Warsaw (21 page)

As tightly as the cloth sack was bound with string Kolya
impetuously broke into it in seconds and ferreted around in the large bag - catching
and reading the titles on the spines, which were in various languages.

"Are you sure it's okay?" Thomas remarked.

"As, as long it's just for the night," Jessica
replied, surrendering. Compelled. Condemned.

"Thank you," the soldier replied, his grateful
smile thawing some of the tension in her features.

"Will you read to us later?" the teenager
excitedly said. Kolya had not read, nor been read to, since his father had been
transported.

"Only if your sister permits it." Not only was
this the first time that Duritz had spoken since entering the apartment block,
but so too he had dared to address Jessica as if it were their first meeting,
acting so formally and fraudulently as though nothing had ever passed between
them. Nostrils flared - the girl darted the Duritz a frosty look. Fortunately,
busying himself with moving Adam's possessions into the flat, Thomas missed the
fleeting, revealing exchange. Kolya too was keen to move his new surrogate
older brother into the apartment. Picking up his last bag, carrying what meagre
rations he had left (which Adam later gave to Kolya to give to his sister),
Duritz squeezed past Jessica - who was still half-blocking the doorway,
half-mortified. He tried to smile at her, tentatively, innocently, as if to
express that he was guiltless of the coincidence. Duritz genuinely, lamely
desired to reduce the fear and anxiety he felt the girl must've been
experiencing. It pained him.

Without a word said, after that all the party were inside,
Jessica retreated into her parent's room. She wanted and didn't want Thomas to
follow her. He noted her mood but would later put it down to a mixture of
awkwardness and exhaustion. At around the same time that evening Jessica would
be interrogating herself and fate: What have I done to deserve this? Have I
been so wicked? - the girl would ask God, whilst also refuting his existence.

Thomas apologised for Jessica's behaviour to Duritz. Adam
replied however that he could understand her reticence about letting a stranger
into her household; he also echoed his friend's sentiments in that Miss
Rubenstein looked tired. Kolya boiled some water and made coffee for his guest,
using what little sugar they had left. He said that he could have his sister's
place and bedding, for she could now sleep in their parent's old room. Feeling
a little awkward, that he had made the imposition but now had to abruptly
abandon Duritz to the care of others, Thomas explained that he had to get back
to his billet. He had already neglected his duties this evening. Although he
wished not to disturb Jessica, Thomas still dared to hesitantly put his head
around the curtain to check upon her. Awake, with her head buried in - and
wrapped around - a pillow Thomas mistook the girl for being asleep and duly
left her.

Shortly after Thomas took his leave however Jessica finally
managed to drift into a palliative slumber. But an hour or so later she was
woken by the sound of unaffected laughter emanating from Kolya. Vexed and
frustrated at who he was laughing so gaily with - as well as from the fact of
him waking her up at such a late hour - Jessica rose. Emboldened by her
resentment Jessica entered the dimly lit room, directing a black castigating
look at a stunned Duritz who noticed her first. Sitting cross-legged upon the
floor a large book - the collected works of Shakespeare - lay open upon his
lap. Kolya sat upon a small stool opposite him, his back towards the doorway
where Jessica appeared.

"That's enough now Kolya. It's late. Unlike Mister
Duritz you have to be up early in the morning. Although I'm sure he would like
to be fresh tomorrow as well, seeing as how he will need to find a place to
stay.” Maternal in tone to Kolya, Jessica as quick as a flash relished sourly
smiling at Duritz as she addressed him and reminded the fugitive of his fate.
She also relished the hurt upon the Adam’s face that the barb seemed to cause.
Kolya was not pleased. Seeing the proud boy's eyes begin to harden, and sensing
that the teenager might defy his sister for either patronising and embarrassing
him in front of his friend Duritz attempted to defuse the situation and
atmosphere. It was his greatest wish not to cause trouble.

"Your sister is right Kolya. It is late. It's also been
a long day, for both of us. I'm sorry Miss Rubenstein. I got carried away in
reading to Kolya," he said, attempting a conciliatory smile which was far
from reciprocated.

"You are also wasting the light," the woman
replied, in reference to the candle still burning by their beds. Jessica then,
without another word said, returned to her room.

