Warsaw Requiem

  Sunlight leaked in through the slats of the shutters. Particles of dust stirred by his presence swirled in the shafts of light. Orde considered opening the windows to let the breeze in, but then he was seized by the thought that somewhere within this atmosphere was the breath of Katie.

  He moaned and rested his head in his hands. What was he doing? And why was he making himself suffer like this? Why had he not mourned like a normal man instead of waiting until years later to walk in and be surprised by his own grief?

  At that moment something else startled him. There was a soft rapping on the door and then the strident buzz of the doorbell.

  A mistake, Orde thought. Wrong address. Or perhaps a salesman. Who knows I am here? Worse yet, who cares that I am here?

  In spite of that, the bell continued to harass him. He resented this interruption to his self-pity. Jerking open the door, he glared down on the interloper, who did not remove his finger from the button.

  The handsome, sun-tanned face of Moshe Sachar grinned up at him. “Captain Orde!” Moshe exclaimed. “Glad to see you’re really here! I was afraid I may have arrived too late!”

  Orde had known that Moshe was about to take his studies at Oxford, but he had not expected to see him here in London. Maybe he had not expected to ever see the bright young Zionist again. He had not thought of him being anywhere at all besides Hanita, marching along with the other members of the Special Night Squad. Now he sat on the newly uncovered sofa.

  Over tea, which Orde brewed after turning on the water and washing the kettle and the cups, the two men shared mutual stories about their tips. Orde was grateful for the distraction. They talked together like old friends, on a very different plane than that of commander and ordinary soldier.

  Only after half an hour of small talk did Moshe finally come to the point of the visit.

  “We heard you have accepted the position with TENS as Warsaw correspondent.”

  We? We heard? Orde knew who WE was, but he could not fathom that anyone of authority had sent a lad like Moshe to discuss anything important.

  “How did you hear that?”

  “Come on now, Captain—such a question, when you have so helped us to enlarge our understanding of the way the world operates.” Moshe shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Yes. I’m going to Poland. Hardly significant.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Moshe grinned, flashing the whiteness of his teeth in the gloomy room. “So. The British think with this last shipment of kids to England that we will give up?” He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “You know what I am about to say. You know what is coming to Poland—to the world. You have trained our young men after they arrive in Palestine. Can you not train them before they get there? Work with them at the Zionist youth camps near Warsaw. Pick the most able, and then . . .” His hand glided through the air like a bird. “Out the back door. Through Hungary to the seacoast of Yugoslavia.”

  Orde raised his eyebrows and inhaled deeply. “I have accepted a job. A time-consuming—”

  “It need not interfere. In fact, it will be an excellent cover for you.” Moshe shrugged. “Just train them. Pick a few at a time and send them on their way. The only difference is that they will know your military manual by heart before they ever set foot in Palestine, nu? Economy of resources, I call it. They get off the boat and they are ready to go to work. You’ve done the same job on the front end that you were doing on the back, and where are the Arabs to stop you? Who is going to call the English government and complain? It seems perfectly logical to us. We are not fools, Captain Orde. A Jew knows a good thing when he sees it. Everyone who has read your manual has commented—”

  Orde nodded. He was flattered but still strangely unmoved by the idea. It was like raising seedlings in a nursery instead of harvesting the crops. Still, it was something. “Yes. It is an excellent book.” There was no false modesty about Samuel Orde. “But the Polish government might have something to say—”

  “Nonsense! Warsaw is shaking in its boots. You think they will mind if an English Army officer trains a group of schoolboys in survival techniques?”

  “If there is time for training even one group before the world explodes, I will be surprised,” Orde added. “But how many can we take out?”

  “There is talk of hiring a freighter in Ragusa. As many as a thousand children will be taken out if that comes through. Otherwise, we still have a number of fishing trawlers. Less risky, of course, but that cuts the number to three hundred.”

  Orde bit his lip as he considered the fate of the young man who had just been assigned to work with him in Warsaw. Jacob Kalner. Here was a way, if all else failed. And there was the Lubetkin family. “You are thinking only of young males with military potential?”

