‘Yes.’
‘We need you to come with us.’ His Prussian accent made me shrink back.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Out of the ghetto. I’ll explain in the car.’
I hung up my coat to give me time to take a couple of deep breaths. ‘I’ve done nothing,’ I told him.
He smiled, amused, revealing fine Aryan teeth – the teeth of a man who ate satisfying meals served by starving Jews.
‘We’re not going to kill you just yet – that would be too kind,’ he told me.
Apparently, that was what passed for wit amongst the Nazis; the young German laughed in an appreciative burst.
‘Why do you want me?’ I asked.
‘I’ll explain on the way down the stairs.’
‘Do I need to bring a change of clothing?’ I was trying to learn if I’d be incarcerated.
‘Do you have a change of clothing?’ he replied sarcastically, looking me up and down as if I were a peasant, and the two men had another good laugh at my expense.
I waited for the Nazi comic to give me a real reply, but none came.
‘I need to check one thing before we go,’ I told him.
‘We’re already late.’
‘I’ll only need a minute.’
Frowning, he gave his permission with a patronizing twist of his hand.
I rushed to my desk and got out the medical folder on Adam that Mikael had given me. My heart was thumping, and I fumbled my reading glasses. Once I had them on, I discovered that at the bottom of the second examination sheet, Mikael had written in his neat script: ‘Four birthmarks at the base of his right calf muscle, the largest 1.5 centimetres in diameter and hard-edged.’ He’d also drawn them.
Birthmarks – Geburtsmale – was in German, but the rest was in Yiddish.
My intuition had been right; as chorus director, Rowy could have had access to this examination sheet, and it was just possible that he might have mentioned something to Ziv about the peculiarities on Adam’s leg – in passing, thinking nothing of the consequences. Indeed, Stefa might also have made some innocent remark about them to either man. So neither of them would have had to see Adam naked to know he was marked for death.
The Gestapo comedian and I rode in the back of a Mercedes down Franciszkańska Street. He carried the book he’d been reading. It had been Adam’s: a German edition of The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, that I had bought for him. He held the book with the title facing out, undoubtedly eager for me to protest in an outraged voice so that he could laugh in my face. But his thievery didn’t concern me; by now, I believed that Rowy – maybe with Ziv’s help – had betrayed Adam and Anna to a Nazi murderer; after all, if Mikael were guilty, he wouldn’t have let me keep Adam’s medical file, which was clear evidence that he had noticed the boy’s birthmarks.
I’d have to follow the young conductor to try to learn whom he was working with on the outside.
We exited the Okopowa Street gate, with the Jewish cemetery on our right.
‘They start with the eyes and lips – anything soft,’ the Nazi beside me told me lazily, as if in passing.
He pointed to a group of crows huddled on the cemetery wall, probably waiting for mourners to leave a frozen burial site.
‘They’ll tear their beaks into anything, and they’ll wait hours if need be,’ he added. ‘I’ve even seen them tug the lid off a casket. Admirably intelligent creatures.’
I said nothing; I’d learned in my work that there are people who are barren inside – who feel no solidarity for anyone. The amazing thing was that they looked just like the rest of us. And now they had the world’s most powerful armaments and their very own empire.
‘I suppose in the long run the mass graves are a blessing,’ he observed, giving me a playful nudge. ‘The grass will grow better with all that fertilizer. What do you think?’
‘Me? I don’t think anything,’ I replied, refusing to look at him.
Outside my window, dismal apartment houses and grubby streets zoomed by. Both Germans tried to bait me several more times, but their comments soon decayed into centuries-old clichés. I played with the coins in my pocket to keep calm – an old strategy for dealing with Jew-hating colleagues in Vienna.
Still, maybe their antagonism had an effect on me; the bump and tumble of the car, the glide of winter landscape, the musty leather smell in the car – everything soon left me panicked that I’d be killed before taking vengeance. And the further we moved from the ghetto, the deeper my sense of vulnerability became.
As we pulled into the gravel driveway of a three-storey villa with Palladian windows, my travelling companion elbowed me. ‘Get out,’ he growled.
A handsome, middle-aged woman met us in the foyer, which was floored with black and white marble squares, as in a medieval Italian painting. She was tall and slender, with a man’s closely cropped blonde hair. Her healthy face was red-cheeked, and her blue-blue eyes were the stuff of Aryan mythology. Scandinavian, I’d have bet. And eating three square meals a day, just like my German escorts.
I will always remember the first lingering look she gave me, her eyes moistening, as though she had been hoping to meet me for years, and the way, too, that she breathed in slowly, filling herself with this moment.
‘Thank goodness you’re here!’ she exulted in French-accented German, and she reached out for my hand with both of hers. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Dr Cohen. I’ve heard so much about you. My name is Sylvie Lanik.’
The Gestapo men stood stiffly by the door, which meant that my host was a powerful woman.
‘J’aimerais savoir pourquoi vous m’avez convoqué,’ I asked her.
I tried my rusty French because I preferred the Germans not to know that I was asking why I’d been summoned.
‘It’s Irene… it’s my daughter,’ Mrs Lanik answered, also in French, embarrassment reducing her voice to a whisper. ‘She’s not well. I’m hoping you can help her.’
‘Send the Germans away,’ I told her.
‘Yes, whatever you want.’ Mrs Lanik summoned her elderly housekeeper and asked her to give the men coffee and cake in the kitchen. The Gestapo comedian showed me a predatory smile as he strode off, no doubt envisaging the revenge he’d take. The only question was whether I’d survive.
‘You must be important,’ I remarked in German as soon as they’d left.
She flapped her hand. ‘My husband is the important person around here.’
‘Is he a Nazi?’
‘Yes, though he and I both know that what Hitler says about Jews is all lies.’
Did she expect me to thank her for not hating me? I forced a laugh.
‘Have I offended you, Dr Cohen?’ she questioned fearfully.
I despised her for being a traitor to her own beliefs and refused to give her the satisfaction of an answer. ‘Where’s your husband?’ I asked roughly.
‘He left yesterday morning and will be gone until tomorrow.’
‘Does he know I’m here?’
‘I told him we were sending for someone who could help Irene.’
‘But not a Jew.’
‘No, that was my decision,’ she said firmly.
‘Mrs Lanik, I may have been reduced to nearly nothing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a life. I have to get back to the ghetto.’
‘Dr Cohen, please just give my daughter a half-hour of your time. She needs help. I’ll pay you whatever you want.’
I grinned maliciously. ‘Why do you people always think you can buy a Jew with money?’
‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ she replied angrily, but she added in a contrite voice, ‘though I suppose I deserved that.’
‘Look, why should I help you?’
‘Given the unfairness of the world and all that’s happened to your people, maybe you shouldn’t,’ she observed.
Her honesty impressed me. ‘Very well, tell me what’s wrong with your daughter,’ I requested in a business-like tone.
�
�A few days ago, she tried to take her own life – with pills. She won’t talk to me about what’s bothering her. She’ll only talk to you.’
‘Me? How does she know about me?’
‘Irene found out you were a well-known psychiatrist before you were…’ She searched for the word; her German was excellent, but she was clearly under an enormous strain.
‘Emprisonné,’ I suggested.
‘Yes, imprisoned,’ she agreed.
I discovered that day that Mrs Lanik stepped cautiously through her thoughts, as though searching for hidden motives in herself and others. As a consequence, all her responses were delayed. It was unnerving. I began to believe she led an isolated life – and conversed with very few people.
‘Where is your daughter?’ I asked.
‘She refuses to leave her room. I’m losing my mind.’ She clutched at the collar of her blouse. ‘If… if Irene should die…’
She loves her daughter as I loved Adam, I thought, and that changed the direction of all my subsequent actions.
‘Mrs Lanik,’ I said more gently, ‘how did you find my address?’
‘My husband is the chief physician for the German forces in Warsaw. It wasn’t hard to locate you.’
‘I don’t have much time. Take me to her.’
On the way up the curving central staircase to the gallery, I told her, ‘I’ll want to bring some things back to the ghetto with me – food mostly.’
‘What would you like?’
‘Find me a dozen lemons – two dozen if you can. I’ll also want cheese and meat, and good bread and coffee. And pipe tobacco – Achmed, if you can find it. And I’ll take you up on your offer to pay me – two hundred złoty per session.’
‘Of course, though it might be difficult to find so many lemons.’
‘If you can’t get them, I’ll need oranges or fresh cabbage.’
Standing in front of her daughter’s door, I faced Mrs Lanik again. To my surprise, I was embarrassed now about my shabby clothing and withered state – suddenly arm in arm with my desire to return to a normal life.
‘I want you to order the Germans to take me home in silence,’ I told her. ‘I won’t see your daughter unless they promise not to speak to me – or hurt me in any way.’
‘Very well. I’ll take care of it.’
‘And tell them not to touch any of the food you give me. You’re going to have to threaten them with reprisals.’
‘Leave it to me,’ she assured me. ‘Can we go in now?’
When I gave my permission, she knocked. ‘Irene…?’ she called softly, but there was no reply. ‘Dr Cohen is here. We’re coming in.’
She tried the door handle, but it was locked.
‘Irene, this is Dr Cohen,’ I began. ‘I don’t have much time. Let me in, please.’
The girl whispered through the door, ‘Only you, Dr Cohen, not my mother.’
Mrs Lanik shook her head violently, as if her daughter was sentencing her for a crime she hadn’t committed.
‘Irene will be safe with me,’ I told her. ‘Sit in the foyer, and when I come out we’ll talk about what I’ve learned. And bring me strong coffee, as well,’ I added, since the efficient heating in the house was making me drowsy. ‘When it’s ready, have your servant knock on the door and leave it on the floor. I’ll come out and get it.’
Mrs Lanik looked back as she crept down the stairs. She gripped the railing hard; I realized she was close to fainting.
I called to Irene through the door in German again, telling her that we were alone. After a few seconds, I heard the latch click. A blue eye peeked in the doorway.
CHAPTER 23
Irene was a willowy girl, and nearly six feet tall, though she had the hunched posture of someone who had been taunted for years about her height.
After opening the door, she marched to the back of the room, anxious to put some distance between us. She had her mother’s short blonde hair and mesmerizing eyes. Her earrings were tiny silver bells.
She smiled at me fleetingly, standing between the head of her bed and a leather armchair positioned for a view out the window, then turned to the side abruptly, as though having just remembered to withhold her feelings. The oblique light from the afternoon sun made crescents of deep shadow under her eyes. The way she held her hands knitted tightly together seemed a bad sign.
She wore modest, impeccably pressed clothes – a silvery-green woollen skirt and an embroidered Ukrainian blouse. I had the sensation that they weren’t what she liked – that she dressed this way to please someone else.
Her shelves were neatly packed with books and stuffed animals. A Picasso print of a sad-faced harlequin was framed behind her bed.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she told me in an unsure voice. She spoke in German.
‘Thank you for letting me in,’ I replied.
She grabbed one of the blue silk cushions from her bed, took off her furry slippers and sat down in the armchair, folding her bare feet girlishly underneath her bottom. Placing the cushion over her lap, she leaned towards the window and gazed at the lawn below as if concerned about what might be taking place down there in her absence. Whether on purpose or not, she gave me a good look at the bald spot at the crown of her head where she must have been pulling out her hair.
A patient’s initial gestures often indicate how forthcoming they intend to be, and Irene had chosen to show me a symptom of her misery before even saying a word.
I sat down on her bed. Though the girl didn’t speak or look at me, I was at ease; this silence between myself and a patient had been a kind of home to me for many years.
‘Now, Irene, I’m just going to ask you some questions. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
I didn’t have much time, so I tried a shortcut that had worked for me in the past. ‘If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?’ I asked. I was hoping she’d accidentally reveal what was pursuing her by telling me her fantasy of escape.
‘You mean, where in Warsaw?’ she questioned.
She was afraid to dream too ambitiously, which likely meant she felt powerless to flee her predicament. ‘No, anywhere,’ I replied. ‘London, Rome, Cairo…’ Finding my professional voice again gave me confidence.
‘I’d go to France,’ she replied. ‘To Nantes.’
I heard Swiss vowels in her reply, though she was speaking High German.
‘Why Nantes?’ I asked.
‘Because my grandparents live there.’
‘Would you feel safer with them?’ I questioned.
Grimacing, she moved her cushion over her chest and clutched it tightly.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
Straining for breath, looking at me directly for the first time, she replied, ‘There’s a constriction in my chest that comes and goes. And when it’s bad, it’s like a big rough hand is pressing down on me. Sometimes I think I’m going to suffocate.’ She fixed me with a desolate look. ‘Dr Cohen, it’s this house… it terrifies me.’
When tears came, she faced the window again, afraid to see my reaction.
‘What about this house scares you?’ I asked.
For a long time, she made no reply. I took out my pipe and examined the bowl to keep from looking at her and making her more uncomfortable.
‘I often think someone is hiding underneath my bed at night,’ she finally told me. ‘Or in my wardrobe, or in the dining room – a person who wants to kill me. I check everywhere I can think of, but it’s too big a house to be sure I haven’t missed something – or that the killer isn’t one step ahead of me.’
A knock on the door startled me. ‘Your coffee, Dr Cohen,’ a woman called out.
I asked Irene to excuse me a moment. Opening the door a crack, I saw an elderly maidservant walking away. On the floor was a wooden tray on which she’d placed an elegant porcelain coffee pot – white, with a black handle – and a matching cup. I carried the tray inside and put it on the girl’s bed.
‘Irene, this is a mansion, and it must have lots of hidden corners and passageways,’ I told her as I poured a first cup. ‘Our deepest fears tend to hide where we have trouble finding them. But I’m going to help you find them.’
She nodded her thanks, but guilt entered deeply into me; who could say if I’d ever come here again? I stole a look at my watch. It was 2.20. I wondered where Rowy and Ziv were at that moment. I decided to stay with Irene until three.
I took a first sip of coffee, but its dark flavour was so redolent of better times that I wasn’t sure I ought to drink it.
‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked the girl.
‘Four months.’ She looked far into the distance out her window. ‘Sometimes I imagine that the killer is outside the house and… and trying to get in any way he can,’ she told me cautiously, and with the effort of recall, as though groping her way through memory. ‘I start worrying that my parents might have left the front door open, which would allow him to get inside, so I check that it’s locked before going to my room. And I end up coming downstairs several times in the night to make sure it’s still locked.’
‘Do you think your parents might leave the door open on purpose – or unlock it after you’ve locked it?’
Those were risky questions, since they touched on her relationship with her parents. Irene faced me and held my gaze, wanting to see the kind of man who would ask them – above all, whether I would give up on her if she spoke to me honestly and revealed something of which other people might disapprove. So I looked at her hard and long. It was an important moment – the hub around which our subsequent conversation would turn. She didn’t flinch or even blink. I began to believe she was a courageous girl.
‘Please tell me what you’re thinking,’ I prodded.
‘I never before imagined that the door…’ She raised a hand over her mouth, assaulted by fear. At length, she said, ‘I love my parents. I want you to know that.’
And yet one or both of them is threatening to hurt you, I thought.
‘I believe you,’ I told her, ‘but it’s hard to trust even the people we love most when we find ourselves in a new environment. I learned that when I moved into the ghetto.’
The Warsaw Anagrams Page 20
