by Lily Brett
“I am not going to argue with you,” Edek said. “Which one of us knows what people can do? It was a stupid idea to stop in Bangkok,” Edek said.
“It was your idea,” said Ruth.
“No, you did make the arrangements,” he said.
“I wanted you to fly Qantas,” Ruth said.
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[ 4 9 ]
“That Qantas is too expensive. I was saving money for you,” Edek said.
Ruth took a deep breath. “I can’t believe we’re having an argument about Bangkok,” she said. “Dad, we are in Poland. You and I are in Poland, together.”
“That Bangkok is not a place to go,” Edek said.
“You only saw the airport,” said Ruth.
“It was enough,” Edek said.
“Do you want a Mercedes taxi?” a man asked them.
“A Mercedes?” Edek said. He turned to Ruth. “I will talk to him,” he said. “How much are you going to charge me for this Mercedes?” Edek said to the driver.
“Where are you going?” the driver asked.
“Where are we going?” Edek asked Ruth.
“To the Bristol Hotel,” Ruth said.
“We are going to the Bristol Hotel,” Edek said to the driver. The driver was about to give Edek a price for the trip, when Edek suddenly slapped himself on the forehead.
“I am an idiot,” he said to Ruth. “I am speaking to him in English.”
“I’m sure he can understand English,” Ruth said.
“That will be one hundred and thirty zlotys,” the driver said.
Edek answered him in Polish. They talked for a couple of minutes. “A hundred and ten zlotys,” Edek announced to Ruth. “Why not?”
“Okay,” said Ruth. She followed her father and the driver.
“This is a very nice car,” Edek said to Ruth inside the car. “It is a very big Mercedes.” He looked around the car, opened and closed the ashtray, patted the leather seats. “A very nice car,” he said. He sat back. He was silent for a few minutes. Ruth was worried about her father. How did he feel being in Poland? She didn’t want to ask him how he felt, every two minutes. She didn’t want to make this trip any more difficult for him than it already was. She felt pretty tense herself. She tried to relax.
“Excuse me,” Edek called out to the driver. “How much is such a car, in Poland?”
“This car is not cheap,” the driver said.
“Why is he speaking to me in English?” Edek asked.
“Because you spoke to him in English,” said Ruth.
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L I L Y B R E T T
“Oy, cholera,” said Edek. Oy, cholera, literally translated into “Oh, cholera,” but Ruth knew it was closer to “Oh shit.”
“Oy, cholera,” Edek said again. He leaned forward and started talking to the driver in Polish.
Ruth couldn’t work out exactly what they were saying. She knew the conversation was about the price of cars and how many miles to the gallon the cars used. Polish numbers were incomprehensible to Ruth. They all sounded the same to her. She couldn’t tell the difference between the number two, three, eight, ten, twenty, thirty, or forty. She knew they were all numbers.
Whatever the numbers were, they were animating Edek. He was offering his opinion and his advice as though he was a car mechanic or a racing car driver. Ruth leaned back in the car. It was starting to snow. Snow made all cities more attractive.
“Look, Dad, snow,” she said. Edek stopped talking to the driver and looked around.
“When was the last time you saw snow?” she said.
“What is so important about snow?” Edek said. “I seen a lot of snow.
Snow is snow.”
“Well, I like snow,” Ruth said.
“What are we going to do?” Edek said.
“About the snow?” she said.
“No. What are we going to do?” he said. “Where are we going to go?
What are the plans? What is the itinerarerary? Is that how you say it? Itinerarerary?”
“It’s itinerary,” Ruth said.
“Itinerarerary,” Edek said.
“We’re going to spend one day in Warsaw, then we’re going to—”
“We don’t need to stay in Warsaw a whole day. What for?” Edek said, interrupting her.
