Warsaw Requiem

  “How can he deliver five babies at once?” Murphy moaned.

  “One at a time.”

  “Nothin’ to it!”

  “’At’s wha’ we pay ‘im for!”

  Pay him. Whatever they paid him it was too much. This did not feel like a maternity hospital for women. It was a veterinary clinic!

  Murphy had not paid attention when Elisa had told him that she had found a reasonable doctor. She should not have an unreasonable doctor at a time like this, he had quipped. Then she had said he was a doctor they could afford and hardly noticed the expense. “A specialist”, she said!

  He wished he had walked through this place just one time and checked the wiring. One of these days it was going to burn down. Probably tonight. He wished he had insisted that she have the baby back in America, where everyone spoke the same language and hospitals had not even been built in 1750. Benjamin Franklin had not even invented electricity when this place went up!

  “America was still a colony when this place was built,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Someone laughed proudly. “Aye. We’ve been doin’ this sort of thing a long time in England!”

  “Somethin’ new for you Yanks, then?’

  Murphy stared at his hands. New for him, anyway. New for Elisa. Frightening and terrible and wonderful all at once. He wished he had thought all this through before. Last night she had called him insensitive, and she was right. Any sensitive man would have made certain that the hospital his wife was in was at least newer than the Declaration of Independence!

  He looked at his wrist and shook his head. His watch was broken, smashed where he tried to go through the door at the TENS office the wrong way. He hoped the man he knocked down was all right. He had not been moving when Murphy left. Maybe he was in a hospital too. Not this one, though. Accident victims were probably treated better than women in labor.

  Murphy did not want to ask what time it was. Daily life in London was tough enough trying to figure out the accent. Tonight he simply could not bear any more. He shook his broken watch. The crystal tinkled out on the floor.

  “Break your watch?”

  Murphy nodded at the voice. By now they all sounded alike, and he didn’t care who said what anymore.

  “Almost midnight.” Someone answered, though no one had really asked.

  Why did this take so long? Did these things always take so long?

  “They’ll be poppin’ out soon enough!”

  “Always in the wee hours.”

  As if on cue, a withered nurse poked her head through the door; she also looked to be of a pre-revolutionary war vintage. The gin-rummy game paused mid-gin. All eyes fixed on the face.

  “Mr. Finsbury, please?”

  One of the sleeping men shook himself awake. “Yes. Finsbury here.”

  “Good news! A baby boy.”

  The man stood and straightened his tie without a word, as if she had told him his car was in a tow zone. “Jolly good,” he commented, leaving his comrades without a second glance.

  The card game resumed and then ended with the declaration of “Gin.” It promptly began again. The men lit up fresh cigarettes and pipes, crossed their legs at a different angle. The slap of playing cards on the table was the only sound for half an hour more.

  Murphy’s mind played back every insensitive thing he had ever done or said. He then progressed into borderline insensitivity and onward into realms of guilt and self-recrimination he had never experienced before. He prayed and promised God that if everything came out okay—no pun intended—he would do better by Elisa and the kids. The world might be going nuts; Europe might be about to go up in flames; but Murphy would be a better father and husband!

  “Twelve-twenty-six,” muttered someone, breaking the silence.

  Again the door opened, and the prune face of a different nurse poked into the gray swirl of smoke.

  “Mr. Mur-pheeee?”

  “Yes! Yes! I am Murphy! That’s me!” He was making a fool of himself, grabbing the arm of the old lady like that.

  “Yanks!” someone grumbled from the gin table.

  ***

  It was either very late at night or very early in the morning when the taxi pulled up beneath the window.

  “He’s home!” Charles cried, pouncing on the bed of his still-sleeping brother.

  The announcement was something like saying Santa Claus had landed on the roof and was squeezing down the chimney. Louis sat bolt upright, and the two scrambled to the window seat to peer down at the rattling black cab pulled to the curb of the little park opposite the house.

  No sign of Murphy yet. The glow of gas lamps reflected against the hood of the vehicle. Beyond, the dark and deserted square seemed to be waiting for the arrival of a new baby in its perambulator. Murphy and Elisa had promised the boys they could give the baby rides around Red Lion Square. Could we begin this morning? Charles wondered.

