Warping the tradition, Heck invited his SS friends to a rare treat: a private hunting party right on the zoo grounds, a spree that combined privilege with the pell-mell of exotic animals even a novice or soused gunman could bag. The big-game hunter in Heck coexisted with the naturalist, and paradoxical as it seems, he was a zookeeper who didn't mind killing animals in someone else's zoo if it meant ingratiating himself with powerful friends. Heck and a cadre of fellow hunters arrived on a sunny day, full of drink and hilarity, elated by army victories, laughing as they roamed the grounds, shooting penned and caged animals for sport. Only Göring and his medieval boar spear were missing.
"As a convalescent is hit by a returning fever," Antonina wrote in her diary, "we were hit by the killing of the zoo animals, in cold blood and deliberately on this pretty winter day." Fearing the worst when she saw Heck's friends arrive drunk, jovial, and armed, she decided to keep Ryś indoors.
"Please let me go sledding on the little hill in the llama habitat," he begged. Cooped up all day and cranky, he whined: "I'm bored, and I don't have any playmates."
"How about if we sit in your room and read Robinson Crusoe?" she suggested. Reluctantly, he climbed the stairs with her, they curled up on his bed, and she read one of his favorite books by lamplight. But, sensing his mother's gloom, Ryś fidgeted anxiously and couldn't pay attention, even when she reached exciting passages. Suddenly gunshots broke the winter silence, each one followed by its echo, as rifle fire crackled across the grounds, loud enough to hear through shuttered windows.
"Mom, what does it mean?" the frightened boy asked, pulling at her sleeve. "Who is shooting?"
Antonina stared down into the book until its letters began jumping before her eyes, unable to speak or move, hands frozen in place, holding the book's open wings. Dizzying and mutant as the past months were, somehow she had endured, but this moment, "beyond politics or war, of sheer gratuitous slaughter," harrowed her. The savagery didn't serve hunger or necessity, it wasn't a political gambit, the doomed animals weren't being culled because they'd become too abundant in the wild. Not only was the SS ignoring their value as notable creatures with unique personalities, the men didn't even credit animals with basic fear or pain. It was a kind of pornography, in which the brief frisson of killing outweighed the animals' lives. "How many humans will die like this in the coming months?" Antonina asked herself. Seeing and smelling the butchery would have been worse, she wrote, but she found it agonizing to hear shots and imagine the scared animals running, dropping. Her shock, Heck's betrayal, her helplessness dazed her, and she sat paralyzed as her son tugged at her sleeve. If she couldn't protect the animals in her keeping, how could she protect her own son? Or even explain to him what was happening, when the truth would horrify him beyond remedy? Sporadic gunfire continued until late evening, its randomness playing havoc with her nerves, since she couldn't brace herself, only shudder with each shot.
"A very bright, light amaranth sunset was predicting wind for the next day," she wrote later. "Trails, avenues, and frosted yard were covered by thickening layers of snow, which was falling in big chaotic flakes and clusters. In the cold-blue evening light, sunset was playing funeral bells for our just-buried animals. We could see our two hawks and one eagle circling above the garden. When their cage was split open by bullets, they'd flown free, but they didn't want to leave the only home they knew. Gliding down, they landed on our porch and waited for a meal of some horsemeat. Soon even they became trophies, part of the Gestapo officers' New Year's hunting party."
CHAPTER 11
LIFE IN THE ZOO STOPPED COLD FOR WEEKS, AND LOSS ECHOED around the cages once filled with familiar snorts and jabbers. Antonina's brain refused to accept the sad new reality, as everywhere a funereal silence hushed the grounds and she tried telling herself that "it wasn't a death sleep but hibernation," the lull of bats and polar bears, after which they would wake refreshed in springtime, stretch their scruffy limbs, and search for food and mates. It was only a rest cure during the icequake and frostbite days of winter when food hid and it was better to sleep in one's burrow, warmed by a storehouse of summer fat. Hibernation time wasn't only for sleep, it was also when bears typically gave birth to cubs they suckled and nuzzled until spring, a time of ripeness. Antonina wondered if humans might use the same metaphor and picture the war days as "a sort of hibernation of the spirit, when ideas, knowledge, science, enthusiasm for work, understanding, and love—all accumulate inside, [where] nobody can take them from us."
