Warsaw Requiem

  Lucy knew that she would be one of only a handful at the early morning Mass, but it did not matter. She usually preferred the anonymity of crowds, but this morning she half hoped that a priest might notice her, speak to her kindly. How good it would be if someone would offer her a kind word today!

  No one ever seemed to look her way anymore, except to wince at the sight of her ponderous waddle. Peter had teased her about it; said she had acquired the rolling gait of a drunken sailor and that now she fit nicely on Heilige Geist Strasse. She was secretly glad that he had identified her with a drunken sailor instead of with the painted women who lounged in open doorways and waited. The memory of his laugh gave her a twinge of loneliness. If only he could have stayed in Danzig a few weeks more! No use thinking about that now. He was right. He could not stay here. Not the way things are going.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached the steps of Heilige Geist Church. Her ankles and feet were more swollen than usual, and the heaviness of the baby seemed almost painful.

  Entering the high arched portal, she touched her fingers in the holy water and crossed herself as she stole a look at the bulletin board on the back wall of a sanctuary. Sometimes there were offers of employment posted there. Would it not be a miracle if some good Catholic family in England wanted a skilled parlor maid who knew all about carving? Not likely in a parish like Heilige Geist.

  There were new summer hours for the soup kitchen. An announcement about the departure of the refugee children’s steamship to England. Boxes of used children’s clothing were needed for them.

  Lucy scrutinized the mimeographed sheet enviously. Some said it was the last children’s transport. Departure time was seven o’clock Wednesday morning. How she wished she were a child again! To go to England!

  Her hand went instinctively to the baby. The pipes of the organ bellowed the first notes, announcing that Mass was about to begin. She took her seat in the last row of chairs in the small side chapel where morning Mass was usually read.

  Lucy stared at her clasped hands, then at the back of the empty seat in front of her. There were not more than a dozen worshipers scattered throughout the little chapel. She scanned her companions briefly. Nine old women and three old men. Their faces showed varying degrees of weathering, but all of them could have easily come from the same litter. The clothes were all ragged. The men all needed a shave; the women all carried the same ancient sorrow in their eyes. Lucy had seen these same people everywhere she had ever been, it seemed. Old. Tired. Waiting and preparing for death. They knelt on stiff knees. They prayed, silently beseeching, with lips that moved almost imperceptibly. Making the sign of the cross, they pulled themselves back into their seats and sat waiting as though the effort had exhausted them.

  Lucy looked back at her hands and then toward the little altar where unlit candles waited for a flame. She wondered if she was the only one who had come here this morning in search of life? Had the faces around her ever been young? Ever known joy? Ever looked forward to anything other than that which was beyond the grave?

  Her eyes darted to the crucifix again. To the dead Christ. Are you Lord of the living, as well? Or only of the walking dead?

  The thought came involuntarily, and she blushed at her blasphemy. Who was she to ask such a question? After all, perhaps she was as near to death as these old ones around her.

  She let her eyes linger on her hands again. Her nails were clipped and unpolished, her fingers so swollen that she could no longer wear the cheap wedding band she had purchased for the illusion of propriety. This was the first time she had ventured into church without that ring. She had fooled shopkeeper and priest alike with it, but today she did not bring her disguise with her. Somehow the absence of that ring made it seem as though she were seeing her own hands for the first time.

  This is me. Just as I am. Today I do not want to hide from You. If you are the God of the living, then I want to know You. I want to live. I want my baby to live. If You can hear me—-

  Her thoughts were interrupted as the priest and choir entered. Those in choir robes outnumbered the ragged worshipers.

  The congregation all stood slowly as the priest prayed at the foot of the altar and the hymn was sung. Lucy studied the profile of the young priest. He could not have been much older than she was. She had seen hundreds of faces like his standing rank on rank before crowds of cheering Germans. She had toyed and flirted with men much older than this priest. It was a disquieting thought. Did she dare make confession to one so young?

  She closed her eyes again as those around her read the Introit: “When the just cry out, the Lord hears them, and from all their distress He rescues them.”

