There was no mention of the Gustavo incident or the Stefan incident the following day or the day after. But the image of Gustavo on the ground with his bloody face kept coming back, and pretty soon I no longer bothered correcting the picture, but only tried to get it out of my head as quickly as possible. I found that if I thought of a certain Polish marching song, I could replace the image with one of soldiers marching down the street in Warsaw. Pretty soon, I would catch myself actually humming the tune under my breath.
Then, about three or four days later, at lunch, which we ate at long picnic tables on a roofed-over, raised platform without walls, I was just about to step off the platform, eating a banana, when someone pushed me from behind. I landed painfully on my knees and my elbows on the ground below. When I looked around, there was no one near me.
I did not cry or even grimace, except for the very first seconds—I, instinctively, didn’t want to give anyone satisfaction. It wasn’t till one of the teachers had helped me to stand up and taken me to an office where a woman with a white dress, white shoes, and black hair began to wash my wounds, that I felt tears filling my eyes. There were pieces of dirt that had to be picked out with a folded cloth, and the woman was saying something in Portuguese, which I supposed had to do with the fact that the washing was necessary to ward off infection.
I bit my upper lip to keep from making any sound, and I think the woman said something about my being very brave, which, at another time would have pleased me immensely, but now seemed to make no impression.
I returned to class with dressings on both knees and both elbows, and I could see the other kids pretending that they didn’t notice me come in. Sra. Fernanda asked if I was all right, or something like that, and I nodded and resumed my seat. Then a girl, several years older than me, came into class and handed an envelope to Sra. Fernanda. The senhora motioned for me to come up and take the envelope, and, speaking slowly and extra loud, instructed me to give the envelope to my mother. Then she asked me if I understood, and I nodded that I did.
When Mother read the note, with my help because it had been written in French, which Mother spoke fluently, but could read only with difficulty, we found that it explained that I had been careless and tumbled off the platform, but my injuries had been cleansed and disinfected by the school nurse. I confirmed that this was all correct.
And since this was Friday, with no school the next day, the note also instructed Mother to check my scrapes for infection the following day and apply some kind of medication. But for this task, the next day, Mother called Irenka to come upstairs and perform what was needed. Irenka and I went into the bathroom, where I sat on the edge of the bathtub, while mother remained in the front room with a cigarette. As Irenka squatted at my feet, ministering tenderly to my knees, I could see deep down the top of her dress. But, somehow, the view did not excite me anymore.
One time, a few days later, I was eating some kind of sweet fruit that we had been given for dessert, a fruit I had never tasted before, when a boy, playing tag, knocked it out of my hand, as he ran by, and the boy chasing him stepped on it. I picked it up, so as not to be admonished for littering, and threw it into the garbage.
Surprisingly, even to me, at the time, I did not feel angry at this act. But it wasn’t as though I welcomed the punishment, but, rather, that I didn’t care.
That was the last of any kind of torment that I received, except, possibly, for the large rubber ball that hit me in the side of the head, at recess a few days later, though that could, actually, have been an accident. During recess, I would stand, leaning against a particular section of the wall of our classroom building, my face lowered in caution, and wait for recess to end. Then I would walk back to class, making sure I would be the last through the door, to avoid being tripped from behind.
On occasion, Mother would ask me how I was doing in school. Fortunately, probably because my stuttering so annoyed her, she tended to only ask questions that I could answer with a simple yes or no, and in that manner I told her that, yes, I was making friends and that, yes, I had met Stefan, and that the teacher was nice to me and spoke slowly and that I was, indeed, understanding more and more of what went on in class.
The image of Gustavo on the ground, with his bloody face, still kept coming back, still causing me great pain, and I would chase it away with the Polish marching song and the image of marching soldiers.
Sra. Fernanda had begun spending a few minutes with me every day, teaching me the multiplication tables, and giving me arithmetic problems to do while she taught the class. A few times, one of the boys, or even the girls, would approach me in an obvious effort to engage me in conversation. Had this happened earlier, before the Gustavo and the Stefan incidents, I would have welcomed it. But now, even though I understood that my offense had been forgiven or forgotten, I had no desire for friendship with these people.
CHAPTER X
Every few weeks, when her session with Sra. O’Brien ended early, Mother would pay a visit to the American embassy to find out where we stood in terms of being allowed to come into that country. I didn’t ask what they were telling her, because I was no longer excited about going to the land of skyscrapers, cowboys, Mickey Mouse, and watches that you could buy for a dollar in a pharmacy—any more than I was excited by anything. Mother had said that in America, I would soon learn to speak English like an American, join the Boy Scouts, have a two-wheel bicycle, maybe a dog, and earn money by delivering newspapers on my bicycle, like the boy in the film. But I knew that, in America, I would still be a Jew.
Mother had noticed my loss of an appetite, and taken me to a doctor recommended by Sr. Segiera, this time, but he had found nothing the matter. He had asked whether I participated in gym class at school, which I said I did, and whether I played games at recess. To this second question, I said that I played some, which was only half a lie, and the doctor said that I probably just wasn’t getting as much exercise as I had been when I used to go to the pool with Irenka. Or maybe school was a bit of a strain on me, what with the language problem and my being a “new boy.” He slapped me, playfully, on my behind and told Mother not to worry. Then Mother asked him about my stutter, and he said that I would grow out of it.