Of course, her family's Underground was no sleepy restorative shelter but a policy of hazards, and Antonina found the Underground state of mind a shared "brain-dead reaction" conjured up by the psyche. There was no alternative, really. One needed it to face the stultifying fear and sadness aroused by such daily horrors as people beaten and arrested in the streets, deportations to Germany, torture in Gestapo quads or Pawiak Prison, mass executions. For Antonina, at least, that flight, stoicism, or dissociation—whatever one labels it—never quite dispelled the undertow of "fear, rebellion, and extreme sadness."
As Germans systematically reclaimed Polish towns and streets, even speaking Polish in public became forbidden; in Gdańsk it was punishable by death. The Nazi goal of more "living space" (Lebensraum) applied pointedly to Poland, where Hitler had ordered his troops to "kill without pity or mercy all men, women, and children of Polish descent or language. Only in this way can we obtain the Lebensraum we need." Those children thought to show the strongest Nordic features (and thus genes) were destined for Germany to be renamed and raised by Germans. Like the Hecks, Nazi biologists believed in appearances, that anyone who strongly resembled a target species could be bred back to a pure ancestor.
The racial logic went like this: A biologically superior Aryan race had spread across the world, and though various empires collapsed, traces of Aryans remained among the nobility, whose features could be identified and harvested from descendants in Iceland, Tibet, Amazonia, and other regions. Working on this theory, in January 1939, Reichsführer Himmler launched a German Tibet Expedition to locate the roots of the Aryan race, led by twenty-six-year-old naturalist, hunter, and explorer Ernst Schäfer.
"Himmler shared at least one passion with Ernst Schäfer," Christopher Hale writes in Himmler's Crusade: he "was fascinated by the East and its religions," going so far as to carry a notebook "in which he had collected homilies from the Hindu Bhagavadgita ('Song of the Lord'). To the unimpressive little man [Himmler] who sat inside the poisonous spider's web of the SS, Ernst Schäfer was an emissary from another mysterious and thrilling world." Himmler also brewed a deep hatred for Christianity, and since most of Poland was devoutly Catholic, all Poles drew punishment.
Antonina wrote that her world felt gutted, collapsing in slow motion, and that for a Blitzkrieg, a lightning-fast war, "it had many long-drawn-out phases." Food stamps entered their lives and costly black-market food, though luckily Antonina could still bake bread from the grain she had bought from her sister-in-law in the fall.
At winter's end, she and Jan started receiving the first shipments of sows, and by March of 1940 the pig farm began, mainly fed on scraps donated from restaurants and hospitals, as well as garbage Jan collected in the Ghetto. Grossly overqualified, the old keepers looked after the pigs and the animals thrived, producing several hundred piglets during the summer, which provided the household with meat and served Jan's main objective of using the zoo as an Underground depot.
One spring day, Jan brought home a newborn piglet whose mother was just butchered, thinking that Ryś might like it as a pet, and Antonina found him a bristly scramble of energy, hard to bottle-feed, especially when he started gaining weight. They named him Moryś, and at two and a half weeks, Moryś looked like "a piglet from Winnie-the-Pooh. . .very clean, pink and smooth, with a marzipan beauty," she wrote. (In Poland, children usually received little pink marzipan pigs for Easter.)
Moryś lived in the so-called attic of the villa, really a long narrow closet that sh
ared a terrace with the upstairs bedrooms, and each morning Antonina found him waiting outside Ryś's bedroom door. When she opened it, Moryś "ran into his room, oinking, and started jostling Ryś's hand or foot until Ryś woke, stretched out a hand, and scratched Moryś's back. Then the pig arched, catlike, until he looked like the letter C, and grunted with great contentment," uttering a quiet noise between a snort and a creaking door.
On rare occasions Moryś risked going downstairs into a stew of smells and voices, a maze of strange human and furniture legs. The clinking of a dinner table being set usually lured him to the top of the staircase, where he parked himself and "blinked his buttery blue eyes with long white eyelashes, looking and listening," Antonina wrote. If someone called him, he edged down the polished wooden stairs, carefully, hooves slipping now and then, skittered into the dining room, and circled the table, hoping for a handout, though scraps were few.