  Could she trust even a priest, considering all she had fallen into? Would he urge her to give away the baby she had come to love? Or would he see her heart and help her?

  Her eyes opened, and she saw the priest looking intently at her, his gaze locked on her face. His eyes were agitated, anxious—as though he knew everything already.

  He paused, too long, before beginning the Kyrie. There was no mistaking the fact that her presence at the service signified something to him . . . something. He spoke to a young man in the choir who also glanced at Lucy and then left the chapel.

  “Lord have mercy,” he began. His voice trembled.

  “Lord have mercy,” the congregation repeated in their cracked voices.

  He looked away from her, then back again. “Christ have mercy.”

  Lucy could not make her lips move with the others. “Christ have mercy . . .” What had the priest said to the young man?

  Like an electric shock, a charge of fear coursed through Lucy. He knows something. Something, but not the truth. Not all the truth. Not my truth . . . Wolf?

  She looked over her shoulder, feeling as though Wolf might stride through the door any moment. She could not think.

  “Glory to God in the highest.” It was obvious now that the priest held her captive in the corner of his vision.

  “And on earth peace to men of good will.”

  The voices began a chanting echo in her brain.

  “Lamb of God, You take away the sins of the world . . . receive our prayer . . . .”

  Help me, Lucy breathed, unmoving. Lord! Mercy! He knows!

  The priest turned to face the altar, breaking the spell that held her motionless. She gathered her little handbag and stood, bumping a chair noisily as she inched toward the aisle. The head of the priest moved at the sound. Was he listening for her escape as well as watching?

  Her clumsy feet moved as if they belonged to someone besides Lucy. They slapped too loudly on the bare stone floor as she fled. Red and green votive candles became a blur of color as she ran through the main sanctuary. Then she heard footsteps behind her. “Wait!” a voice cried. “We will help you!”

  She turned at the door to see the priest with his hand raised at the entrance of the chapel.

  “Fraülein Strasburg!” he called.

  Lucy gasped and threw herself hard against the massive wooden door of the Heilige Geist Church. Sunlight exploded into her eyes as she ran blindly into the street.

  “Wait! Wait, Fraülein Strasburg . . .”

  The door boomed shut behind her, closing off the cries of the priest.

  The street was awake—mercifully stinking, noisy, teeming with people. Lucy ran into the shelter of the crowds as she silently begged that they would hide her from anyone who might have followed.

  ***

  Werner was a very handsome kitten. Everyone who saw him with Alfie in the fish market each morning stopped to scratch Werner’s chin and tell him what a pretty kitten he was. Fishmongers in oilskin aprons and tall rubber boots offered Werner fish heads and fresh guts on newspapers. Alfie took Werner to a different stall each day so that he would not wear out their hospitality. Mama had told him, “Fish and company stink in three days.”

  Alfie knew that the saying meant that he should not stay too long in the same place, and since fish
really started to stink in one day, he figured that he should not visit a fishmonger more than one day each week.

  He explained this all very patiently to Werner, who blinked at him with wise kitten eyes. It did not matter to Werner where he got his daily fish head as long as he got it. One fishmonger was as good as another, and everyone along the wharf thought he was a superior cat anyway. Every day someone commented on how much Werner was growing. They congratulated Alfie in raising such a smart and polite cat. Werner was careful to clean his paws after every meal, and Alfie did not tell the men that Werner thought of it all by himself.

  “Did you teach him such manners, Alfie?”

  “Well . . . Werner . . . he is a smart kitten. He don’t need . . . much teaching.”

  Alfie secretly thought that Werner was probably just licking the last of the fish flavor from his little toes. After all, Alfie always licked the jam from his fingers, so maybe that was how Werner learned it. All the same, it made Alfie feel good to put Werner on his shoulder and walk through the market. Werner was becoming handsomer every day. His black head and back were smooth and shiny. His white legs were always bright like Alfie’s socks when Lori did the washing. He carried his tail proud and high like a main mast, and he rode on Alfie’s shoulder like the captain on a bridge of a big ship. Alfie hoped very much that there would be a fish market like this in England.