As a result of sleeping for a couple of hours earlier that
evening - and being understandably restless - Jessica found it difficult to get
back to sleep. On one hand she wished she could just blank the conversations
out but on the other she amplified her hearing to catch what they were saying.
Either way Jessica was tormented and kept awake from the whispers fluttering in
from the adjoining room. Duritz appeared to be giving Kolya instructions on
certain German words and phrases. He listened and repeated intently.
Occasionally she would also hear Kolya laugh. Increasingly that night - and the
following morning - Jessica dreaded the argument that would ensue when she
would have to inform Kolya that the ex-policeman could not stay. But it had to be
done.

For a brief interlude that awful evening Jessica was tempted
by the thought of handing the fugitive over to the authorities. It would but
take a duteous word in someone's ear. She and Kolya might even receive a reward
for it. Although she could do it to him she would not feel right in terms of
Thomas. Mama would have been strong enough, Jessica reasoned however and
achingly remembered her again. She did not get the chance to say goodbye. The
ungrateful but loving daughter did not get the chance to say sorry or thank you
- for so many things.

18.

Kolya's liveliness continued from the previous night into
the next day. Jessica had to admit to herself that she had not seen Kolya this
happy since before their parents were taken away. As soon as they left the
apartment he tried to make the case for the advantage of Adam remaining with
them. He possessed valuables and contacts that they could use. It would also be
wrong - "Mama and Papa would not approve" - if they abandoned him.
The ex-policeman had after all saved Kolya; the man was in trouble because of
him in a way. And didn't Jessica want to defy the Germans, just once? Kolya
subtly hinted too that the Corporal would now visit them even more because of
his friendship with Adam.

At first Jessica just attempted to ignore her brother's
pestering conversation as they walked towards their meeting place at the gates
of the ghetto, where they would be marched to the factory. She commented upon
the weather - how cold it was - and if Kolya was wearing enough clothes. In
response to Kolya saying how they might need Adam to be there should they ever
be liberated Jessica merely asked if he had his ration of bread in his pocket.
In the end though, Jessica had to address the issue.

"I think you think that I should let him stay because
he helped you Kolya. But what I have to do is help us by not harbouring him. If
he's caught we'll suffer the same fate. He cannot stay," Jessica stated,
her head vehemently shaking as she did so. Before Kolya could articulate the
vehemence behind his own determined aspect however Jessica silenced him,

"That's enough on the subject Kolya. We're here. I
don't want anyone overhearing you."

Kolya sulked and was hotly frosty towards his sister for the
rest of the morning and afternoon. But ultimately he understood Jessica's
decision. It was the right, or rather practical, thing to do. Strangely
however, just as Kolya was submitting in his mind to his sister's authority to
release Adam from being their responsibility, Jessica's resolve to do that
exact same thing ebbed and waned. What with Kolya not speaking to his sister
throughout the day she had time to consider the subject. The ex-policeman could
indeed prove valuable in terms of his influence and possessions. The attraction
of the power she would hold over her former tormentor - that she both knew his
sordid secret and could damn him at any moment - also coloured Jessica's
thoughts in an unassumingly dramatic moment as she worked fastening hinges onto
aircraft tool boxes. Jessica considered giving him a stay of execution. She
would allow him to stay for a couple of extra days should Thomas not be able to
arrange an immediate alternative, partly because of her love and debt to Kolya.

Thomas woke up late that day but still he was tired. His
throat was sore and he felt groggy - symptoms which often presaged a cold for
the Corporal. As briskly as he had travelled through the ghetto the night
before to get to his unit's billet he had been drenched by the sleeting rain. The
aroma of the pungent coffee and bacon which Oscar Hummel had made helped
stimulate Thomas' senses however and overpowered his desire to go back to
sleep.

"Morning. That smells nice."

"It tastes even better," Oscar replied, his face
screwed up with childish delight as he spoke whilst chewing a piece of fatty
bacon. The Private proceeded to dish out a couple of rashers onto an empty
metal plate and pass them to his Corporal. He also handed over a steaming cup
of treacly black coffee.

"Thanks. What time is it?" Thomas asked, and then
yawned. There were rings around his usually sociable eyes. He stretched his
stiff joints beneath the blankets of his bed.

"It's nearly midday. Late night?" Oscar intoned,
his eyebrows arched. Oscar all but winked. Thomas couldn't help but note the
suggestion in the Private's expression.

"It's not what you think."

"If it was, I don't think I'd want to know. I just hope
that the soaking you got last night has cooled you off and brought you to your
senses. All it needs is if for some SS - or worse one of them Gestapo bastards
- to find out about a German soldier and some Jewish girl and then you really
would be fucked! The rest of the platoon probably would be as well. I'm being
serious Thomas. You've been conspicuous by your absence of late. I've covered
for you a couple of times but there have been things said in the unit. If one
of your Privates shirked his duties and distanced himself from the men you'd
want to know why, or you'd want to straighten him out. It's not as your most senior
Private that I'm telling you this, it's as a friend. You should also think of
this girl. Every time you see her you're endangering her also."