  Moshe nodded. His face clouded slightly as he considered what that meant: making choices. “Possibly a few able girls might be included. But they will be expected to march as far and fight as hard as the boys. That will have to be your ultimate selection.”

  No families. No small children. Few girls. Orde frowned. He nodded. He could hold classes in the Warsaw community centers. Bill it as Instruction in Desert Survival.

  Moshe left the names and numbers of Zionist activists in Poland with Orde. He made only the promise that he would do what he could do in what he believed was an extremely short time. That satisfied Moshe Sachar, who pumped his hand and called him Hayedid, the Friend. Then he saluted and called Orde “Captain” one more time.

  ***

  Anna straightened the tie of Theo’s uniform and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You do not look like a grandfather.” She smiled.

  “Let’s keep it at that.” He rubbed the ache in his leg. “Don’t ask me if I feel like one today, eh?”

  Her eyes became solemn with understanding. Today a letter from Wilhelm and Dieter had arrived with the mail from America. Like their father, they had thrown themselves back into training as aviators . . . just in case the worst should come.

  An ominous reminder that Theo had served in a war on Germany’s behalf only twenty years before, the boys had this news for him:

  We located the American who saved your life at Belleau. He was at the address you gave us. But the most amazing thing, Father, is that his son, who is just nineteen, is also training as an aviator! If war breaks out and America remains neutral, then he plans to enlist in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He is a splendid fellow. A fine pilot. Perhaps we, the sons of former enemies, will soon fight together on the same side.

  Such enthusiasm and eagerness in those words made Theo wince. “It takes twenty years to raise a son, and a moment of war to kill him.” He embraced Anna. “The world has a way of coming around again, doesn’t it, Anna? Was I spared twenty years ago so my sons could be born to fight? That wasn’t the dream. No. When I lay in that ditch and saw the faces of the Americans, they were men like me. I knew they wanted the same for their sons as I wished for mine. Peace.”

  Anna silently tucked the letter from Wilhelm and Dieter into the pocket of his tunic. “You should write your American friend. Perhaps it is important that two old enemies speak to one another about their sons. Yes. That is a good idea, Theo. Perhaps he feels as you do.”

  “It makes no difference how we feel now, Anna. It seems that we have come around to Belleau Wood once again.”

  18

  In the Fullness of Time

  Rachel pushed the black pram slowly beneath the shade trees of the square. The perfect hands of little Yacov, her Yani, reached up as blackbirds flew overhead. It was so good to have the boys all home again. Mama had been right—their happy laughter put a spark back in Papa’s eyes.

  Papa gathered them every day around his bed for lessons in the Torah. He instructed them and helped them with their Torah school studies. He piloted the minds and hearts of the household from his pillowed helm. Everything seemed almost normal. Very much better than it had before.

  Baby Yani squealed with happiness at the bird
s that sat on the leafy branches of the linden trees. Like the birds, the baby had no awareness of anything unpleasant beyond the confines of the square.

  Three blocks up Niska Street, the steady throbbing of diesel engines hummed as a convoy of Polish Legion vehicles moved equipment into place around the Umschlagplatz. There were anti-aircraft guns and machine guns already mounted on the roof of the train shed, Rachel knew. This was just one more reminder that all was not perfect in the world.

  The second reminder approached Rachel from across the street. Peter Wallich was grinning like a mannequin in a shop window. His clothes flapped on his body. The sole of his right shoe flapped as he shambled toward her.

  She tried to wheel the carriage around and go the other way. Too late!

  “Rachel!” he called. “Rachel Lubetkin! Wait!”

  Heads turned. They looked at her and then at the apparition that bumped to her side. Peter gaped down into the pram. He grinned at the baby and made baby noises in greeting.

  “My brother Yani. Yacov. But I call him Yani,” Rachel said coolly. She did not want Peter to pick up the baby, but he leaned down to scoop Yacov into his bony long arms anyway. The contrast between the healthy plumpness of Yacov and the lean, hungry-looking form of Peter was too much like seeing a skeleton caress her beloved brother. “Are you eating anything at all?” she blurted out.