  The passenger door opened.

  “There he is,” Louis whispered, pressing his face against the glass.

  “Where’s Elisa?” Charles frowned when Murphy closed the door without sign of either Elisa or the new baby.

  “Where’s . . . the kid?” Louis echoed.

  Charles thought for a moment. Murphy had said this was a very late kid. He had been saying that for weeks and had been growly more often these days. Elisa had been weepy. A normal thing, Murphy had told the boys man-to-man as they pretended to shave with him yesterday morning.

  “Maybe the kid is still . . . late,” Charles said.

  This was a very disappointing homecoming. Charles and Louis had been forced to spend the evening with Hildy and Freddie. Trying to figure out what Hildy was talking about was a difficult proposition most of the time, but all evening her false teeth had clicked and clacked more than usual as she babbled on. She vacuumed twice and scolded Louis for getting cracker crumbs on the floor in front of the radio. It had been an unpleasant night, and now there was not even a baby to show for it. Would they have to do this again?

  Murphy looked awful. His fedora was way back on his head. He needed a shave worse than usual. His tie was off—tucked into his coat pocket and hanging out nearly to his knees. He looked tired, tired. Worse than the nights when he came home from spending too many hours reporting on something terrible in the news. He walked slowly toward the house. The cab drove away.

  Louis grimaced. “No kid.”

  “Rats.”

  Hildy was sound asleep on the sofa. Charles could hear her snoring. He wondered if she would someday suck in her false teeth and choke from such snoring. Not even Freddie snored like Hildy. He decided that next time they thought the baby was coming, he would ask if they could stay with Doc Grogan. He would have preferred Anna and Theo, of course, but they also would be at the hospital with Elisa because Elisa was their daughter. So maybe they could stay with Doc Grogan, who spoke real English instead of fractured, garbled stuff like Hildy. He said things like “rats,” “okay,” and other really American stuff like Murphy.

  The boys turned away from the window and waited in the dark as the hollow sounds of Murphy’s footsteps climbed the stairs.

  Hildy heard him coming in her sleep. She snorted, and the snoring stopped. “Who ist dere, pleeze?”

  Murphy replied in a muffled voice that it was he.

  “Ach! Mein Gott! Mizter Murpheee! Und d’ ba-bee ist . . . ?” The door banged back. Muphy’s voice was low and quiet. Hildy’s voice was loud and unintelligible. The pitch increased. Murphy, still tired, was talking all the same. Talking too quiet!

  Something was up. The boys exchanged glances and padded quickly out to the landing where they could see Hildy’s plump, wide body blocking Murphy from coming all the way in. If she caught them there, she would shake her finger at them and scold them, so they stayed quiet and hoped she would go downstairs to her own place soon.

  “Fine . . . fine, Hildy.” Murphy managed to get in a word.

  “Ach! Gott praise to be! Und danks to Gott, Mizter Mu
r-phee!”

  Murphy’s hands took the old woman by her shoulders. “The boys were good for you?”

  Uh-oh. The question . . .

  “Like d’an-gels, dey ist! Per-fect! An-gels!”

  Charles understood her. Angels? This was amazing. Murphy managed to switch places with Hildy so she was mostly outside. He was still speaking very low. She was very excited and loud. Crying. Were they happy tears or unhappy?

  “You go . . . get some sleep now, Hildy. You must be tired. Thanks a lot . . . tell you all about it tomorrow.”

  She let out a big laugh and slapped her hand against her legs like a German folk dancer. “Tomorrow ist already here!”

  “So it is.” Murphy looked at his wrist to check the time, but he did not have his watch on. “Late. Early. G’night, Hildy.” He shut the door. Relief! Murphy was better than anyone at getting Hildy out the door.

  He sighed and glanced up toward the landing. The tired look went away when he saw the boys waiting there in their pajamas. Something wonderful had happened. Charles could tell by Murphy’s face.

  “It’s okay, fellas,” he called. “She’s gone. You can come out now.”

