little word with Mietek first. You look after your Anna, Bruno. Look after her very well.’

  He didn’t return until evening when Pani Alina was already there and greeted him shyly, her saviour she said. But Grandpa didn’t respond with his usual smiles.

  ‘The man had the audacity to threaten me, Bruno. Me. After I set him up in style. I gave him a taste of my tongue, though. I think he’ll be all right for a while. I suspect he’s been stealing from under the women’s noses.’

  ‘I think so too, Pan Torok. The problem is we have no hold over him now.’

  Grandfather brooded. Little Anna sat on his knee and tried to cheer him. Pani Alina told them about her day at the cement factory. It was a good fifteen kilometres away, but Mamusia had given her the bicycle her German officer had found while he was still in the area. It was so sad that he had been sent away. Some of the military weren’t so bad. It was the Gestapo you had to watch out for.

  Grandfather stayed with them for only two weeks. He was determined to go to Krakow. He would make contact with Mamusia there and see if perhaps life mightn’t be better for them in the city. He told them to take good care of the small kitchen garden their mother had started. Before he went, he made a swing for Anna and tied it to her favourite tree. Swinging would bring colour into her cheeks, he said. Miraculously too, he came home one evening with a rooster and two chickens to fill the empty coop at the back. These were to be under Anna’s special care.

  The summer passed in a fretful haze. Time became waiting for Mamusia’s return, until the waiting replaced the expectation of her arrival. Bruno worked in the fields alongside Pan Mietek, who had grown curmudgeonly and swigged his vodka at ever-shorter intervals. Under his boozy breath, he muttered continually, complaining he didn’t know how he was supposed to take care of all of them, make up his quota for the cooperative with its upstart Volksdeutscher head and feed his own as well. Bruno, growing irritated, told him he was lucky to have a strong pair of arms beside him that he didn’t pay for and extra fields that he robbed besides.

  ‘Christ-murderer,’ Bruno thought he heard him murmur, but he kept his temper in check. He had been with Pan Mietek when a visit from the cooperative had taken place, a routine visit which included a military presence, and he had seen the soldiers help themselves to baskets of fruit and vegetables, even vodka, while Mietek was meant to turn a blind eye or smile and nod. He hated those soldiers. It was hard to control that hatred and not somehow lash out.

  Anna helped. She was always at his side, and he would do nothing that might harm her. When he wasn’t working, they fished together or scrambled about in the mossy wood, gathering berries. Blue and red juices stained their lips and hands. She was never so happy as in those moments: her straw basket perched on her arm and the upside-down mushroom hat on her curly blonde head.

  One evening in the middle of August when it was already dark, Bolivar started to bark angrily. The bark was followed by a knock. Bruno asked who it was in his deepest voice.

  ‘Is that Bruno?’ a man answered. ‘I’m bringing a letter from your mother, from Pani Hanka.’

&nb
sp; They opened the door inch by inch to see a dark-haired man of middle height with ruddy cheeks and a dimple in his chin. He was wearing shorts and an open-necked shirt and carrying a stout stick. He didn’t look as if he had come from the city. He walked in before they had asked him to and closed the door quickly behind him.

  He pulled a letter from his rucksack and smiled at them all, particularly at Pani Alina, but handed the letter to Bruno and then asked whether in turn he might have a bed, straw would do, for the night. Any extra supplies would be welcome too. He would be off before dawn.

  Bruno tore open the letter before replying. ‘My darlings,’ their mother wrote, ‘I hope to be with you before too long. Grandpa is well. You can trust the person who brings this.’

  Bruno swallowed his disappointment.

  ‘Letters are always brief these days,’ the man said to him, as if he knew what his mother had written. ‘Of necessity.’

  Bruno only understood him after some moments, when Pani Alina had already asked him to sit down and offered him a shot from the vodka bottle.

  ‘Do you know our mother?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘Not personally. But I’m told she’s a fine woman.’

  ‘I see.’

  Bruno had to put himself into his grandfather’s place really to see. Covert matters again. Everything was always hidden. Nothing straight. Everything in code. Once he had thought it was just the way of the adult world. Mirrors within mirrors. But his grandfather had shown him differently. Living in fear meant living in secrets. Hiding in one way or another. The man must be a Jew.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘Oh, just walking. A holiday,’ he winked. ‘I like the woods. Don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ little Anna answered for him, while Bruno suddenly had a memory of the raggedy people he had seen in the woods round a bonfire deep in the night when he was travelling from Przemysl the previous year.

  They gave the man a bed, but before bunking down they talked. He talked mostly to Pani Alina though Bruno listened intently. Things were hard in the cities. All of them. Even Warsaw. Food was scarce. Everything was scarce – for Poles too. The Germans had instituted a blistering regime run by their own people. Those they didn’t like, the visitor looked at them intently, they forced behind guarded walls, concentrating a great many in very little space, so that conditions were foul, and disease spread like wildfire. They were well off here, he said. There was air. At least the illusion of freedom. That’s why he was going off into the woods. He turned to Bruno again as he said this. If he ever went walking, they might bump into each other again. It was always good to bring extra food along on such trips. It was also better not to mention to anyone that a stranger had been through.