Of course, what Mother did not learn and what I didn’t tell the doctor, was that, one or two times a day, I would visualize Gustavo sitting there on the ground and looking up at me through the blood on his face. And what was strangest of all, was that I had begun seeing little Gustavo wearing a beard.
It seems that Sra. O’Brien must have been paying Mother just enough to cover our living expenses, including my school, but, probably, not enough to pay our passage to America, whenever America might let us into the country, or to live on, once we got there, until Mother could write her book. Those twin diamonds on Mother’s hand were supposed to take care of all that. But those twin diamonds still were on Mother’s hand. The senhora had not been interested in buying even one of them, herself, and she had not introduced Mother to anyone else who was interested.
I suggested to Mother that she try to sell them to a jewelry store, but she explained that they would not pay her as much as they were really worth, since they had to make a profit when they resold them. I realized that, in the past, I would have been quite proud of being able to understand that economic concept, without any further explanation, but I had no more appetite for pride of accomplishment. On the other hand, Mother further explained, if we did get our permit to sail to America, and she hadn’t sold at least one of the diamonds, she would then take my advice and sell one of them to a jewelry store, just to pay for our passage. But, again, the idea of my advice being taken, in no way excited me either.
I was well aware that my mood must, certainly, have been evident to Mother, in addition to my appetite loss, and that the doctor’s admonition not to worry was growing thinner and thinner. So, one afternoon, she surprised me by coming home early and announcing that she was bringing me along to the American embassy
with her. There, I would see the biggest flag I had ever seen, maybe, even, the biggest in the world, for all she knew, hanging over a staircase and that I would meet a man who had lived in Hollywood, where they made movies, and where he had, actually, appeared in cowboy films.
I had been sitting at the table, writing down a parody on a patriotic Polish hymn that I had thought up on the bus. It poured scorn on a certain Polish government leader, generally believed to be responsible for Poland’s lack of preparedness for the Nazi invasion, and produced an acidity in my mouth that gave some welcome relief to the mass of my mood. I was quite aware of this effect and, when I heard Mother’s proposition, became aware of a certain curiosity. It was, definitely, not curiosity to see the huge flag or the former cowboy actor, but curiosity over how, seeing the cowboy with my own eyes, would affect me. It seems that I had stepped outside of myself and was, now, observing my own responses, in this strange, disinterested state that possessed me.
The American flag, hanging over the staircase, was, indeed, huge, but seemed to have no affect on my emotions. As for the cowboy actor, we were, actually on our way back down the stairs when I reminded Mother of her promise.
“Yes, yes, I forgot,” she said, stopping on the stairs and starting back up. We walked back down the hall that we had passed along a few moments ago and finally stopped at an open door to a room in which several men, in shirtsleeves, worked behind identical metal desks.
“Do you see that blond man at the second desk by the window?” Mother whispered. “No, no, don’t point. Just look.”
He had on an unbuttoned, brown, pinstriped vest, as he bent over a typewriter. “That’s him,” Mother whispered. “He used to wear a cowboy hat and ride a horse, shoot a gun, throw a lasso, and all those things in movies.”
I didn’t think he saw us looking at him. But I wondered why anyone who had done all those things would want to stop and operate a typewriter in an office. And then I wondered whether he really was who Mother said he was, or whether she had just made the whole thing up to get me to come with her. In the few months that Mother and I had been together, I had learned that Mother was just as likely to make up a story as to tell the truth. Before our escape, while dealing with the military authorities she had said that my father was a senator, that her own father was a general, that I was sickly, and that she had been a teacher of French. She had done this in order for us to survive, and I appreciated that now, though I hadn’t then. But then, in Hungary and later in Yugoslavia, when she didn’t like my behavior, she had told me that there was a ship in the harbor that was picking up all the Jewish children to take them to safety in Palestine, and that she was going to put me on that ship. The first time she said it, I found it hard to believe that she would do that, and the next time I was certain it wasn’t true. But the idea of being put on that ship with all those other children was so horrible to contemplate that I would put my arms around her neck and promise to behave, just to stop her drawing the image.
It was too early for supper, when we came out of the embassy, and Mother suggested that we walk back, instead of taking a bus. The exercise would do us both good. We walked leisurely past stores, offices, and restaurants, looking in display windows. “Would you like to see me wearing that on my head?” Mother suddenly asked, pointing to an outrageous feathered entity on a stand in a hatter’s window. Kiki and I had used to laugh at hats that we considered outlandish, both in store windows and on women’s heads, and Mother’s keying into this familiar game gave me a very warm feeling. I found myself laughing, and Mother laughed with me.
The next window held office equipment, and I pointed to a calculator, with its long handle and rows of buttons, and asked, “Would you like to see me wearing that on my head?” and we both laughed again. Then we were both looking for something else to make a joke about, until Mother pointed to a plate of simulated meat and vegetables in a restaurant display. “Now Yulian, you must eat every one of your vegetables before you can get up from the table,” she said, in a mockery of her own stern tone.