After dinner each evening, Moryś and Ryś repaired to the garden to gather grass and weeds to feed the rabbits living in the old Pheasant House, which gave Moryś a chance to hunt for tubers and greens. That scene incandesced in Antonina's memory, the icon of her little boy and his pig playing in the lavender twilight: "Ryś and Moryś on a field of green, which captivated everyone. Watching them, we could forget the war's tragic events for long moments." Her son had lost so much childhood, so many pets, including a dog, a hyena pup, a pony, a chimpanzee, and a badger, that Antonina cherished his daily flights with Moryś into the vegetable garden's vest-pocket Eden.
One puzzle of daily life at the villa was this: How do you retain a spirit of affection and humor in a crazed, homicidal, unpredictable society? Killers passed them daily on zoo grounds, death shadowed homely and Underground activities alike, and also stalked people at random in the streets. The idea of safety had shrunk to particles—one snug moment, then the next. Meanwhile, the brain piped fugues of worry and staged mind-theaters full of tragedies and triumphs, because unfortunately, the fear of death does wonders to focus the mind, inspire creativity, and heighten the senses. Trusting one's hunches only seems a gamble if one has time for seem; otherwise the brain goes on autopilot and trades the elite craft of analysis for the best rapid insights that float up from its danger files and ancient bag of tricks.
CHAPTER 12
"HOW CAN THIS BARBARITY BE HAPPENING IN THE TWENTIETH century?!!!!!!" Antonina asked herself, an outcry of disbelief with no fewer than six exclamation points. "Not long ago the world looked on the dark ages with contempt for its brutality, yet here it is again, in full force, a lawless sadism unpolished by all the charms of religion and civilization."
Sitting at the kitchen table, she prepared small packets of food for friends in the Ghetto, thankful that no one poked through Jan's clothing or pails as he went about his regular rounds to collect kitchen scraps for the Weimar's pig farm. No doubt he enjoyed the irony of carrying food from the pig farm into the Ghetto, and if it felt a little off-color giving Jews pork, a taboo food, dietary laws had long since been waived, and everyone was grateful for protein, a scarce gift on either side of the wall.
In the beginning, neither Jews nor Poles absorbed the full tirade of racist laws or believed the grisly rumors about Jew roundups and killings. "As long as we didn't witness such events themselves, feel it with our own skin," Antonina later recalled, "we could dismiss them as otherworldly and unheard-of, only cruel gossip, or maybe a sick joke. Even when a Department of Racial Purity opened a detailed census of the city's Jewish population, it still seemed possible to attribute such madness to that famous German talent for being systematic and well organized," the wheel-spinning of bureaucrats. However, Germans, Poles, and Jews stood in three separate lines to receive bread, and rationing was calculated down to the last calorie per day, with Germans receiving 2,613 calories, Poles 669 calories, and Jews only 184 calories. In case anyone missed the point, German Governor Frank declared: "I ask nothing of the Jews except that they disappear."
Verboten! became a familiar new command, yelled by soldiers, or inked large with the wagged finger of an exclamation point on posters and in anti-Semitic newspapers like Der Stürmer. Ignoring those three syllables was punishable by death. Barked out, the word moved from fricative f to plosive b, from thin-lipped disgust to blown venom.
As warnings and humiliations increased day by day, Jews were forbidden restaurants, parks, public toilets, and even city benches. Branded with a blue star of David on a white arm-band, they were barred from railways and trams, and publicly stigmatized, brutalized, denigrated, raped, and murdered. Edicts forbade Jewish musicians from playing or singing music by non-Jewish composers, Jewish lawyers were disbarred, Jewish civil servants fired without warning or pension, Jewish teachers and travel agents dismissed. Jewish-Aryan marriages or sexual relations were illegal, Jews were forbidden to create art or attend cultural events, Jewish doctors were ordered to abandon their practices (except for a few in the Ghetto). Street names that sounded Jewish were rechristened, and Jews with Aryan-sounding first names had to replace them with "Israel" or "Sarah." Marriage licenses issued to Poles required a "Fitness to marry" certificate. Jews couldn't hire Aryans as servants. Cows couldn't be inseminated by Jewish-owned bulls, and Jews weren't allowed to raise passenger pigeons. A host of children's books, like The Poison Mushroom, promoted Nazi ideology with anti-Semitic caricatures.