Only afterwards did the Corporal fully appreciate how Oscar
had pre-planned the scene. He had never prepared breakfast for his Corporal
before in such a way; so too his reproaching speech appeared rehearsed. Both
men were a little uncomfortable during the pause which succeeded Oscar's short
lecture but so too both men realised that it needed to be said. As much as
Thomas knew Oscar to be right however, a sense of irritation mingled with his
tiredness and the Corporal's expression displayed not the gratitude and
graciousness his heart would later feel towards his friend.

"I thank you for your counsel Private - and also the
coffee and bacon - but it's somewhat difficult to feel shame and moral
inferiority in the face of men who disapprove of me visiting the ghetto and
helping out a Jewish family - whilst they say and do nothing in the face of the
SS sending thousands of innocent people to their deaths everyday."

Thomas stopped eating. Oscar got up and left, upset by his
friend's reaction. Yet the old soldier still felt better for having saying what
needed to be said.

Not having anyone he could call a friend, Meisel had to
bribe a couple of his fellow policemen to help apprehend Duritz on the evening
of his attack. His nose was still swollen but what smarted most was the
humiliation he felt in the eyes of the sheep of the ghetto (who reported his
injuries with understandable glee to each other). Yitzhak quickly licked his
wounds however, in the shape of soaking his nose in cold water, and resolved to
pay the cowardly Jew back as soon as possible. The man's revenge fired his
imagination - and so too his imagination fired his ire - as the trio of
thuggish constables marched towards the ex-policeman's building after finishing
their rounds attending to curfew. They missed their quarry by two hours.

Restless, Yitzhak Meisel rose with the sterile dawn and took
himself around to Duritz's building the next day, his unwashed hands buried in
the deep pockets of his cloth overcoat - wrapped around a cudgel and a kitchen
knife respectively. He was not expecting his enemy to be there. The state of
his room last night suggested that the fugitive would be gone for good, but
still the policeman was compelled to re-visit the quarters, if only to satisfy
the urge and re-heat the trail in terms of finding the cur. He knocked upon the
doors of the rooms on the same floor. A few answered and the policeman
brusquely asked them if they knew or saw anything (stealing the breakfast of an
ailing widower on one occasion as he did so). Again Meisel left the
lice-ridden, condemned building frustrated. He snorted. The bruising ache of
his nose served to remind the policeman of his mission and spurred him on. Such
was the power and rage of the inner dialogue that plagued the constable that it
forced itself to find release through open, audible speech. Meisel mumbled to
himself like a man possessed, or one cursing his luck.

"I'm gonna enjoy it. You've even given me something to
live for. I'll fucking find you. Yeah, you had to attack me from behind. Piece
of shit. I'm not gonna even fucking kill you now. No, there are punishments
worse than death."

A spurt of refreshing laughter, a rare and dangerous
occurrence in the ghetto, punctuated the street. It emanated from a couple of
musicians, one Henryk and his cousin Samuel, who were on their way to the cafe
where they worked. They both played the violin. Intense with animus, scowling
and furnace-eyed the policeman took his frustration out on the two insolent
Jews (partly just because he could, and partly because Meisel imagined that
they were laughing at him - and imagining it was motive enough).

"Where are you two going? Or do you want me to decide
where you're heading?"

"We're musicians. We've got work cards. We play at the
cafe in the square," Samuel issued back, a little too assertively for both
Yitzhak Meisel's and his cousin Henryk's liking. Beneath his lank hair and
withered face Samuel appeared to be in his late-thirties, but his tone (and
laugh earlier) betrayed his twenty-two years. The policeman grinned, sneering
at the youth as if he were amused by the Jew's impudence or thankful for his
provocation.

"I've heard you both play. In putting you out your
misery I'll be doing others a favour too,” the policeman exclaimed, pleased
with his display of cruel wit.