  England! For days Alfie had been happy when he thought about England, but today he was not happy. He was going. Lori and Jamie and Mark were going, but England did not want Jacob. Jacob was going to Warsaw to work on a newspaper, unless . . . Alfie was not worried about smuggling Werner onto the ship. Werner was small and would fit in a box. But Jacob was too big for a box. Too big even for a steamer trunk. How could they smuggle someone as big as Jacob onto the boat? And then off the boat in England? Couldn’t Jacob work for the same newspaper in London instead of going all the way to Warsaw?

  This was a problem they had talked about all night. Lori had cried and said she would not go unless Jacob went with her. Jacob had sounded angry and told her she must not talk so foolishly, that he could take care of himself well enough. Then she had run into her room and slammed the door. Lori was not happy about leaving Jacob even though he had a job. The boys had all sat very quietly, staring at the floor for a long time.

  “Well?” Jamie had said while his sister made muffled sobbing noises in her room.

  “Well,” Jacob said, “we will call London tomorrow and tell them what’s up. Maybe they will have some ideas.”

  Last night had been a very sad night. But now it was tomorrow, and Jacob and Lori were calling London to talk to Lori’s family. Alfie did not want to go because he never got to talk on the telephone anyway, so here he was at Herr Frankenmuth’s Fresh Fish Daily, watching Werner finish off a herring on top of a newspaper with Hitler’s greasy picture on it. Herr Frankenmuth enjoyed putting fish heads on top of the Führer. He told Alfie so. Herr Frankenmuth was a thin, frail-looking man with stooped shoulders and a sour face. He always had a pipe hanging from his mouth. Alfie supposed it was because tobacco smelled better than Fresh Fish Daily. Anyway, Herr Frankenmuth was a nice man who probably did not smile because his pipe might fall out if he did.

  Today he noticed that Alfie was not cheerful. He wiped his hands on his fishy apron and looked at Werner. “What’s the trouble today, Alfie?” he asked, sucking on his unlit pipe. “You have not smiled, even though today’s front page shows Hitler with herring eyeballs and a fin for a mustache, eh? I arranged Werner’s plate special today.”

  Alfie felt badly that he had not laughed at Herr Frankenmuth’s cleverness. The fishmonger had gone to a lot of effort, after all. “Hitler looks better like that,” Alfie said, but still he could not smile. “We are all going to England, except . . . except for Jacob. He cannot go. Lori cried a lot last night because I think she loves Jacob. Jacob is going to Warsaw to work for Lori’s . . . well, I can’t remember all of it. But Jacob is not going with us. He does not seem too sad because he likes newspapers and radios. But the rest of us are sad all the time.” It was a long story.

  Herr Frankenmuth stared angrily at Hitler’s fish eyes. He frowned at the news and shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. He stared at the trays of ice where the fish were laid out side by side; then he looked off beyond the gray canvas awning to where the smokestacks of the big freighters poked up over the warehouses.

  “Everyday somebody gets left behind,” he mumbled. Then he asked, “This friend of yours, Jacob. A big boy, is he?”

  “Big.”

  “Big as you?” His eyes measured Alfie’s five-foot-nine-inch frame as if he were measuring a fish.

  “Bigger. Maybe. Yes. I think bigger.”

  Herr Frankenmuth frowned and squinted his eyes. “When are you all leaving?”

  Alfie could not think of the day, but it was soon. “On the children’s ship.”

  Herr Frankenmuth nodded. He knew when that was. He leaned down to scratch Werner’s chin. “Are you taking Werner?”

  Alfie nodded and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one could overhear him. “In a box . . . Jacob made it. With a . . . a . . .” He could not remember the word.

  “False bottom?” Herr Frankenmuth finished for him.

  Yes. That was the word Alfie forgot. “False.”

  “Ah, good. A nice fellow, this friend of yours. Tell him, will you, if he needs anything, I could use a big strong lad around here to help out. Will you tell him that, Alfie?”

