The Puppet Boy of Warsaw (9 page)

The soldier lightly pushed his gun into my back. Enough to remind me that I was his prisoner.

‘Keep walking and be quiet.’ He made me climb up a flight of stairs. We entered the building.

‘
Heil Hitler!
’ the soldier barked, his right arm stretched out stiffly in the Führer’s salute.

‘
Heil Hitler!
’ A less enthusiastic echo sounded from behind a large wooden desk.

‘
Herr Sturmführer Barke
,’ the soldier addressed the man behind the desk, ‘
dieser junge Mann hier hat Talent
. This young man has talent –
ein Puppenspieler
, he’s a puppeteer. You know we always need more acts for the cabaret. I could bring him to tonight’s performance. And before that he can entertain our hard-working soldiers. What about a little matinee?’

Sturmführer Barke looked me up and down as if I were a shabby circus horse. His black cap, adorned with a silver skull and SS runes, sat at a strange angle on his head and my eyes caught the swastika pin on his uniform. For a change here sat a German with green, rather than blue eyes. He did not smile.

‘Well, do as you like, but it’s at your own risk. Keep a close eye on him and don’t waste any more of my time.’

Sturmführer Barke dismissed the soldier with a sharp salute.

‘Very well, thank you. Heil Hitler.’ With this the soldier put his hand on my shoulder and directed me out of the room. He led me down the stairs, keeping me firmly at arm’s length, until we were back on the street. At least he wasn’t pressing a gun into my back any more.

I must have held my breath the entire time we were inside the building and I felt dizzy, out of breath. But this, as it turned out, was only the beginning.

H
aving paraded me in front of Sturmführer Barke, the soldier now looked me up and down, taking his time.

‘My name is Max. Max Meierhauser. Now come,
und keine Faxen
.’

Hearing his name did not make me any less anxious – quite the opposite in fact. Does one not talk in a friendly manner to a dog before throwing a net over its head? The soldier led me around the corner to a large brick building that had been turned into a soldiers’ barracks.

‘Here we are, boy.’ He opened the door and with a slight push delivered me inside.

The noise and stink nearly pushed me back – truly we had arrived in the devil’s den. Through thick smoke I could make out about a hundred soldiers, the rats of my dark fantasies. Here they mingled with each other, sprawled out on long tables, relieved of their metal helmets, their jackets thrown carelessly over chairs. Many played cards: holding full hands in their fists before crashing one card after another down on the table with baying laughter. The smell of sweat and thick cigarette smoke hung in the air, from a hundred sucking mouths, stubs thrown on the floor or left hanging at the corner of their mouths.

The soldiers shouted and swore, and the crowded room reeked of stale sweat and beer. So much beer! The rats clutched their glasses as if they were the Holy Grail. Many gulped the dark yellow liquid down in one continuous swig, applauded by their mates, followed by a hollering for more.

‘
Komm hier, Kleine, mehr Bier.
’ A buxom brunette rushed to fill another huge jug with intoxicating liquid. As she put it down the soldier squeezed her bottom. She was one of four waitresses serving these men: all had thick make-up covering their eyes and cheeks, and they wore less than I had ever seen on a woman. I was struck by their very red lips. Bright apple red. Coarse laughter erupted from everywhere.
Shoot them or be caught?
My mind raced.
Here’s your chance to get back at them.
But of course I was the trapped one here. I could only try to keep a clear head; a tall order as my skull filled with a cold sticky fear. Then one of the soldiers noticed us.

‘Well, well, who did you pick up there, Max? Isn’t he a little pale around the nose?’

A stocky, red-faced soldier approached us, and before I could turn away, he pinched my nose with his thick wurst fingers. He stank of beer and was swaying slightly.

‘Not any more, ha, he’s red as red cabbage now! There’s still hope for you, boy.’ He clapped both his thighs with laughter.

‘Leave him alone.’ Max’s voice sounded surprisingly sharp. ‘See for yourselves.’ With that Max bent down to my ear and whispered, ‘This is your chance, boy. You make them laugh, I’ll bring you back in one piece; if you bore us, you know where you’re headed. If we like you there will be dinner and a bigger audience this evening.’

