Journeys with My Mother (8 page)

At the beginning, the Arabs were not unduly disturbed by the arrival of the small number of Jewish settlers, convinced that they could neither farm nor fight well enough to threaten their existence. But by the time Ze'ev made his way to Palestine, the Arabs had realised what was at stake and their initial protests turned to indiscriminate violence.

Despite his dedication to Zionism, Ze'ev belonged to the minority of people who tried to see the new situation from the Arabs' point of view. Humiliation was something he understood well, as much as he did frustration and anger. Working alongside the Bedouins, he learned some Arabic and kept practising it. Curious about their culture and traditions, he was pleased to receive an invitation to visit their camp. He sat cross-legged among them in their tents, sharing their food, communicating in gestures, putting his trust in their well-known hospitality which rules out killing a guest. And as it turned out, his so-called enemies were dignified and generous hosts. Even if Ze'ev's understanding of Arabic issues did not go beyond the obvious, he could not accept the treatment of Arabs as inferior people. As always, he wanted to change things.

He joined the Red Faction, which supported the newly formed Palestine Communist Party. The party's platform opposed British imperialism as much as it did the Jewish bourgeoisie. It went as far as agitating against the arrival of new settlers, encouraging fellow Arabs to join in the protests. But no matter how much energy he and his few comrades put into organising the unions of communist youth, the Red Faction's ideas remained abhorrent to the majority. Jewish settlers were determined to extend their influence while the Arabs had their own solutions in mind. In two years the unions recruited eight Arab members. The party remained small. Ze'ev's dream of a perfect realm of equality was rapidly receding.

My father's dilemmas were settled for him sooner than he might have thought. The British imperialists didn't think much of the Zionist settlers and even less so of the communists and their program to improve the world. Ze'ev and his comrades found themselves on the ‘wanted' list and if he wished to avoid jail, he had to make a hasty retreat, which he did.

The six years spent building Jewish Palestine moulded Ze'ev's character and his views. He was no longer an adolescent, instinctively feeling his way around. In 1926, at the age of twenty-two, he saw the answers to the Jewish question in internationalism. He was probably looking forward to his next political engagement. On leaving Palestine, Ze'ev also left behind the ideals of Zionism.

Back in Warsaw, Henoch – who paid for the ticket home – embraced his undutiful son, and all was forgiven.

6

The Thirties

I have known my father as a man of integrity. Still, I would like to know how he conducted himself when no longer in opposition but as part of a one-party-rule apparatus. How did he use his authority? Above all, I hope not to find among his many documents a statement bearing his signature, countersigned by Mephisto.

I am not the only one looking into our parental past with trepidation. Many of us who grew up after the war, when the power of the party was total, want to know, if not to understand, what our parents were doing, the choices they made. Many years later, we still carry the burden of their past.

Aware of my preoccupation, a friend tells me that it is possible to access the files of ex-army personnel. He drives me to the Central Military Archives. It is another hot day and the military precinct is on the outskirts of Warsaw.

Here, everything runs with military precision, which I find intimidating. Then again, I feel like that at any odd institution. More than anything, I am filled with anticipation.

But, first things first: my identity has to be checked and my passport surrendered. I have applied to see the file of Władaysław Bąk. Since his return from Palestine, he is no longer Ze'ev, and no longer Edari.

After a short wait, I take my place at the table. The room is light and airy and only the sounds of shuffling papers break the silence. When I untie the knot of my father's file, my hands tremble a little. Then I look through the densely typed pages, conscious of crossing the boundary into the privacy of another person, even if it is my father. It is uncanny to see his handwriting here, to read his CV, see his photograph. At the age of forty, he still looks young and handsome.

Only later, once back home in Melbourne, do I closely examine the mass of certificates, appraisals and recommendations that span many years of his life. I also find the questionnaires he had to fill in, the army postings, his public and private life. There is no limit to what the army needed to know. Someone – no date or signature – casually wrote across one page in pencil: ‘What about the second wife?' Strangely enough, I find this amusing; it is the least of my concerns. At any rate, I do not take it seriously.

What I find, amongst other things, is the cause of his transfer to reserves: the first nail in his coffin. ‘He is energetic and talented', writes someone in a superior position; ‘his military expertise is of a high standard. Morally above reproach, well respected by those under his command'.

So far, I muse, the paragon of perfection.

‘In his arrogance, however, he does not always follow the orders issued by his superiors – or he does so reluctantly. He questions and often comments on their merits. He is hard and stubborn, a difficult person to convince.' If this is correct, he was certainly playing with fire. This is typical of him, I think, with the pleasure of recognition, forgetting how nerve-racking it would have been to manoeuvre between his views and the demands of his positions.

What I remember, without the help of archives, is that his eventual dismissal from military service nearly killed him. He suffered his first heart attack, made worse by anxiety and lack of sleep. The records also confirm what I already know about his ‘stubbornness', which stopped him from incriminating two of his colleagues, thereby saving them from jail.

