Death in Twilight (28 page)

Aaron laughed. At first it was a rough sound, almost a grunt. But it swelled and turned into something nearly recognizable for what it was. Tadeusz finally succeeded in passing over the flask and joined Aaron with a chuckle.

The feeling was nothing like the near hysteria that had gripped him just a short while before, and though it didn’t last long, the laughter was almost as welcome to Aaron as the food. The only laughter heard at Kronberg was the product of someone else’s sorrow.

In less than five minutes, the truck pulled off the road at an unmarked gap in a fence. The path it proceeded down was made of mud, ice and holes. If the truck had jumped and rolled on the paved road, it became a ship caught in a typhoon on this trail.

They hadn’t traveled far when Aaron made out a farmhouse that looked likely to fall down onto its foundation in the next storm. The roof was made of thatch and hung down far over the eaves. The house itself was stucco and timber with what appeared to be undressed stone adding support in key places. Smoke rose from the chimney. Aaron fell in love.

Tadeusz pulled the truck to a stop with a heavy application of the brakes. He then turned off the engine, which came as a relief to all involved.

“Come,” Tadeusz said, and nothing else. Aaron heard it as a warm invitation.

Inside, the house was as homely as on the outside. There was nothing beautiful to be seen, but the rough wood furniture was well made, cushions and hand-knitted or crocheted blankets were bright and promised warmth and comfort. Aaron guessed that nothing in the house had ever seen the inside of a store. Perhaps a smithy for the pots, pans and irons for the fire. Homely. Home.

“This is my wife, Lucja.”

Aaron hadn’t even noticed there was another person in the room. Like her husband, she appeared to be in her late fifties or perhaps early sixties, with few teeth — she was smiling — but she differed from him in other respects. She was short and as fat as a person could during a war with the Germans. A kerchief covered her hair, but what he could see beneath it shone silver. She also had glasses. The overall effect was of seeing one’s mother, whoever one’s mother might happen to be.

“Be welcome,” she said.

“Thank you,” Aaron managed. He felt unsteady on his feet. Too much had changed too quickly: a shift from death to life in less than an hour. The heat suddenly became intolerable and Aaron began to sway.

He had no memory at all of hitting the floor.

For an uncountable amount of time, Aaron woke only in nightmares. Terror of what had already happened to him plagued his dreams. Horror redounded from what he had done. He swam in a lake of fire and ice, looking for a foothold, a handhold and drowning instead.

Later, moments of lucidity began to work their way into the routine. He found his blankets soaked. He found straw beneath him. He found himself naked and was ashamed.

He ate borscht with a touch of sour cream. He drank water. He slept again, if that was the right word for it, and whenever he woke the face he saw was Lucja’s — his mother, everyone’s mother. He never saw Tadeusz, but was in no position to wonder about his absence or even why the couple was sheltering and nursing him.

Another wave of oblivion washed over him and this time it brought no dreams.

“Time to wake.”

An insistent hand shook Aaron’s shoulder and the rest of his body shook with it.

“Wake up!”

Aaron’s eyelids lifted a crack.

“I said, wake up!”

There was enough urgency in Tadeusz’s voice to penetrate Aaron’s muddled skull. He tried to sit up, and was able to move himself a little. His eyes, though, were now fully open.

“Your fever is broken, and you can’t stay in my house forever. And if you’re going to leave, you’ll need to get some of your strength back.”

Aaron nodded and the man handed over another bowl of borscht and more brown bread to sop it up with. It was as delicious as anything Aaron had ever tasted.

“I’ve gone through your papers.”

Aaron nodded again, taking a break from sipping directly from the bowl.

“They say your name is Stefan Kaczynski.”

The way the man said it gave Aaron grave doubts that he believed it.

“When I picked you up on the road, you told me your name was Aaron. That’s a Jewish name. The papers say you’re not Jewish.”

The bowl was now in Aaron’s lap, with the bread sitting in the middle of it, like a shark fin sticking out of the ocean. Aaron wasn’t feeling particularly clever and Tadeusz didn’t look to be in the mood for awkward lies. His fate was already in this man’s hands.

“Yes, those weren’t my papers, originally,” Aaron said, his voice creaky from disuse.

Tadeusz looked at him, waiting for more.

“My name is Aaron Kaminski. I am a Jew.”

The words were out. He wanted them back, but there they were.

The other man stared at Aaron for a few seconds more, but seemed satisfied.

“Good. We’ve always had Jews in our village and they never seemed any different to me than anyone else. And who’s Kaczynski? You look quite a bit like him.”

“Someone I knew in the labor camp. He was being freed soon.”

“And how did you end up with his papers?”

“He died, so I pretended to be him,” Aaron said.

Tadeusz was silent again. There was something about the way the words were said that troubled him. He sat for a minute, deciding whether to let it go.

“Right,” he said, finally. It could have meant anything.

Conditions in the labor camps weren’t a secret, or at least not inside Poland. Many Poles had been worked to death, and others who escaped had either told their story or their bodies had borne testimony to what the camps were like.

Tadeusz had lived through times of great hardship, even famine, but no one he had ever known had looked as Aaron did now. Seeing the Jewish man naked had been close to an anatomy lesson. Tadeusz would never forget it.