And so, on that very afternoon, I played for my enemy and for my life. Max led me to the front and I tried to shake the frozenness from my arms and legs. Is this how the puppets felt when I pulled them from my coat? I asked for two chairs, draped my coat between them, and then disappeared behind the makeshift stage. There it was again, Grandfather’s presence, warm and sweet as honey. Was it the sheltering coat hanging like a barrier between me and the crowd, or the coat’s reassuring smell? Was my mind playing tricks or was it simply my heart aching for Grandfather, pining to take me far away?

I stroked the silken fabric on the inside of the coat, as if I could reach Grandfather through time, through those pockets he had so carefully designed. I wished I could disappear into one of the pockets, a magic trick that would leave the soldiers gasping.

Max’s deep voice brought me back to my predicament.

‘
Ruhe im Haus! Ruhe! Nun zu ihrer Unterhaltung, Mika, der Puppenspieler
– for your entertainment, Mika the puppet player of the ghetto.’ Slowly the room grew quieter. I had all the inside pockets to work with, crammed full with my puppet company, but no idea where to start. I slipped my hand into the right pocket and pulled out the first puppet I found – the princess.

I wiggled my hand into it and made the delicate puppet pace back and forth along the length of the coat. Oh, but she looked like an ordinary girl, the distinguishing crown had disappeared. The princess stopped, as if she herself had just realised. She sighed and threw her little hands up in the air. I put on my highest voice, made her cry and bury her head in her lap. It was risky, no doubt – surely these soldiers wanted excitement and tricks, not some princess crying. But here, trapped behind my coat, it became clearer than ever: it was the puppets who were in charge, not me. I followed them, not the other way round. After I had chosen the first one, the puppets would decide how everything progressed. And this looked terrible. I held my breath; did they even know what was at stake?

All of a sudden, making a loud entrance, the fool appeared. He was an exuberant puppet, proudly wearing a colourful costume stitched together from odd pieces of fabric and a pointed green felt hat, adorned with a tiny bell. The fool performed with a few bold leaps and somersaults; then, with a confident and cheeky gesture, he bowed in front of the girl.

‘But hello, lovely lady, what has happened to you?’ With a quick movement he pulled a huge handkerchief from behind the girl’s ear and blew her nose.

‘There, there, blow that lovely nose of yours.’ With a loud manly blow, the first laughs from the audience appeared. Hannah would have loved the fool’s trick, he was her favourite puppet – maybe because of his colourful clothes or jerky movements or because he never trembled in front of anyone or anything. I needed him now as never before.

‘Now what is it that is making your eyes water so much, my dear?’

‘I’ve lost my crown and the key to my treasure box. I’m really a princess but no one will believe me.’

‘Well, where did you last see the key?’

‘I always wear it around my neck but this morning it had disappeared.’ Even from behind the coat I could sense the soldiers’ attention flagging.

‘Ah, that must have been the work of the evil sorcerer Hagazad. Let me see, he usually leaves something behind.’

With this the fool got down on the ground like a dog and with loud sniffing noises moved back and forth the length of the coat, then up and down the girl. I could hear a little laughter.

‘Ah, I thought so!’ The fool pulled a feather from her hair.

‘He changed into an eagle and must have taken your key to the highest mountain. But do not despair, we can call Hagazad himself when we shake the feather.’ With this the fool swung the feather through the air and, hey presto, the sorcerer materialised as if from thin air, spreading his black coat across the stage. I surprised even myself with his roaring voice.

‘
You little worm, how dare you call me.
’

This was the first time I had used Hagazad. I had worked on him for weeks and had only finished the black cape the day before. One week after witnessing yet another random act of violence – this time a soldier hacking off an old Jew’s beard and spitting at him – I knew I needed a puppet in my troupe that, although terrifying in appearance, I would always defeat. And so I created Hagazad with everything I despised in the rat: piercing blue eyes, blond hair, a pasty face and a metal helmet like the ones the German occupying force wore.

With Hagazad’s entrance, I certainly seized the soldiers’ attention.

‘Well, dearest Hagazad, this beautiful girl here needs you to return something that we think you might accidentally have taken. You know, just a little key. Nothing you would have use for anyway.’