It wasn't long before my capable, energetic father turned into an old man and for the first time I thought of his mortality.

Two years before his return from Palestine, there was a military coup in Poland. The new regime was led by a socialist, Marshal Józef Piłsudski. His vision of a strong, independent, multi-ethnic Poland gained him enormous popularity. Even the communists supported him, not least because of his attempts to immobilise the extreme right. For a while, the parliament and other democratic structures functioned as before, yet, imperceptibly, the authority of the parliament was undermined. Before long, the country was governed by decree.

Jews were barred from civic areas. During a time of global unemployment, who would employ a Jew in a post office, railway or factory? Yet their success in banking, law, medicine and publishing was visible and deeply resented.

After years of partition, Poles desperately wanted an independent Poland while Jews, with their long history of harassment, sought to be treated as equals. Theirs was an existential anxiety. Divided by aspirations, religion and prejudice, the two groups kept apart. Jews continued to live in their own world.

Poverty, even before the Depression, set in. Endecja, the National Democratic Party of the extreme right, emboldened by events across the border in Nazi Germany, claimed that Jewish rapacity was to blame for the economic downturn. The desire to rid Poland of Jews gained strength. Endecja called for a boycott of Jewish trade and commerce: buy ours from ours.

The boycott had a disastrous effect: it destroyed many enterprises without improving the economy. With it came violence. Gangs of patriotic youth, armed with sticks, knuckle dusters and razor blades roamed the streets, attacking anyone who looked Semitic. In response, Władek acquired two more skills: boxing and jujitsu. No one was going to trifle with him or his companions.

The military claimed him for the first time soon after his return from Palestine. On this occasion he was sent to Radom, a pleasant town not far from Warsaw. His CV does not tell me how he felt about this transfer; it certainly doesn't mention if he suffered the usual, notoriously brutal, treatment of recruits. CVs are silent on emotions. In prewar Poland, completing military service was considered a patriotic duty and the military was held in high esteem.

Even in the army, Władek continued his political activities, organising a cell of the Communist Youth Movement and becoming its secretary. Perhaps in anticipation of the revolution to come, or merely because he wanted to be good at it, he was keen to learn how to ride a horse and shoot a gun. Thus, during a time of unemployment in Poland, the army provided him with skills, and even shelter. But once freed from military service, he was back to square one: perpetually short of money. By then Władek and Ola lived together in Smocza Street. Ola worked in two clinics, and Władek, during long periods of unemployment, helped Henoch in his business.

Whether that was because working as a tailor contradicted my father's image of himself as a fighter, or because this work wasn't particularly significant to him, he barely mentioned it. But I do remember how effortless it was for him to issue the finest spray of water from his mouth before ironing his shirts. And, when I was still at school, he used our dilapidated Singer sewing machine to make me a fully-lined, double-breasted jacket.

Like his search for work, Władek's political activities never ceased. He alternated between hiding from the police and doing time in prison. Due to lack of evidence, or because his activities were not considered subversive enough, or simply since he was lucky, he never faced court and his spells in prison lasted weeks rather than years.

Poland had been a police state for more than a hundred years, hence any kind of subversion or opposition to tyrannical rule was a source of pride. To be a political prisoner was a time-honoured tradition. Indeed, some of the most interesting people were behind bars. It offered my father an opportunity to learn, and for time to go faster.

7

Bereza

I remember opening the book my father gave me and reading this dedication. Its overused sentiment made me cringe. I gave the book a once-over and put it away, next to the other books on revolutionary struggles. I was nineteen and nothing was more daunting than the idea of carrying the torch my father wanted to pass onto me. The book was about Bereza Kartuska where my father spent thirteen months as prisoner number 634.

In 1934 the government,
¹³
impatient with opposition, found a way to remove ‘undesirable elements' to a place of extreme isolation without having to trouble the judiciary. The idea came from government circles much taken with German and Italian fascism following Hermann Göring's visit to Poland. The Polish hosts shared Göring's enthusiasm for a recently opened concentration camp in Dachau. The very name Dachau – infamous long before becoming a death camp, a place of extreme brutality – should have prepared me for the harrowing details of my father's stay in Bereza.

The little town of Bereza Kartuska, surrounded by expanses of forests and marshes, is typical of the eastern borderlands of Poland, a place where, on a rainy day, one might hang oneself out of despair, or so I imagine. Accessible by train and road, it was an ideal location for a penal centre. The camp's red-brick buildings initially served as a garrison, and were later converted to a tsarist prison. The place was secretive. Even escorting policemen were not allowed to enter the camp and passing locals were ordered to look the other way, under risk of punishment. The isolation would have been complete if not for the defiance of those involved, and constant movement in and out of the camp. Ex-prisoners would, against proscriptions, tell others about their experiences, while new inmates shared the latest news from outside.