Mosaic

by Diane Armstrong

  He’d have to watch himself in Warsaw, too, look self-assured and walk purposefully to avoid the extortionists who hung around the railway station. These hyenas had a sixth sense for detecting Jews, whom they blackmailed and then turned over to the police. After what he’d gone through in Lwow, he wasn’t afraid of dying, but he’d heard that when the Germans got their hands on a Jew with Aryan papers, they tortured him until he betrayed other members of his family. Outside the train window the countryside shimmered and farmhouse roofs poked up above fields of pale green corn. It looked so normal. Henek sighed. If it wasn’t for Danusia, he wasn’t sure whether he’d have the strength to go through with this dangerous masquerade.

  As the temperature soared inside the stuffy compartment, and a musky odour of sweat drifted in the torpid air, Henek mulled over another problem. Where could he stay in Warsaw while registering? He’d cut out the address of a boarding house from the newspaper, but boarding houses were dangerous because Germans searched them for new arrivals.

  Much later, when his legs felt like lead and his feet were numb, the compartment began to empty. Sinking into a seat, he almost laughed at the absurd relief of finally being able to sit down. At that moment he caught the sympathetic eye of the ruddy-complexioned woman sitting next to him. After they’d exchanged pleasantries and commiserations about the length of the journey and the privations of the war, Henek asked the woman whether she knew of a private home in Warsaw where he could spend one or two nights. She looked at him with a steady gaze for a moment and gave him an address. After they’d chatted for a while, he asked her name, realising that in these uncertain times she may not be willing to give it. But after the briefest hesitation she said, ‘Tell them that Pani Kotowiczowa sent you.’ Henek was overjoyed. Now he had a place to go and a personal recommendation as well.

  When he rang the bell, a man came to the door. ‘I ran into Pani Kotowiczowa recently and she thought you might let me stay for a few days,’ Henek said, trying to give the impression that he knew her quite well.

  The man stared at him. ‘Who did you say sent you?’ While he repeated the woman’s name, my father felt uneasy. Something was wrong. The man’s manner was guarded and he was looking at him with mistrust.

  ‘Why didn’t you register in Lwow?’ the man wanted to know.

  On impulse my father blurted, ‘Because I don’t like Ukrainians.’ He must have struck the right chord because immediately the atmosphere changed and he was invited inside.

  ‘Please sit down, I’ll be back in a minute,’ the man said. Again Henek felt anxious. Perhaps the man had gone for the police and he should run away while there was still time. On the other hand, if the man had alerted someone to keep an eye on him, bolting would look suspicious. He decided to sit it out.

  When the man returned, he was accompanied by a woman who was also looking at him strangely. ‘I’d like to introduce you to the real Pani Kotowiczowa,’ he said, watching my father closely. Henek was confused, but when he described the woman on the train, the two exchanged knowing glances. It was obvious that they knew who she was. Suddenly he understood. The woman on the train had wanted to help him but she hadn’t been prepared to give her real name or take any responsibility for him. She was leaving it up to her friends to make that decision themselves.

  To his surprise, the man, who my father later learned was called Mr Warda, and the real Mrs Kotowiczowa burst out laughing. ‘Our friend played a trick on you!’ As my father laughed with them he felt a friendly complicity growing between them, as though they’d all been the victims of a practical joke. Mr Warda agreed to let him stay for a few days in his tiny flat and the circumstances of their meeting became a joke he shared with all his friends.

  Mr Warda was the town hall caretaker but he was also engaged in selling food illicitly to Jews walled inside the Warsaw ghetto. It was a lucrative trade because those starving Jews who still had anything to barter were prepared to trade a fur coat for a loaf of bread, while those who had nothing slowly died of hunger along with their children. No-one had the strength to bury those who died of starvation, disease or just froze to death in the ghetto streets. My father avoided discussions about the plight of the Jews with his landlord, in case his outrage gave him away.