  They clambered down the stairs to embrace him. He smelled like the ashtrays at the newsroom, but he was happy.

  “Where’s Elisa?”

  “Where’s the kid?” Louis asked. “Still late?”

  Murphy laughed and hoisted them both up to touch the heavy rafters. “You’ve got a baby sister, boys,” he cried. “As beautiful as her mother too!”

  ***

  Where the walls of his cell came together at the corner, Karl noticed a shadow just beneath the ceiling where one brick was missing. The sparrows saw it as a place to build their nest.

  Karl’s human logic could not understand why the sparrows would forsake the fragrant green boughs of a pine-tree home for the rank gloom of this prison cell. But such a miracle was beyond human logic. When Karl reasoned with his heart, he came to the conclusion that these tiny feathered creatures were sent to him as a gift. The sparrows did not belong to him. No. They were free to come and go as they pleased. They belonged to the Lord, who cared for all creatures big and small, and God had loaned them to Karl to keep him company. How kind, how thoughtful, God was, Karl concluded. God had known about the missing brick. He had provided the bread. He had sent the sparrows and planted the desire in their hearts to build their home in the very walls that imprisoned Karl.

  Twig by string by stem, the sparrows labored over their nest. As they twittered to each other, Karl’s heart entered into their conversation. He understood the concerns of parenthood and marriage. Of building a safe place in which to bring up youngsters. All these concerns were acted out in miniature drama in the niche above Karl’s head. Lady Sparrow scolded, and the male pouted. He tossed his head, and she obeyed . . . but not without protest. Together they lined the nest with downy feathers, creating a soft place for their little ones through their own sacrifice.

  Day by day Karl offered them the best morsels of his bread. In return they sometimes brought him gifts. One day the leaf of an elm tree. The next a faintly fragrant pine needle, which he pressed between his fingers to inhale the scent. Twice Lady Sparrow dropped the petals of a wildflower. By holding the fragile yellow fragment in his hand, Karl could imagine a whole field of yellow flowers sloping down toward the banks of a broad river.

  They brought him pieces of the world. Little bits of beauty from which he could rebuild the memories of the things he had most enjoyed with his own family; Picnics by the River Spree. A hike through the fragrant forests of Bavaria. Late-night talks with Helen about their children. Their future. Their lives. Family . . .

  The memories of long-ago things did not make Karl melancholy. Instead he found comfort in replaying his life with Helen and Jamie and Lori. He had no regrets. Life had been good. Every day had been brushed with the colors of loving. Even the most ordinary routines now seemed somehow sacred and blessed, a holy sacrament.

  Karl gazed up at the nest. It was barely visible even though he knew where to look. If his jailors ever came into the cell, they would not see the little family high in the wall. He was grateful for this. The male had gone foraging this morning. Lady Sparrow was nestled in the downy feathers. A miracle was happening today, Karl knew. There would be eggs in the nest by the time her mate returned. This fact gave the cell the aura of a holy place. Karl bowed his head and worshiped the Lord of men and sparrows.

  ***

  Only one thing did Rachel enjoy more than the weekly BBC concerts on the radio—the weekly live concerts performed at the Community Hall for free.

  Tonight Father Kopecky came to visit Papa. He had looked surprised that Rachel and Etta were not going to the concert.

  “Why should the women stay home,” he asked, “when a priest and a rabbi have so much to talk about?”

  “And a game of chess to finish,” Papa had added.

  The boys were put to bed early. Etta French-braided Rachel’s hair, giving her the appearance of a nearly adult young lady. Then they had changed into Shabbat clothes and joined the parade traipsing through Muranow Square toward the hall.

  There were more strangers here than people who knew the Lubetkins. Fewer and fewer of the old friends and neighbors remained in Warsaw each day. The dress and dialects of the crowd verified that they had come here from everywhere.

  Many looked just like the Poles whom Rachel had seen beyond the neighborhood. They would have fit in just as well at the Saxon Garden or on the sidewalks outside the Royal Palace, where merchants with little carts cooked Polish sausages. Some wore clothing that once must have been as grand as anything that passed through the lobbies of the Bristol or the Europejski hotels. Others would have fit right in among the fish sellers on the docks of the Vistula.