  His smile dimmed a bit.”I try. Sometimes it is difficult.”

  “The food at the kitchen is good,” she reprimanded.

  His sad eyes looked into hers. “Not like my mother’s cooking, though.”

  She was ashamed of herself for dodging this lonely young man. He was telling her that he could not eat because he missed his mother. Understandable. Terrible. Tragic. “You will find her,” she said more gently.

  “Yes.” He bounced Yacov, who laughed out loud. Then Peter laughed. “This is such a good age for babies, don’t you think? I remember when my brother Willie was this age. I bounced him around so much that soon he wanted nothing but to be bounced.” Again the sadness flicked through his eyes. “He is in America now. I was lucky enough to get him on one of the children’s ships. He was placed with a family in America, last I heard. The British social worker wrote to tell me.” A deeper sadness shadowed his face. “They thought he would get along better if all the ties were broken. He is young, they said. He will forget about me. It is better for him if he forgets, I suppose.” Peter bounced Yacov one more time and then put him back into the carriage as if he were breakable, fragile porcelain, as if there were a sign on the pram that said: OFF LIMITS TO PETER WALLICH!

  “Oh, Peter,” Rachel said, feeling even more ashamed. “You can hold Yacov anytime you wish.”

  He shrugged. This was just a baby, after all. It was not his brother Willie who had so loved being bounced. “Well. Never mind.” He drew a breath and exhaled loneliness. “I wanted to tell you that I came up with a brilliant idea!”

  Now Rachel tried extra hard to make up for her coolness. “Papa said you are bright.”

  “Yes, well, not too bright or I would have thought of it before now.” Peter grinned. “I have a friend in Danzig, you know.”

  Yes. Peter had told her about the pregnant former SS woman. A shocking story. It had made Rachel blush, even though she admired the woman for helping Peter get away. “Well?”

  “I left the address with her.”

  “You mean the address?” This was news!

  “Yes. Of course. So I wrote her a letter in Danzig, asking her to forward a copy to me at the soup kitchen box number.” He snapped his fingers. “I only have to hang on a while. And then I will have it!”

  She was genuinely happy for Peter. This tiny fragment of good fortune did a lot to wash away the feeling that Peter Wallich was the most unlucky person in the world. “Imagine! Solved so easily!”

  “Yes.” He drew himself up straight and smiled a crooked happy smile. Not bitter. Not a clenched-teeth smile like Rachel had seen before on his face. Here was hope.

  “Mazel tov,” she said.

  “Thank you. Tell your father, will you?” With that he waved to another ragged young man across the square and simply left.

  Rachel was glad that he had told her his news. He was now telling the other fellow. He would doubtless tell everyone who would listen that his problem was about to be solved.

  She watched him a moment. The sun gleamed dully on his hair. She wished that he would eat better and take another bath soon. In spite of that, she was happy for him as she returned to tell Papa his news.

  ***

  Werner crouched and crept along the edge of the bed, keeping a hunter’s eyes on his shadow on the floor. Alfie watched the kitten pounce from bet to shadow and wrestle with the air for a moment. Usually Werner made Alfie smile when he played this way, but tonight Alfie could not smile. He wished that Werner would quit trying to make him feel happy. No one was happy tonight.

  One suitcase was laid out for each of them—everyone but Jacob. He would travel on to Warsaw like Lori’s relative Mr. Murphy told him. Once in Warsaw, Jacob would have a job with the Trump European News Service until some way could be found to get him to England too.

  Jacob was too cheerful. Just like Werner. He opened Alfie’s valise to show him once again the false bottom where Werner would fit. Jacob had designed it and made it special himself. Somehow even that made Alfie feel badly. After all, if they were going to sneak Werner-kitten onto the ship, why could they not find some way to get Jacob on board as well?

  Lori was not talking. She had hardly said anything since that terrible day in the British Consulate. Every day her eyes seemed sadder. Alfie saw the way she gazed at Jacob when Jacob was not looking. Alfie knew this was what it meant to love someone so much that it hurt. Alfie knew about such things, even though no one thought he knew.