The rumble of the engine and its tires upon the gritty road
was distinct from the usual bass snarling of the trucks which serviced the
ghetto. The sound was more refined, smoother, but not as unfamiliar to the
policeman's ears as he first supposed. It dawned upon Meisel what it was as the
vehicle crept around the corner and into view. A black limousine. Gestapo. A
debilitating fear thudded into the policeman's chest. Meisel remembered the
terrifying weeks when they seemed to be ever present (omnipresent) in the
ghetto. Partly to line their own pockets through confiscating valuables, partly
to ensure that their machine and its cogs were well greased, they descended
upon the ghetto like vultures, or demons. Even now they were unreal, unholy
apparitions - arbitrary judges, juries and executioners who even the SS feared.

It was him, sitting in the back of the car. Like before he
was slowly swivelling his head from side to side. Like before he looked bored,
or tired - as if he had just finished a large meal and he was due to sleep. But
like before those dull eyes behind thick, tortoiseshell glasses could spring to
life and his expression could become as hawkish and unforgiving as a Priest's.
Meisel's heart pounded as the car glided towards him. He would not make eye
contact, but yet the policeman was, head bowed, still compelled to track the
funereal vehicle. Meisel had witnessed the Gestapo officer, Klum, coldly
execute a policeman as if he were no more than just another Jew. It was a hot,
sticky afternoon at the start of the summer. The Gestapo officer, sweat glazed
across his long vulpine features, emerged from out of his pristine car flanked
by two fellow Gestapo officers, Lieutenant Kleist and a young SS Private who
accompanied the SS officer. Klum mopped his brow and Kleist, who seemed to be
familiar and comfortable with the Gestapo man, led him over to a table at a
cafe in the square. The two officers and their staff quenched their thirst with
some lemonade. The proprietor of the cafe then fetched the last of his cognac.
The party seemed to be in a good mood and laughter often emanated from the
table. Meisel watched them all from across the square. Such was the lack of
intent and threat from the group that the area even tentatively became
populated again. Suddenly however Klum whispered something into Kleist's ear,
smiling wickedly. Not two minutes later three Jews (two men and a young woman)
had been commandeered by their staff and a Jewish policeman. By this time
Meisel had moved closer, half hidden behind some rusty railings and a large
shrub in the square. No sooner were the three Jews stood in a row before them
than Klum rose to his feet, slowly removing and cocking his pistol (as if to
alert his victims to their fate and torture them more). He methodically shot
each of them at two second intervals. The shots echoed around the ghetto but
few souls flinched (it had become the norm by then). Klum turned around and
nodded to his party after the shots were fired, making a face as if to say,
"was that fair, are you happy?" The reason why he did so Meisel would
learn was that Klum and his party were conducting an experiment - and also
gambling. The Gestapo officer had deliberately shot the Jews in three separate,
distinct places; one bullet he fired into a man's groin, in the next instance
he shot a man in the stomach and lastly he fired point-blank range into the
girl's chest. Klum and Kleist were conducting an experiment and betting upon
which victim would bleed to death soonest. Before the Gestapo officer sat back
down however he spoke to Kleist again. The conversation but lasted a moment or
two, during which the Lieutenant pointed at first to his chest and then at the
policeman who seemed to be standing on sentry duty to the party - in case his
employers needed anything else. They did. Klum nodded in assent to something
his friend said and he turned around and shot the young constable in his left
shoulder. For the next hour or so the party sat in the square drinking and
laughing, only really taking an interest in their victim's fate when one of
them believed that a death had occurred. Meisel could not remember who won the
wager - but money definitely changed hands. Only the policeman failed to bleed
to death during the sweltering afternoon. The party finished their drinks and
got up to leave as if the fly-infested bodies strewn in front of them were
invisible. Meisel believed that the policeman would have survived, if only he
had played dead. Yet as Klum was leaving he dumbly spoke to the Gestapo
officer. Ironically, he begged for his life. Insulted by being dared spoken to
by the policeman, or maybe Klum was just irritated from losing the wager he
coldly dispatched the grovelling Jew by first shooting him in each of his limbs
- and then twice in the face.

 
Meisel dreaded the
limousine stopping now. Klum only took an interest in Jews he wanted to
execute. The Gestapo officer would not differentiate between a policeman and a
couple of musicians. A chill ran down the constable's back as if a millipede
was crawling along his spine. Meisel even offered up a comic prayer that the
"black angel" (Klum wore a black suit, black polished shoes and
occasionally a black fedora hat) would disappear and ascend back up to heaven -
or rather descend back down to hell. Klum yawned and then picked the remnants
of his lunch of cold hams out of his teeth with his tongue. Sometimes he looked
like an intellectual - but in a sadistic flash he could then resemble a
heartless gangster. In truth he had once been that species of humanity in
between - a lawyer.