  Next day, inside the large high-ceilinged offices of the Dental Board, my father saw the registrar writing at his desk. With a shock Henek realised that he knew him. Before the war, when my father had been on the executive of the Krakow Dental Board, Mr Laczynski had been the president, and they used to meet frequently at board meetings. Here he was coming to register as Boguslawski, a Catholic dentist from Lwow, and any moment Mr Laczynski would look up and recognise him as Baldinger, the Jewish dentist from Krakow.

  Fortunately Mr Laczynski was concentrating on filling in a form and still hadn’t looked up. Keeping his head down and muffling his voice, Henek pretended that he’d come to see the secretary. At this moment the registrar glanced up for the first time. Mumbling something about returning later, Henek turned and quickly left the office, leaving his application on the secretary’s desk.

  While limping down the corridor, he glanced in through the registrar’s window and saw Mr Laczynski frowning into the distance, his elbow propped up against his cheek, as if racking his brains trying to remember something. My father had no doubt that sooner or later he’d realise why his face was familiar, and he hoped that he wouldn’t regain his memory too soon. Perhaps Mr Laczynski was a decent man, but in a world where neighbours and acquaintances had become betrayers, you couldn’t trust anyone.

  The following day, when Henek returned to collect his registration card from the secretary, he was careful to keep out of Mr Laczynski’s way. Leaving the Dental Board with his document, he was so jubilant that he bought a loaf of rye bread and a ring of country smoked sausage on the way home. Mr Warda was expecting a visitor, and the three of them would have a feast to celebrate his success.

  Mr Warda’s friend Mr Bultowicz talked in the phlegmatic unhurried way of country folk, but when Henek said that he was looking for a quiet little place to practise dentistry, the visitor sat forward. ‘That’s a coincidence. My village needs a dentist. Why don’t you go there?’

  Although he’d never heard of Piszczac, Henek’s heart started beating faster. Arriving in a remote village as the new dentist would reduce the suspicion if one of the villagers had recommended him. According to Mr Bultowicz, this was a remote hamlet close to the Russian border, so it was unlikely that Henek would come across anyone who knew him. Mulling it over during the night on the divan bed, my father decided that this was a heaven-sent opportunity. Piszczac would be perfect.

  The wooden cart which jolted my father over the rutted country road from Biala Podlaska to Piszczac passed roadside shrines decorated with garlands of poppies, cornflowers and asters. He knew that Polish villagers were fervently religious and tried not to dwell on the problems of trying to pass himself off as a Catholic. Under a blazing July sun, sunflowers wilted in the potato fields, and in the orchards the branches of the fruit trees bent under the weight of apples, peaches and cherries. What fun the local boys must have running in the fields and raiding these orchards, Henek thought. Lost in the rural beauty of the scene he almost forgot his own predicament for a while.

  The rumbling wooden wheels of the cart slowed down as they came to a few small houses where straggly tomatoes hung off the vines and chickens scratched in the dirt. ‘Piszczac!’ the driver said, waving a callused hand. My father knocked on the door of the Bultowicz house with some trepidation, but Mr Bultowicz had already told his family about the dentist’s arrival and he was invited in at once.

  Mrs Bultowicz’s sister and her husband poured Henek a glass of vodka and, warmed by the spirits and their hospitality, he began to relax. They were having a pleasant conversation about life in Piszczac and the state of the war when the husband leaned across the table, pointing a bony finger. ‘You can say whatever you like about the Germans,’ he said in a confide
ntial voice, ‘but I reckon we should build Hitler a monument in gratitude for freeing Poland from the Jews.’ My father’s fingers gripped the glass tightly as he drained his vodka with what he hoped was an impassive expression. He had to remember that he was Henryk Boguslawski, a Polish Catholic, and had to steel himself to hearing such views.

  The next day, when Henek called at the municipal office to see about being allocated a house, the town clerk pumped the new dentist’s hand enthusiastically. ‘Now we won’t have to go all the way to Biala Podlaska every time we have a toothache!’ he laughed and wrote a requisition on a piece of paper. ‘Take this to the Judenrat and they’ll find you a house.’