  “Bring Werner here,” Jacob ordered brightly. “Let’s test it out. See if it works.”

  Alfie reached for Werner, who reared up on his hind legs and batted Alfie’s fingers playfully.

  “Not now,” Alfie said in an unhappy voice. “I don’t want to play no more, Werner.” The cat went limp and docile in his big hand, as though Werner finally understood that nobody felt like playing.

  He meowed and Alfie put him in the bottom of the valise. Jacob fit the false bottom over the space. Werner meowed more unhappily. Now he was feeling badly too.

  “He’ll have to be quiet.” Jacob frowned as the bag meowed on.

  “Shhhh.” Alfie patted the valise. “Don’t talk, Werner.”

  But Werner did talk. His faint meow became a distinct howl, an alley-cat dirge, shrieking from the otherwise ordinary-looking piece of luggage.

  “You think they’ll notice?” Mark scoffed, glancing up from the silent game of cards he had played all evening with Jamie.

  “They’ll notice,” Lori said, no mirth in her voice.

  Jacob straightened his back but continued to stare down at the racket. “We’ll have to do something before you take him to the boat. They’ll notice, and then Werner will end up here in Danzig with me!”

  That was not a good thing to say. Everyone looked up at Jacob and stared at him. No one said anything until he nudged the suitcase with his toe.

  “Hush up, Werner,” Jacob instructed, but still the kitten did not hush. It was plain Werner did not take to this terrible imprisonment. He wanted out, and he would tell everyone in Danzig that he wanted out!

  “I know,” said Lori quietly. “I know what we can do!” For just a moment, she looked almost happy again. She glanced at Jamie, who was studying his cards. “Remember the Wiedenbeck’s cat?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The way it wailed all night beneath Papa and Mama’s window?”

  Jamie smiled, but he did not look away from his cards. “Good idea.”

  “What about it?” Jacob asked, grateful for this minor diversion from the heaviness in the apartment.

  “Papa started feeding him beer every night in a sauce
r on the back step.”

  “And?”

  “He got drunk. The cat, I mean. Every night he drank as much beer as his belly could hold, and then he would stagger away home. Frau Wiedenbeck talked about her drunken cat to Mama. She could not understand who would be so terrible to give a cat beer. She was sure it was beer, because the cat smelled like a brewery and—”

  “But did it get quiet?” Jacob asked, eyeing the moaning luggage.

  “The perfect drunk, that cat was. Went home and curled up fast asleep every night. For a while it came to our house to wait for its pint, but then it quit coming. Mama said that Frau Wiedenbeck was feeding it beer to keep it home. A very good solution.”

  “Brilliant,” Jacob said to her. “A great idea, Lori.”

  As soon as Jacob said her name, Lori’s smile went away. Alfie could see that her eyes were bright and shining with tears even though she went out of the room to hide them. She cried whenever Jacob said her name. Alfie felt bad. He wished they could have thought about making Werner drunk without having to say Lori’s name.

  “Um . . . good. Good idea.” Alfie did not say Lori. “Jacob can feed Werner beer like your papa.”

  From Lori’s room, a small sob leaked out. Then a bigger one. Werner yowled in the case, and Lori cried in her room. It was a terrible night—the worst night they ever had since they came to Danzig.

  Alfie supposed it was more fitting for Werner to be unhappy like everyone else. For a long time he did not take him out of his little secret case. He let Werner cry so no one would hear Lori as much.

  ***

  Music from the cabaret drifted through the ghostly streets of Heilige Geist district. Drunken sailors had gathered the prostitutes under their arms and staggered off to flea-bitten hotel rooms. Only a stubborn few remained in the cabaret now. Those women who were too old or homely to be chosen huddled at tables with men too broke or drunk to care. The barkeeper polished the last of the chipped glasses while the accordion player leaned against his groaning instrument and sipped cheap wine. The janitor up-ended chairs and mopped sour-smelling beer from beneath empty tables. It was like this every night. The Geist Cabaret would not lock its doors as long as there was even one customer buying drinks. It was the last outpost of the hopeless, a purgatory of desperation for men and women with nowhere else to go.