Mother had never done that before. She had never made fun of her own self, and now she had just lifted the entire weight that I had been carrying, right off my shoulders. Suddenly, I was laughing and happy, as I could not remember having been before. Suddenly, I was feeling about my mother as I had never felt about her before. Impulsively, I took Mother’s hand, and we both stepped, with long strides, around the restaurant’s railed sidewalk seating area. Except that the sight of the food display had made me hungry. It was the first time I had felt hunger for quite a while.
Suddenly, we heard a woman’s voice shouting in the unmistakable, sibilant, clipped tone of the Polish language. I remember recognizing the tone before comprehending the words. And those were, “Mrs. Basia! Mrs. Beautiful Basia!”
I turned immediately toward the caller, dropping Mother’s hand in the process. Mother didn’t turn immediately. She stood there for a moment, as though deciding whether it was she being addressed.
A woman was standing at one of the tables, waving her hand, and repeating the exclamation. “Mrs. Basia! Mrs. Beautiful Basia from Warsaw!” A man was sitting at the table with her.
Mother turned slowly to face the woman. She shaded her eyes from the sun, with her hand. Then, hesitantly, almost reluctantly, she began to walk back, towards the restaurant.
“Fela,” the woman prompted, “Fela Brodnik and my husband Bolek from Marszalkowska Street, please missus.” She used the awkward, formal form of address as, we approached. She was older than Mother and much heavier, with graying dark hair. The couple had drinks on the glass-topped table.
Mother’s face turned into a smile. “Of course, Mrs. Brodnik. Missus was a friend of Christina Pjasienski, am I right?”
They were shaking hands at this point. “Yes, but poor Christina is still in Warsaw. . . .if she’s alive at all.”
Mother’s face changed instantly. “So many people have been lost,” she said.
“But we’ve heard of what missus did,” the man said, “carrying your son on your back, over the Carpathian Mountains.”
Mother had, certainly, not carried me. Mother couldn’t even lift me. But I had heard our story distorted in that direction before.
“The whole Polish community, here in Rio, knows about what missus did,” the woman said. “We were all hoping that one of us would run into missus, and we did. So many Polish people come to Rio.”
“We hope to be in America soon,” Mother said.
“Missus has a visa?”
“Yes, I have a friend with the Polish embassy in Washington. But we’re waiting for an entry permit.”
“Missus is fortunate.”
“Michael Kwapiszewsi—maybe missus knows him. He’s from Warsaw.”
“I know the name, please missus,” the man said. “But missus has had such an adventure.”
“Life under the Bolsheviks was unbearable,” Mother said. “They were so cruel. But, fortunately, they were also stupid.”
“We were in Belgrade when it all began,” the man said. He looked older than his wife.
“We knew something was going to happen, please missus, and, when Bolek had to go to Belgrade on business, I insisted on going with him,” the woman said.
“But, please missus, missus should sit down,” her husband said.
“Yes, please missus,” the woman said. “Please, please.”
“Well, only for a moment. It’s late, and my son must have his supper.”
“What is your son’s name?” Mr. Brodnik asked.
“He is Yulian. Shake hands with Mr. Brodnik, Yulian.”
I shook hands with the man, as Mother sat down. Then I walked around to the empty chair and sat down as well. I hoped we would end up eating something here, instead of at the hotel, particularly now that my appetite seemed to be back.
“Missus must tell us her story,” the man said, “but first, how about a small vodka?”
“No,
no. No thank you, mister.”
“A sherry, perhaps?”
“No, please mister, nothing thank you.”
“Some hot chocolate for the boy?”
“Yes, he would like that.”
Hot chocolate probably meant that we wouldn’t be eating supper here, but I liked hot chocolate. Mr. Brodnik called the waiter over and ordered one for me. “Now, please missus, from the beginning.” He pulled his chair a little closer to the table. “A cigarette?”
Mother took a cigarette from the pack he offered and let Mr. Brodnik light it for her. “Well, I was in Durnoval,” she began, “with my sister-in-law, Edna Tishman and her sister-in-law, Paula Herbstein—perhaps mister and missus know them—and their two children, when the Bolsheviks came, and we were living in a hovel, sleeping on the floor, standing in long lines to buy food, the children with legs like matchsticks and sick all the time. We, mothers, couldn’t bear to look at them.”
Mother had left out the fact that Sonia’s governess, Miss Bronia was with us as well, and that it was Miss Bronia who did all the cooking and the sewing, and took care of me when I was upset about my separation from Kiki. I knew that Mother hadn’t forgotten about Miss Bronia, but that her story sounded better if it looked as though she and my aunts did everything. She had also said that we were in Durnoval when the Russians came, which wasn’t true either, since we were on the farm at that time and didn’t get to Durnoval until a few days later, but that was all right, since it didn’t make any difference to the story except simplify the telling of it.
And I also understood Mother’s not correcting Mr. Brodnik when he thought Mother had carried me on her back, over the mountains. That was just the way Mother was.
Loves of Yulian Page 16