  Henek pretended to look puzzled. ‘Where can I find this Mr Judenrat?’ he asked innocently. He knew only too well that in every town the Germans had set up a Jewish organisation forced to liaise between the Jewish community and themselves, to confiscate Jewish money, valuables and belongings, and ultimately to submit lists of Jews for deportation and death. Although initially many Judenrat members had believed that their intervention would save lives, my father felt that in fact they made the Nazis’ task much easier. Although some members of the Judenrat committed suicide rather than cause the death of fellow Jews, many remained ensnared in the trap of collaboration, hoping to save themselves and their families. But nobody wins a deal with the devil, and after all the Jews had been deported or killed, the Judenrat members were killed as well.

  On his way to the Judenrat office, horse-drawn carts heaped with newly cut hay rumbled past and farmers touched their battered caps in greeting. ‘Szczesc Boze! God bless you!’ In front of their wooden cottages, women scattered seeds from their apron pockets for the chickens and staked up their tomatoes.

  The President of the Judenrat gave a deep sigh when he read the town clerk’s note, then asked my father to accompany him to a huddle of dwellings behind the market square where sad faces peered out of cracked windowpanes. The Jews had been thrown out of their homes and forced to live in a tiny area behind the marketplace. ‘We’re so short of room that we’ve already had to push several families into one house, and each hut is crowded to bursting point. But we’ll cram more people in to find you a place to live,’ his companion said grimly.

  My father felt increasingly uncomfortable. ‘I won’t take a house at someone else’s expense,’ he said. The head of the Judenrat glanced at him with obvious surprise, and my father wondered whether he’d guessed the truth or just thought that he’d encountered an unusually decent Pole.

  Still shaken from his meeting with the man from the Judenrat, Henek was crossing the marketplace when a young woman with a Jewish armband came up to him and said, ‘You’re the new dentist, aren’t you? You remind me of a dentist I knew in Krakow.’ With a dry mouth and the most innocent smile he could muster, Henek told her that she was mistaken. ‘My name is Boguslawski and I’m actually from Warsaw,’ he said and quickly walked away. To be seen talking with a Jewess in a public place would immediately arouse suspicion, and he hoped that no-one had overheard.

  Back at the town clerk’s office he explained that the accommodation offered by the President of the Judenrat wasn’t suitable. After a moment’s thought, the town clerk said, ‘I’ll ask Mrs Bogdanowa if she’ll rent out part of her house. Things have been hard for her ever since the Germans deported her husband to Buchenwald, and she might be glad of some extra money.’

  In the doorway of a gabled farmhouse by the Chotylow crossroads stood a kindly woman in her thirties whose plump body was covered in a faded shift. Showing him around, Mrs Bogdanowa explained that she and her ten-year-old daughter Zosia were the only ones at home, as her older daughter Anna was away at school at Biala Podlaska, so there was plenty of room for him and his wife and child, provided that Mrs Boguslawska wouldn’t mind sharing the kitchen with her.

  ‘We get water from the well outside,’ she explained as he followed her into the yard to a well located in front of a woodshed and outdoor toilet. ‘My poor husband built this house with his own hands only ten years ago,’ she sighed. As he looked into her honest face, Henek felt instant sympathy for this hard-working woman and felt safe in the cosy atmosphere of her spotless house. The downstairs area was spacious, and it would only take a folding screen to separate it into a surgery and living quarters.

  Now that accommodation was organised, Henek suddenly felt overwhelmed by the risks he was taking and remembered the woman who had approached him in the square. He’d assumed that no-one would recognise him here but he’d obviously been mistaken. Tomorrow someone else might recognise him. The villager’s comment about thanking Hitler for getting rid of the Jews kept running around in his head. How was he going to pass as a Catholic when he’d never been inside a church before and had no idea what to do? How was he going to get Bronia and Danusia to Piszczac? He had very little money, how was he going to buy the dental equipment he needed? Even the thought of a new dental chair seemed too much to cope with. Suddenly a feeling of such total exhaustion swept over him that he fell onto the bed as if drugged. He lay on the bed incapable of formulating his thoughts or taking any action. And this was only the first day.

  Three days later, when he felt stronger, he made inquiries about a dental chair and headed for the Jewish part of town where he’d heard there was one for sale. Inside a pitifully bare room lived an old man who showed him an old office chair with a square metal sheet fixed to the back and a piece of wood as a headrest. His son, who’d been a barber, had converted it for his clients, but the son had been taken away and the chair was all the old man had left to sell. Saddened by his plight, my father bought the chair.

  Henek’s first big test came on Sunday. If he was to pass as a Catholic, he’d have to go to church like the other villagers, but he had no idea how services were conducted or how worshippers behaved. So when his Warsaw acquaintance, Mr Bultowicz, arrived unexpectedly at his house, Henek breathed a sigh of relief. Now he’d have someone to go with, and see how things should be done. ‘Are you going to church tomorrow?’ he asked, and immediately flushed to the roots of his greying hair as he realised his mistake. The villagers didn’t talk of going to church but of going to Mass.

  Next morning, as he walked along the wide dirt road beside Mr Bultowicz, he noticed someone watching him from across the road. First he saw the armband, and then he looked at the face and almost stopped walking. It was his cousin Berta, his Aunt Johevet’s eldest daughter. It was agonising not to be able to speak to her, but he couldn’t take the risk. Berta understood his situation. Without saying a word or trying to approach him, she just looked at him with an expression he never forgot. Affection and hope for him shone from her eyes. He never saw her again.

  In the vestibule of the small white church on the rise beyond the square, Henek stepped aside to let Mr Bultowicz enter first so that he could follow his lead. My father described this incident so vividly that I almost feel as though I was there that morning and watched the whole scene. Being a perfect gentleman, Mr Bultowicz also stepped aside, and they both stood there, like characters in some absurd slapstick comedy, each stepping back and urging the other to go first. Finally, in desperation, my father said, ‘Please go first, Mr Bultowicz; after all, you know how they do things here.’ His companion gave him an uncomprehending look. ‘What’s there to know?’ he shrugged. ‘A church is a church.’ Henek kicked himself for his stupid comment. No Catholic would have said such a thing. But sitting on the wooden pew beside him, Mr Bultowicz gave no indication that anything was amiss.

  Within a few days Henek was ready to hang out his shingle. He’d nailed the barber chair to a soap box so that he wouldn’t have to bend down while he worked, had found a bucket as a spittoon and a kitchen cupboard to house his instruments. His only conventional equipment was a foot-operated drill sent from Warsaw.

  So when he heard footsteps crunching on the dirt path leading up to the house, he hurried to the door, ready to greet his first patient, but the smile soon faded from his face
. It was a German officer. Disaster already, my father thought, his face the colour of chalk.

  But instead of arresting him, the German threw himself into the dental chair and demanded a gold crown. When Henek said that he didn’t have any gold, his patient waved his hand dismissively. ‘That’s no problem,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll find some Jews and shoot them and knock the gold out of their teeth,’ he said with as much emotion as if he was talking about going to the grocer to buy a loaf of bread.

  Not trusting himself to speak, my father busied himself dabbing oil of cloves and mixing a dressing for the tooth. While he worked, he listened with growing incredulity as the German chatted about his civilian life. Only two years ago, this cold-blooded killer had been a jovial barman mixing cocktails for holiday-makers on a cruise ship. Henek was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice that the village masseur had poked his head around the door.

  ‘Dr Boguslawski, I’ve brought vodka so we can all have a drink,’ he said flashing a servile smile at the officer in the chair. The masseur was one of the evacuees from Poznan and he considered himself more German than Polish. He’d even received a medal from the Kaiser in World War I.

  ‘Ah, vodka, zehr gut!’ the officer said.

  Henek took out some glasses and a moment later the three of them were sitting around the table drinking when they were interrupted by a peasant woman who’d come to see the dentist, but as soon as she laid eyes on the German, she fled. Henek was delighted that she’d witnessed this bizarre scene and hoped that she’d tell everyone about it. Drinking with a German officer would surely erase any suspicion that he was a Jew.