  “Yes, I will.” Alfie pointed to the newspaper. “Maybe you will cheer . . . cheer him up. If he is not too sad.”

  Herr Frankenmuth did not have time to say anything else because two women came under the awning to buy their supper. Alfie hoped he could come back to say good-bye before the children’s ship left. He liked Her Frankenmuth and wanted to show Lori what Hitler looked like with fish eyeballs on this face.

  He picked up Werner and put him on his shoulder. Herr Frankenmuth nodded good-bye, and Alfie turned back into the crowded alleyway of the market.

  Faraway he heard the loud hooting of a ship horn. It sounded like saying good-bye. It remained Alfie that his own papa had left on a ship and never came home again. When they left Danzig, would they ever see Jacob again? The thought troubled him, and he did not smile at his waterfront friends when they called to him.

  He was not watching where he was going. Mama always told him to pay attention to where he was going so he would not get lost. But today he was not doing that. He looked at the stacks and booms of the freight boats as he walked along, and then he smashed head-on into a lady who was running down the street.

  Werner was knocked off balance and dug his claws through Alfie’s shirt. The woman stumbled and managed to brace herself on the side of a market stall. She was young and had a pretty face and looked like the cat Joseph just before Joseph had kittens. Alfie could tell she was going to have a baby. He tried to say how sorry he was for smashing into her, but she never even looked at him. She glanced back the way she had come and then pushed past Alfie, as if she was running from something.

  “Sorry,” he called after her. She did not hear him. He stood and watched her because she did not act like everyone else in the fish market. She did not walk slowly through the stalls or stare at the trays of fish. She pushed and tumbled and bumped into a lot of other people besides Alfie.

  Alfie looked all around to see who would be mean enough to chase after a woman so big from a baby? He could not see anyone running after her, so he readjusted Werner on his shoulder and walked back through the market the way he had come.

  ***

  Lucy’s lungs felt seared by the time she stumbled up the stairs to her flat. She slammed the door and locked it, then leaned, panting, against it. Gazing wildly around the room, she tried to think what she must do. Where could she go?

  Warsaw! Peter! “You have a friend . . . .”

  Expecting to hear the crash of boots ascending t
he steps, Lucy pulled her tattered valise from beneath the bed and began jamming her clothing into it. Forgetting how she had placed all the baby things neatly in a row and rearranged them hour after hour, she crammed them into the large basket she had purchased for the little one to sleep in and be carried in.

  Bottles. Milk. Diapers. Pins. Talcum powder. Alcohol . . . She folded the satin gown with the cap and booties, then wrapped the bundle in thin paper and tucked the package beneath the blanket on the bottom of the basket.

  At that moment, when panic and dread ruled every thought, the first contraction wrapped iron fingers around her.

  “Not now!” she cried. “Oh please, God! Not . . .” A warm liquid release of pressure told her that her water had broken. Looking at the crucifix over her bed, she groaned at this, the ultimate betrayal.

  No use. No use. Where could she run to now? How could she hide?

  The contraction slowly eased. She straightened and stood staring at her bed. Mechanically she once again removed what she would need from the baby’s basket. Without joy, without anticipation, she laid those things out in a neat row as they had been.

  There was time enough to prepare the bed and undress before the next contraction came. And then there was time enough to brew a cup of tea and sit waiting by the window.

  Minutes of hopelessness ticked into hours, and still no one came to pound against the thin door. Once again Lucy dared to hope. Perhaps no one had seen her. Perhaps she had eluded the priest. Perhaps he had not even attempted to follow her.

  The pains came closer and stronger, driving every other thought from her mind at last. She lay down and curled into a ball, facing the last light of day that seeped through the window. She was alone. Glad she was alone, and yet, wishing for her mother. Now it seemed there was no relief from the strength of the pain. She did not cry out but felt certain that if anyone came for her in the morning they would find her dead.

  Lord, have mercy! Christ . . . have mercy!

  17