“Okay,” she said. “If you don’t want to stay a whole day, we’ll spend the morning in Warsaw and leave for Lódz at lunchtime. After Lódz, I thought we’d go to Kraków,” she said. “I want to go to Auschwitz, but if you’d rather not come to Auschwitz, that’s perfectly fine. I’ve booked us into a good hotel, and you can stay in the hotel.”
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“No,” said Edek. “I’ll go where you go. What time did you say we can leave Warsaw?”
“About twelve-thirty,” Ruth said. “That will give us time to see some of the city.”
Edek leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “He says he will take us to Lódz for three hundred zlotys,” Edek said. “He did want three hundred and fifty, but I said three hundred or nothing.”
“Dad, I’ve bought train tickets,” Ruth said.
“Why shouldn’t we go to Lódz in a Mercedes?” Edek said. “Why shouldn’t I show him I can afford a Mercedes?”
“I think he understands English,” Ruth said. Edek lowered his voice.
“Why shouldn’t I show him?” he said.
“Okay, Dad,” Ruth said. Edek looked elated. “How do you feel, Dad?”
she said.
“I feel fine,” he said. “Why are you asking me how I feel? I feel fine.”
“Well, we’re in Poland,” Ruth said.
“Big deal,” said Edek. “We are in Poland. What is the big deal?”
Big deal. He loved to say big deal. It was one of his favorite phrases. She had asked him once if he would give her a dollar every time he said big deal. “There are too many things that are a big deal,” she had said to him.
“For you, maybe, not for me,” he had said. But he had tried to cut down.
“Well, it’s a big deal for me,” Ruth said to her father. “We’ll be at the hotel soon,” she said. “You must be tired. And jet-lagged.”
“Why should I be tired?” he said. “I am not tired. And I never had a jet lag before. Why should I have a jet lag now?”
Ruth decided to change the subject. “It’s a nice car,” she said.
“Mercedes makes a very good car,” Edek said. “It is the best car you can buy.”
“Would you like a secondhand Mercedes?” Ruth said.
“Me? A Mercedes?” said Edek. “I would never buy a Mercedes.”
“Why can we drive in one, but not buy one?” Ruth said.
“Are you stupid?” said Edek. “I am not going to give money to the Germans. If I drive in a Mercedes, like this, I am making myself comfortable, not giving money to the Germans.”
“You’re giving money to a Pole,” Ruth whispered.
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L I L Y B R E T T
“Shsh shsh,” Edek said.
“I don’t think we’re going to make any difference to the German econ-omy whether we buy a Mercedes or not. They are doing pretty well without us. Anyway, a secondhand car has already been bought by somebody else.”
“But that somebody does have to buy another car and they buy another Mercedes,” Edek said.
Ruth sighed. Nothing she was saying was right, with Edek, tonight.
“How is Moniek?” she said. She liked Moniek Steinberg. He was a quiet man. She knew he had been in Bergen-Belsen. She had often thought that part of him was still there. Maybe that was how it had to be, for anyone who had been in any of those places.
“Ah, Moniek,” Edek said. “He is dead.”
“Oh, no,” Ruth said. “When did he die?”
“He did not die,” Edek said. “But you cannot speak to him anymore.
He does not answer the phone and when you see him in the street, he sa
ys just a hello, and he goes away. Sometimes people are dead in different ways.
Sometimes a dead person can be dead and sometimes a person does not need to be dead to be dead.”
“To be dead to themselves or dead to you?” Ruth said.
“You are a clever girl, Ruthie,” Edek said. “You always see a side to something that not many people can see. You was always like this. You could see things when you was a small girl.”
“What do you mean I could see things?” Ruth said.
“You could see that Malka Feldman was a very sad person,” Edek said.
“How do you know?” said Ruth.
“Because you did tell me,” Edek said, “when you was six years old that she was sad because she had to wear a wig. You did say to me that Malka wears a wig because somebody did pull out her hair. Even the other women in the cardplayers was not sure that her hair was a wig. It was a bit funny that you did know to tell you the truth, but you did know it was a wig.”
“Malka probably told me,” Ruth said.
“I did ask Malka,” Edek said. “She was shocked. She said that since it happened she did not say one word to anybody. She did start to cry. As a matter of fact I did not feel too good for bringing up the subject. Malka did tell me that in Auschwitz in the last months they did not have time anymore T O O M A N Y M E N
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to shave the hair of the women, so they did not shave those ones what were going to labor camps. So they did not shave her head. But a Kapo dragged her by the hair to the next barracks because she asked the Kapo if she could see if her sister was there.”
“A Kapo?” Ruth said. “A Jew?”
“Yes,” said Edek. “And who knows what I would have done if I had been a Kapo. Thank God nobody did ask me.”
“I did tell Malka that you did know that somebody did pull her hair out,” Edek said. “She said it was impossible. ‘How could you know?’
Malka said. You was six years old. You was not in Auschwitz.”
“I must have guessed,” Ruth said.
“That must be it,” said Edek. “You guess things pretty good. You used to guess a lot of things. Even Mum was surprised, sometimes.”
Ruth felt unnerved. There was no need to feel frightened by this, she told herself. It was clear that she was a kid who listened to things. And people often forgot that they had said something. Malka had probably mentioned her hair to Rooshka one night, at one of the card games. Malka would have trusted Rooshka. Rooshka wasn’t a gossip like some of the other women. Rooshka didn’t gossip. She didn’t play cards either. She read a book while the others played. “Even Mum didn’t know about Malka’s hair,” Edek said. Ruth felt sick.
They were at the Bristol. A uniformed valet opened Ruth’s door for her.
Another valet helped Edek out of the car. “It’s cold,” Ruth said to Edek.
“Button up your jacket.” Edek breathed in deeply.
“This cold doesn’t get to your bones,” he said. “Not like the cold in America or Australia.”
“This cold is twice as cold as any cold in Australia,” Ruth said.
“But it doesn’t get to your bones,” Edek said. “You can feel it doesn’t get to your bones. I am not cold. I told you, always, the cold in Poland doesn’t get to your bones.”
“Dad, it might not have got to your bones when you were twenty-one,”
she said. “But you’re eighty-one. Button up your jacket. It’s freezing.”
“I am going to pay the driver,” Edek said. “Go inside.”
Ruth waited for him. “Did you give the driver a fifty-zloty tip?” she said.
“Why not?” he said. “I have got a rich daughter.”
Ruth went inside. She left Edek chatting with the doorman. She went to
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L I L Y B R E T T
the front desk to check Edek in. She was filling out the endless information still required by Polish hotels about their guests, when Edek rushed up to her. “Give me another twenty zlotys,” he said. “I have not got any more zlotys.” Ruth gave him the zlotys. He ran off and spoke to the doorman.
“It’s worth to make sure he looks after us,” Edek said to Ruth when he came back.
“What a beautiful young woman,” he said, in Polish, to the receptionist.
She blushed. “Thank you,” she said, in English.
“We can speak Polish,” Edek said.
“Why are you running around tipping everyone?” Ruth said to her father.
“Why shouldn’t I give a tip?” Edek said. “We can afford it. You earn good money. You earn very good money for a girl.”
“I earn very good money for anyone,” Ruth said.
“So why can’t we give a tip?” said Edek.
“I always tip people,” Ruth said. She felt agitated with Edek. Why did he have to argue about everything? And why did he always think he was right?
“Why do you have to hide that you have got money?” Edek said.
“I don’t hide it,” Ruth said. “We’re staying at the Bristol. It’s obvious we’ve got money.”
“I don’t mind showing them that you are rich,” he said.
Ruth’s last shrink had said to her that Ruth hid what she had. From herself, and from others. “You have trouble feeling your own achievement and your own success,” the shrink had said to her. “You have to hide what you have. You’re frightened that if you display it, somebody will take it away from you. So you have to pretend you have nothing. It’s also tied to how envious you are of others,” the shrink had added.