For sport, soldiers hoisted orthodox Jews onto barrels and scissored off their religious beards, or taunted old men and women, sometimes ordering them to dance or be shot. Archival footage shows strangers waltzing together in the street, holding each other awkwardly, faces sour with fear, as Nazi soldiers clapped and laughed. Any Jew passing a German without bowing and doffing his cap merited a savage beating. The Nazis seized all cash and savings, and stole furniture, jewelry, books, pianos, toys, clothing, medical supplies, radios, or anything else of value. Over 100,000 people, yanked from their homes, endured chronic days of physical labor without pay, and Jewish women, as further humiliation, were forced to use their underwear as cleaning rags on floors and in toilets.
Then, on October 12, 1940, the Nazis ordered all of Warsaw's Jews from their homes and herded them into a district on the north side of town, which lay conveniently between the main railway station, Saxon Garden, and the Gdańsk railroad terminal. Typically, German soldiers would surround a block and give people half an hour to vacate their apartments, leaving everything behind but a few personal effects. Adding the Jews relocated from the countryside, that edict confined 400,000 people to only 5 percent of the city, about fifteen to twenty square blocks, an area about the size of Central Park, where the sheer racket alone, a "constant tense clamor" as one resident described it, frayed sanity. That vortex of 27,000 apartments, where an average of fifteen people shared two and a half small rooms, served the Nazi goal of grinding down morale, enfeebling, humiliating, and softening up resistance.
Jewish Ghettos had flourished in Europe throughout history, and however remote or disdained, they tended to be vital and porous, allowing travelers, merchants, and culture to flow in both directions. The Warsaw Ghetto differed dramatically, as Michael Mazor, a Ghetto survivor, recalls: "In Warsaw the Ghetto was no longer anything but an organized form of death—a 'little death chest' (Todeskätschen), as it was called by one of the German sentries posted at its gates. . .a city which the Germans regarded as a cemetery." Only the crafty and vigilant survived, and no one ventured from home without first checking the danger forecast. Pedestrians updated one another as they passed, and "mere mention of a threat, the slightest gesture, could send a crowd of several thousand back inside, leaving the street empty and bare."
But life's weedy tumult still flowered in the Ghetto, however and wherever it could. Norman Davies gives this snapshot of the early Ghetto's vibrant features: "For two or three years, it was thronged with passers-by, with rickshaws and with its own trams mounted with a blue star of David. It had cafes and restaurants, at number 40 a 'Soup Kitchen for Writers,' and places of
amusement. The Fotoplastikon at 27 Leszno Street offered a popular eye on the outside world by showing a series of still pictures of exotic places like Egypt, China, or California. A clown with a red nose stood on the pavement, cajoling people to buy a ticket for 6 groszy. At 2 Leszno Street, the Arts Coffee House laid on a daily cabaret and a stream of concerts featuring singers such as Vera G. or Marysdha A., the 'Nightingale of the Ghetto,' and musicians such as Ladislas S. and Arthur G. At 35 Leszno Street, the 'Femina' music hall mounted more ambitious productions from a wide Polish repertoire including the 'Princess of the Czardas' revue, and the aptly named comedy 'Love Seeks an Apartment.' It was all a desperate form of escapism. As someone remarked, 'Humor is the Ghetto's only form of defence.'" Many of the Ghetto's best-known streets translated as visions of paradise, plenty, and adventure: Garden Street, Peacock Street, Cool Street, Wild Street, New Linden Street, Dragon Street, Salt Street, Goose Street, Brave Street, Warm Street, Cordials Street, Pleasant Street.
At first, while the Ghetto remained porous, the Żabíńskis' Jewish friends believed it a temporary lepers' colony, or that Hitler's regime would quickly collapse and justice prevail, or that they could weather out the maelstrom, or that the "final solution" meant ejecting Jews from Germany and Poland—anything but annihilation.
Choosing an unknown future over a violent present, most Jews moved as ordered, though some, contrary and beyond herding, opted for a chancy life hiding on the Aryan side of the city. According to Antonina, a bleak topic of conversation among her friends of mixed descent, or married couples one of whom was Jewish, were the racist Nuremberg laws of September 15, 1935, stipulating how much Jewish blood you could have without being tainted. The famous explorer of the Silk Road and Nazi apologist Sven Hedin, who stood beside Hitler on the podium at the 1936 Olympics, was exempt, though his great-grandfather had been a rabbi, something Hitler's inner circle would surely have known.
The Zookeeper's Wife: A War Story Page 8