Hagazad’s deep, menacing laughter surprised me. ‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because, once upon a time, you loved a princess just like this one, isn’t that true? But she fell for someone else and ever since you’ve spent your life seeking revenge, taking everything from anyone you can find. You must be tired of this. Let me free you of this load.’

‘Quiet, worm, or I’ll break your back.’ Hagazad swung his cape like a torero in front of a bull, but the fool wasn’t impressed.

‘I challenge you, Hagazad, to a game, and if you lose you must return the key to the princess.’

A pause, then the sorcerer broke into ugly laughter.

‘Sure, why not, it’ll be fun to eat you alive and spit you out one piece at a time. I’ll make a fine necklace out of your polished bones. Let’s begin!’

As the fool had suggested this challenge, he needed to come up with a game. He chose a simple one, a game of mathematics. Grandfather had taught me some very complicated equations and algebra had always come naturally to me. And so it happened that the fool challenged the sorcerer to a match of algebra. I had a small piece of slate in my pocket and some chalk, and so the fool scribbled down a long equation.

‘There, my dear Hagazad, if you can solve this, the key is yours and so am I!’

Soon enough it became clear that Hagazad was hopeless at algebra, and slowly he transformed into an even bigger fool than our fool could ever be. He stomped, huffed, growled and whirled around, but in the end the fool won. With a fierce hiss Hagazad jumped up in the air, somersaulted then dived behind the coat and out of sight.

The fool proceeded to show the girl a magic trick then proudly presented the key – my grandfather’s golden key, which I always kept safely tucked in a small pocket right next to my heart. The show ended with a joyful dance between the princess and the richly rewarded fool.

I had immersed myself totally in the play, but now my precarious situation flooded back to me and cold sweat formed on my forehead. Applause – not thundering, but applause nevertheless. I crawled out from behind my makeshift stage, bowed, lifted my coat from the chairs and wrapped myself in it.

Max approached me out of the undistinguishable crowd of soldiers and clapped me hard on the shoulder.

‘Not bad, boy, but I hope you’ll give the officers a bit more fire, a bit more Punch and Judy. You know we love the Kasperl theatre.’ I vaguely remembered Grandfather telling me about the German puppets and Kasperl, the fool with a long nose and pointed hat.

‘But I ought to go home,’ I said.

‘Never answer back, boy.
Verstanden?
’ Max’s face darkened.

‘Yes.’

With this he handed me a piece of bread and a glass of beer. ‘Here,
Milchbube
, this will give you hairs on your chest, drink it down in one go!’ He laughed and patted me on the back.

‘
Na, mach shon
.’

I didn’t want to drink the beer, but a group of soldiers had gathered, like an excited crowd around a circus bear, eager to see its awkward tricks. I put the glass to my lips and drank the beer in one go. It tasted bitter and my stomach revolted. Max gestured to one of the women to fill the glass again.

‘One more,
mein Bursche
!’ I gasped but had no choice. With the second glass my head began to spin. I had only once tasted beer, when Grandfather let me try a sip one evening, and now that my hunger and fear provided no barriers against the alcohol, it went straight to my head: a balloon floating towards the ceiling, detached from the rest of my body. Then the room seemed to sway, echoing laughter surrounded me and the soldiers’ faces merged into one big addled mass. I held myself up for a while then slumped heavily into a chair.

‘Ah, you’ve got a long way to go before you become a proper beer drinker!
Komm
, the officers are waiting.’

With this Max yanked me out of the chair and into the adjacent room. Maybe the beer was my salvation, but the rest of the evening turned into a blur. I remember more beer being forced down my throat, leaving my shirt wet and stinking, clouds of cigarette smoke surrounding me and five officers sitting right in front of my improvised stage, laughing and joining in with my coarse jokes.

This beer-fuelled puppet show resembled more of a battleground than a story. All I remember is the crocodile snapping at everyone, the fool running around frantically, somersaulting along the length of the coat, Hagazad catapulted high into the air, crashing and falling like a dead bird behind the stage, and all of this accompanied by my various sound effects and the officers’ drunken laughter. It must have been entertaining enough, as they greeted the show with enthusiastic applause.

Coming out from behind the coat I remember pleading with Max to show me the toilet and begging him to take me home. Nauseous, weak and dizzy, I had nothing left in me – certainly what little innocence might have remained after the Germans had marched me into the ghetto had now gone.