“That’s not true,” Ruth had said. “What do I envy?” “Peace of mind,”
the shrink had answered.
“I’m not rich,” Ruth said to Edek.
“You are rich,” he said. “You own your own apartment.”
“I’m forty-three,” she said. “A lot of forty-year-olds own their own apartment.”
“Your apartment is in New York,” Edek said. Ruth was annoyed. One apartment, on Fourteenth Street, was not rich, she thought.
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“Your apartment has three bedrooms and two bathrooms,” Edek said.
She glared at him.
“This is a beautiful hotel,” Edek said to the receptionist in Polish.
“Thank you,” the receptionist said.
“My daughter stays always in such a hotel,” Edek said.
“Aren’t you tired, Dad?” Ruth said.
“No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I’m jet-lagged and I arrived here a day before you. And I’ve slept.”
“I don’t have a jet lag,” Edek said. “Only my daughter gets a jet lag.”
“I have to go to bed,” Ruth said.
The receptionist handed Edek and Ruth two sets of keys. “Room 578
for you, Mr. Rothwax,” she told Edek, in English.
“Where is my room?” Edek said to the receptionist.
“Your room is on the fifth floor, sir,” she said.
“Where is my daughter’s room?” Edek said.
“Your daughter is in 310, on the third floor,” the receptionist said. Edek looked crestfallen.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Ruth said.
“I feel like a fish out of water,” Edek said.
“A fish out of water?” Ruth said. “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything in Poland that you don’t want to do.”
“I am not worried about Poland,” he said. “I am like a fish out of water.
Don’t you understand what that means? It is an expression what they use in Australia. I feel like a fish what is out of the water.” Ruth looked at the receptionist. The receptionist looked puzzled.
“My room is too far from your room,” Edek said.
“I gave you a very good room, sir,” said the receptionist.
“I want a room near you,” Edek said to Ruth. Ruth arranged a change of rooms.
Chapter Four
>
A t this time of the morning, there were always people on the street in New York. There were people running and jogging. There were people walking to work. There were people having breakfast in cafés.
It was 6:45 A.M. There was no one on the streets of Warsaw.
Ruth had been running on Krakowskie Przedmiescie, Al. Solidarnosci, Gen. Wladyslawa Andersa, and Marszalkowska. Polish street names sounded militant if not military to her. And impossible to pronounce. If she got lost, she thought, she’d never be able to call the hotel and tell them where she was. And she couldn’t ask anyone in the street for directions because she would never be able to match the sound of the street names with any of the street signs. She had practiced saying Krakowskie Przedmiescie for ten minutes before she left the hotel. Krakowskie was easy. Przedmiescie was out of her reach.
She had awakened that morning knowing that she had to run. Her first day in Poland with her father was bound to be difficult. She would need all the endorphins that running gave her. She had arranged to meet Edek for breakfast at 8 A.M. Eating with her father was full of pitfalls. She had to make sure that she was as balanced as she could be. She already felt much better than she did when she woke up. She turned into Al. Jerozolimskie.
At least there were some people in the street now.
Max had called her at five o’clock this morning.
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“I knew you’d be up,” Max had said brightly.
“Why are you calling me from home again, Max? What’s up?” she said.
“Nothing’s up,” Max said. “It’s only eleven P.M., it’s not that late. I’ve just got a couple of small queries. Nothing you’ll have to spend a lot of time on. I know you need this time to yourself.”
“Max darling, edit,” she had said. “I’m lying in bed with a stomachache.”
“I knew this trip would be too much for you,” Max said.
“I’ve got a stomachache because I’m premenstrual,” said Ruth. She had been lying in bed holding her stomach and thinking about her mother.
Jewish women in Auschwitz had had no periods, her mother had told her. They had been given medication to stop their menstruation. “We called it brum, this medicine,” her mother had said. “They gave it to us in the gray stuff they called soup. I could taste the brum even in the stinking taste of the soup.”