He found he was impressed by Aaron’s ability to survive, even if it had been by a thread. The farmer decided that how Aaron had managed it was his own business.

“And no one’s looking for you?”

“There’s no reason they would be.”

Tadeusz decided to take that at face value, too.

Aaron’s face screwed up in a question. Tadeusz nodded encouragement.

“Why did you save me?” he asked.

“I’d seen you and the others the Germans dumped in town. I saw you begging, but I didn’t do anything.” He paused. “When I caught a glimpse of you by the side of the road, I was ashamed.

“My wife and I have stayed here, trying to keep away from the war, but it comes to us. A German patrol. A summons into town. Forms and papers. Most of our crop was taken to feed the damn Nazis.”

His eyes lit and his voice turned fierce.

“But some we hid. They didn’t get everything and they won’t!

“We’ve been able to help some of our own people. Not much. But people who are resisting, they know they can find a place to stay here, for a day, two. Not longer, though. Every day is more risk. A patrol comes by, word gets out. We can hide someone, but not if the Germans are searching too closely.

“You’ve been here for four days,” Tadeusz said. “I’m sorry, but this is pushing our luck. I will have to ask you to leave tonight.”

He sounded regretful, but Aaron heard there was no room for negotiation.

“I understand. And thank you,” Aaron said, bowing his head. “Four days!”

“Lucja didn’t think you were going to make it, frankly. Figured we’d have to bury you, which isn’t easy with the ground so cold.”

Aaron nodded, having become something of an expert in digging graves.

“Since you don’t seem like you’d be able to walk far on your own, I’ll take you where you want to go, if it’s close. Or maybe I can find someone who can take you a little further.”

“Where are we?”

“A little town called Lublin is the closest.”

“Is it anywhere near Miasto?”

“Actually, it’s not far. There are patrols everywhere, though, and I’m not willing to bet on your paperwork. If that’s where you want to go, you’ll have to take that risk yourself. I’ll drive you to the outskirts. From there, you’re on your own.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask for more than that,” Aaron said. “There are no words to thank you, thank your wife … ”

He began to cry.

The farmer didn’t want to see it. He turned away.

“You have a couple of hours before I’m ready to leave. My wife will bring you more food, and we’ll give you some to take with you,” he said over his shoulder and left.

Aaron was able to collect himself in a minute and he began to take stock of his situation. Cautiously, he reached down under his blankets, afraid of what he might not find.

Thank God! Clothing!

The room was very small and there was no window. The floor was dirt. His comfortable pallet was placed directly on it. The room was exceptionally quiet. He could hear his own breathing, which seemed a little loud. Perhaps the room was underground?

A familiar flash of hunger struck Aaron, but joy filled him as he realized he could actually do something about it. He finished the soup and bread in front of him. He put the bowl aside and decided to try to stand.

It was a process.

Standing is always a process. It involves many different muscles working together in ways specified by God and nature. But this time nothing wanted to cooperate. Aaron had to convince each fiber to go along with the overall plan. He kept at it and soon he was upright, if hanging on to a wall.

He couldn’t be sure if he’d been sick for the last four days or just exhausted of all of his resources. He listened to his body now and felt a surprising strength below the surface.

Maybe not so surprising, he reflected. For the first time in months he’d slept undisturbed in a warm place for more than just a few hours. Lucja — that was what Tadeusz had called his wife? — must have turned him over and fed him, even in his delirium.

He stood, stood straighter, took his hand off the wall and took a few steps. Yes, he could do it. His gait was a little uncertain, but pacing seemed to help. He made the trip from one side of the room to the other many times before the door opened without a knock.

It was Lucja, carrying another plate. She seemed surprised to see him out of bed, but she quickly smiled.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes. Thanks only to you and your husband,” Aaron said with such warmth that she blushed.

“I’m very glad to do it,” she said. “We’re glad to be able to do it.”

“Well, thank you.”

He wasn’t going to start crying again.

“Here, why don’t you come up to the table?” Lucja asked.

“I’d enjoy that. Thank you.”

He’d been right that his room was underground. It was a clean space that had been carved out of a root cellar. A brief flight of stairs led to the main room of the house above. A carpet waited to be rolled back over the opening after the floorboards had been replaced. It wouldn’t take much of a search for the hideaway to be found, but Aaron guessed the disguise would work well enough to fool more casual visitors.

He sat down on the bench that ran alongside the table and Lucja placed the plate she’d been carrying down in front of him. That gave him his first glance of what was on it: Meat.

Meat had been rare, even for smugglers, in the ghetto. What little was available came in cans or had been carved off the carcass of a starved horse or donkey. The random bits of fat or gristle that were occasionally found in bowls of soup could hardly be said to count.

Unfortunately, Aaron recognized, the piece of meat in front of him was ham.

He shook his head against the habit of a lifetime.

I’ve done murder to survive. Ham isn’t likely to be what condemns me
, he thought.

Still, he hesitated. He was not religious. He had chosen to live as a gentile among the gentiles, against the wishes of his family and to the disgust of some in his community. He had married a woman without a drop of Jewish blood … but this he had not done. He had never chosen to eat pork of any kind, however tempting the aroma had been when he’d come across it. Not bacon, nor ham, nor a roast. It was a line he had never willfully crossed, though God alone knew what had been in some of the cans of German military rations.