  One thing was certain: The newcomers did not look like Jews. They did not talk like Jews or act like Jews—at least not like the Jews of Muranow Square! Rachel thought that maybe the Catholic priest would have fit into this assembly very well. The thought made her feel indignant and more than a bit uncomfortable. Across the aisle, in an entire row of wooden folding chairs, boys and girls sat in a line, talking together, holding hands! The sight of such familiarity made her flush with embarrassment

  Rachel had heard Papa laughing about such things with the priest. His laughter had shocked her. His comment had sobered her, especially in the face of the terrible news from Germany these days.

  “It seems impossible to me that Herr Hitler simply lumps all of us who are Jewish together,” Papa had said. “I will give you the straight of it. You may preach a sermon on it, because it has not changed since Jesus walked in Jerusalem.”

  “Instruct me.” The priest had moved his knight across the chessboard and grinned at Papa’s sour expression.

  “Then be instructed.” Papa swept a hand over the chessmen. “Our trouble in facing the Nazis is that we do not have one great army with one belief as they do. We are not even right or left. We are not even right, left, center. We are a spectrum.” At that he began bumping his chessmen from the table. “We are Orthodox, Karaites, Ashkenazim, General Zionists, Poale-Zion right, Hasid, Mizrochi, Hashomer Hatsoir, Poale-Zion Left, and Communist.”

  All the little chess pieces lay in a pile, and Papa’s king and queen were quite exposed to all the forces on the opposite side.

  “I see,” said Father Kopecky. “Check and checkmate. And you know why the Christians have been so utterly smashed in Germany as well? We are Catholic, Lutheran, Episcopal, Methodist, Baptist, Mennonite . . .” All his chessmen came crashing down as well. “Everyone with a different idea. All forgetting who God is as we cram Him into doctrinal boxes and squabble over this and that. Not so very different, after all, are we, Aaron?”

  “Except that every Jew will die regardless of what he believes if the Nazis come here. If you Christians . . . renounce your faith, or simply alter it to conform . . . you will live.”

  “Not live, Aaron.
” Father Kopecky laid the two kings side by side as if they shared a mutual tomb. “Only survive. Breathe and walk in bodies that have lost their souls. And in the end, those who have betrayed their faith will be scraped off the shoe of God right along with the Nazis, I think.”

  Rachel had been called away from the rest of the discussion, but looking around her at all the different types gathered together under one roof, she recalled every word.

  Just then she spotted the ragged form of Peter Wallich as he leaned forward at the foot of the stage and talked in serious tones to the violinist. She knew what Peter was asking about. And from the expression on his face, she knew that he had not found what he was looking for. He still was lost, still without the precious name he needed to find his way home to his mother and sister. That is, if they were really here in Warsaw.

  She shuddered as she stared at his increasingly ragged clothes, his bushy, unkempt hair, and his face so thin that his bitter eyes were his most prominent feature.

  And then a terrible thought came to her, a thought that made her want to leave the concert. Peter Wallich is every Jew that was and will be. Lost and looking for home. This is what the enemy wishes to throw in the fire! Not an oak branch, but a bundle of twigs, an army to be defeated one lonely life at a time!

  She put her hand to her head and closed her eyes. Etta leaned close. “Are you all right? Do you have a headache?”

  Rachel nodded. “A big one.” She opened her eyes and Peter was gone, vanished from the place where she had seen him. She looked around but could not find him. He had simply blended into the crowd. Rich and poor, wise and foolish alike had simply absorbed Peter Wallich into themselves.

  Where is home? Rachel wondered as she looked at each twig in the vast bundle and pitied them and herself. Where is the home we are searching for?

  The spotlight flicked on behind the chairs. The audience applauded as the lights were turned off. The musicians began to play the Mozart Quintet K. 174, and for that moment all hearts listened as one heart, longing for the same home together. Once again Rachel closed her eyes and let her mind sing the words of the prophet Balaam: