Chasing the King of Hearts (Peirene's Turning Point Series) (13 page)

He goes to the hospital yard and comes back with a noisy, rundown piece of junk.

He asks how she knows Russian.

My mother spoke it.

And German?

My father spoke it.

(She thinks: Why am I talking about both of them in the past tense?)

So get on and go – the officer waves goodbye.

Listen… she calls after him.
Kuda?
Where should I go now? Do you happen to know?

The officer thinks a moment.

You’ll need papers –
bumaga. Bumaga
and headquarters. Go straight, past the roundabout.

A crowd is milling in front of the Soviet headquarters. Czechs, French, Yugoslavs, Poles… wearing striped prison issue, civilian rags. Prisoners from the camps and Stalags, forced labourers… They come from everywhere – except Mauthausen.

One of the Poles has heard about some abandoned apartments belonging to Gestapo officers and SS men. They’re free for the taking but you need permission from the Russians.

She parks her bicycle outside the entrance.

She shows the officer at the desk her number from Auschwitz and
grazhdanka Pavlitskaya
receives her
bumaga
– Citizen Pavlitskaya receives her official papers:
The Headquarters of the 4th district hereby grant permission to occupy residence in the Operngasse…
She leaves the building.

Next to her beaten-up piece of junk she finds a splendid shiny, chrome-plated bicycle. The guard understands her look.
Beri
, he says, take it – and wheels the bike towards her.
Beri
, he encourages her.
Vsyo ravno, voyna…
Who cares, it’s war…

The apartment on Operngasse has everything: clothing, dishes, bedding. She finds a down cover, folds out the sofa bed and falls asleep.

She wakes in the dark and doesn’t know where she is. Strange. Throughout the entire war – in the ghetto, the camps, the prison cells and the various houses along the way – she always woke up at the slightest sound and remembered everything. Now she touches the wall, confused. She locates a switch, turns on the light and breathes with relief: she’s in the SS man’s apartment.

She looks around but the things she finds are ordinary, boring: shoes on shoe trees, a gramophone, a few records,
framed family pictures, a photography manual, an old map of Europe and some stale ginger cake.

She puts on
The Barber of Seville
and takes the cake back to bed.

She’s imagined the end of the war many times. Envisioned herself standing eye to eye with a Gestapo officer or an SS man. The one who slapped her because she looked at him. The one who hung her on the hook. Who waved her to the right with a careless, sloppy gesture. She saw herself watching their fear as she meted out justice. She even thought those words: ‘mete out justice’ – but what exactly might that mean? Was she supposed to kill them? By herself? She doesn’t even know how to fire a gun. Was someone supposed to hand her a rifle? Show her how to pull the trigger? Was she supposed to watch the body lying on the ground, the convulsions, the blood, perhaps the guts spilling out?

Iza, that’s unsightly, her father would say.

She imagines her highly cultured father standing next to her in the military hospital.

Nu, sestra?
Well, nurse?

Nu, otets?
Well, father?

She wouldn’t have to ask for a rifle. Or how to pull the trigger.

All that was needed was a short answer to a short, simple question.

It would have been enough to say: The one behind me. That one with the towel over his eyes… And one more, in the corner… Can you believe he never once groaned when I changed his bandages? And there’s an entire room next door, on the other side of the wall…

Iza, her father would whisper, that’s enough.

What do you mean that’s enough, what do you mean? Didn’t he summon you to the trains, as a specialist who knew German? Didn’t he shoot my husband’s mother at Pawiak? Didn’t he…

Hush… Her father would raise both arms, appalled at how loudly his daughter was talking, and at her strange, high-pitched, quarrelsome voice. I understand what you’re saying, but where did you get that voice? And how can people be shot without being tried in a court?

Her father’s indignation and the idea of a trial for SS men strike her as highly amusing.

We found them, don’t you worry, she says, delighted. What of it? Feeling sorry?

That’s the first conversation she’s had with her father since he left to explain everything to the Germans…

It’s the first of many she will have with all of them in her stylish home on Mount Carmel.

At the former Polish consulate they’re doling out soup. People stop by, drink their soup and move on. When asked where they’re going they wave their hands vaguely towards the east or in the opposite direction.

Izolda stops by every day. She stands at the entrance and asks anyone wearing stripes: Mauthausen? She drinks her soup, then returns to the apartment in the evening. The next morning she’s back: Mauthausen?

It’s evening. On her way home it starts to rain. Her priceless bicycle might get wet, so she quickly ducks inside the nearest entrance. Some men are standing there dressed in camp clothes and speaking Polish.

She asks where they came from.

Ebensee.

Oh, in that case excuse me. She takes hold of the handlebar and turns to leave.

What camp are you looking for? the men ask.

Mauthausen.

What address did you use for your letters?

Mauthausen, block AKZ.

Well, that’s Ebensee – it’s a subcamp. What’s the name?

It would be stupid if she fainted now, she thinks, and leans on the bike for support.

Pawlicki… she whispers. Tall… Very straight and tall… And blond… She’s afraid that the men will say: We don’t know anyone like that. Or else: Pawlicki – yes, he was there. They’ll say
was
, so she speaks quickly, all in one breath, so she won’t hear their answer.

I know Pawlicki, one of the men cuts her off.

What do you mean, you know him… Tall? Straight? Blond?

Please, lady, the man says. There’s no reason to be afraid. He’s alive.

Mauthausen is in American hands and Vienna is occupied by the Russians. The border crossing is at Enns,
both sides of the bridge are occupied by soldiers of the victorious armies.

She approaches the Soviet sentry and tells him she’s trying to get to her husband. He orders her back. If you know what’s good for you, he repeats several times, you better go back, because I’ll shoot.

She climbs on a truck –
sadis!
Have a seat! The drunken officers with Austrian girls on their laps call for her to get in, but the trip is a short one since they don’t have passes. The whole group staggers over to the guardhouse, the sentry gives them a canister of vodka and tells them to wait for the captain.

The captain stumbles in soon afterwards. He checks how much is left in the canister and asks what’s going on.

My husband’s in the camp… she begins. We survived the war… Now we’re so close but not allowed to meet. Can you understand?

Not allowed,
da, da,
I understand, the captain confirms and bites into the blini a soldier has placed in front of him.

Tell me, she says with a charming smile. Why can’t life be like in a film?

And how would it be in a film? The captain dips his blini into the melted butter and waits for her to answer.

In a film I would tell you my story, you would be moved, you would speak with the sentry and I would walk on to the bridge.

Yes, that would be a beautiful film… The captain stops eating. He thinks for a moment, blini in hand, a warm, yellow stream of butter dripping towards his sleeve. But I’ll tell you a real film. When the front was in Russia, we stopped near my village… maybe five kilometres away.
I wanted to say goodbye to my wife and to my mother, but our commander said: You’re not going anywhere, the war isn’t over yet. And when the war was over, you know what? The captain leans across the table, as if he wanted to confess an unusually important secret. My village was no longer there. My mother, my wife, the whole village… Can you understand? So you’re not going anywhere either. I didn’t get to say goodbye and you’re not getting to say hello, there won’t be any film.

The officers are silent. The captain stands up from behind the table. He signals for her to follow him to the storeroom.
Nu
… The captain wears high boots, with a revolver on his belt. He staggers a bit. The rancid butter makes him burp. He points to the camp bed, inviting her: You wanted a film…

She places her bag and jacket on the bed. Just a minute, she says, I’ll be right back.

The same soldiers who stopped the truck are sitting outside the barracks. She prefers one drunken captain to an entire sober patrol and returns to the storeroom. The captain is lying on the bed, snoring loudly.

She spends the night on the floor, her head resting on one of the captain’s boots. In the morning she goes back to the crossing. The officer on duty is one of the merry group from the truck. He greets her like an old friend, gives a signal and the sentry looks the other way.

She steps on to the bridge.

The American side also has a sentry.

My husband
… she says in English.

The American listens politely, says:
Oh, yes,
and points to the Soviet side.

No, she says.
My husband
is there – and points to the American side.

Yes, yes
– the American soldier pushes her away and points to the bridge.

No, no, Mauthausen is there…

The sentry calls someone.

An older officer with salt-and-pepper hair comes over.

He happens to be an army doctor.

He happens to be an American Jew from New York.

She tells both men, the one who let her off the bridge and his younger colleague (who is Irish), about the war.

Ghetto – trains – Aryan side – Gestapo – Auschwitz…

The older man sighs, and with each sigh he gives her another serving of powdered eggs, alternating with beef out of a tin and pieces of halva. The younger man asks about the balance of forces at Umschlagplatz in the ghetto and specifically how many Germans were there. And how many Jews? So why didn’t you defend yourselves? Oh, come on, there’s always something to fight with. If you really want to.

The older man understands how terrible it must have been, but: Let me tell you something, lady. This could only happen in Europe. It would be unthinkable in the States. No one would ever go along with it…

With what? she asks.

With the trains, the transports… No Jewish community in the States would ever allow it.

So they would shoot a few people as an example. And then they’d hang the leader of the community on a hook, like this (she gets up and shows the Americans how the leader of the community would hang on a hook) and then they’d ask if he’d rather have more people shot or sent away on the trains… And the ghetto would be… Where do Jews live in New York?

Listen, lady, says the American whose grandmother emigrated from Grajewo and whose grandfather came from Maków Mazowiecki. I’m trying to tell you: in the States, in New York, no one would agree to any ghetto in the first place.

Well. Maybe you’re right…

She falls silent. The sun is rising and she has to make it to Mauthausen.

She climbs up a steep mountain path. She looks at the meadows in the valley, the roses in the gardens, the green window shutters, the white church tower and the azure sky.

Around a curve she sees some men in camp stripes sitting on rocks. They’re smoking cigarettes, turning their faces to the sun. They call out to her:
Kim maydele, kim tsu mir…

What language is that?

Yiddish?!

Come, little girl, come to me –
Kim tsu mir
…

That loud, in Yiddish?

She speeds up, hoping they won’t follow her. Hoping that no one heard them. Her face breaks out in a sweat, she feels her heart pounding (‘How many times does a heart beat per minute? That depends on whether a person is afraid or not’). A group of women are heading downhill wearing thick woollen skirts, with embroidered traditional waistcoats.
Grüß Gott
– they smile at her nicely.
Grüß Gott
, she responds, recovering her wits. She fixes her blouse, which is wet at the back and under her arms. She smoothes out the white knitted gloves she wore on the train to keep her hands clean. The war is over, she thinks. I’m going to meet my husband. This is the last leg of my journey and it would be silly to lose my mind now.

The path narrows, dwarf mountain pines appear on the slopes.

She sees something that looks like a barracks.

A voice asks her who she’s looking for.

I’ll take you, says the voice. All she sees is her tennis shoes covered with dust and gravel passing underfoot. She’s sitting on the frame of a bicycle. The bicycle stops at the entrance to the barracks. Inside is a long corridor. She walks down the corridor. Someone turns the handle, the door opens, she stops on the threshold. A blond boy is lying in bed, his face is flushed, probably from a fever. A few men are standing nearby, and sitting at the foot of the bed is her husband. He’s wearing shorts, without a shirt. Resting his suntanned hands on his knees. He glances up… He looks at her. The person who brought her gives a sign, the men leave the room and the sick boy closes the door. Shayek goes to her and embraces her, slowly, very carefully…

She waits.

In just a moment she’s going to feel this enormous joy, she imagines. I’m sure I’m going to be very happy.

She doesn’t feel joy.

She isn’t happy.

She doesn’t feel anything, nothing at all.

It’s because I’m wearing gloves, she thinks.

She pulls off her gloves behind his back and tosses them to the ground. She strokes him. He’s warm. Is that all? She’s filled with bitterness. It isn’t fair. She’s found her husband and she doesn’t feel any joy whatsoever.