The Train to Warsaw (2 page)

When I came to London at the end of the war, said Lilka, I was exhausted. I could barely move my arms and legs. I found myself among people who were incomprehensible. I spoke good English. And yet I understood nothing. Neither the words, nor the gestures, nor the expressions. Were these pale colorless people happy or sad, angry or ecstatic? Who could tell? I was at sea, lost among these unexpressive people. On that gray island it was all the same.

I wanted to shake them. Yes madam, no madam, they said smilingly, and my heart sank at their sweet, meaningless manners. Where have I come to? I wondered. And at night I dreamed of places where people laughed and cried, shook their fists, threw up their hands, and moaned with pleasure. It was all as bland as the bland white fish they ate in every pub and tavern. I was in exile from all the colors and sounds of life as I knew it. How would I live? Her chest rose and fell. He stared at her out of dark eyes. Are you telling me?

He ground out his cigarette. Once upon a time, I too thought I would go back. But I soon understood how absurd my longing was. Do you not know, he said, that the sages counsel us not to look back over an abyss we have crossed. Do you remember Lot's wife who looked back? The poor woman was turned to salt. Fit only for deer to lick.

Lilka went into her purse and took out a handful of individually wrapped chocolates. She held them out to him. Have a sweet, she said. He leaned forward to take one and she ruffled his hair. You know I don't like to be stroked, he said sharply. I'm not a dog.

There was a knock at the door to the compartment and they stiffened. A small hunched man in a loose-fitting porter's uniform slid open the door. His face was crumpled, pale strands of hair crossed his scalp.
Meine Damen und Herren,
he said. He pointed at his small cart with pastries resting on white paper doilies. The pastries looked hard and inedible. Lilka leaned forward. That one, she said in German. The chocolate one. She smiled happily. And hot chocolate. He laid the pastry on a plate and set a fork alongside. The chocolate icing on the éclair looked dusty.

I call this train the Siberia Express, the man said, rearranging the pastries. They barely heat it. And then they expect me to wear this flimsy uniform. No coat, no scarf. He shook his head. When I get home I'm frozen like an ice cube. He poured out the hot chocolate. This used to be my favorite, he remarked. Now it's brandy. And you, sir? I want a coffee and an almond pastry, said Jascha in English. Where are you from, sir? asked the man. Jascha reached in his pocket and brought out his wallet. How much? he asked curtly. The man gave him the figure in English. Now he seemed in a hurry to leave, and thanking them, he rapidly shut the door.

What was the point of that? she asked him. He was a harmless creature. Why do you behave like that? I cannot stand, he said, to hear that Berlin accent. And I'm tired of people asking me where I'm from. But they always do, she said. Wherever we go. She sipped at the hot chocolate. It's lukewarm. She took a bite of the pastry. And this is hard as rock. What did you expect? he asked.

The snowy fields lay in shadow, a pale sliver of moon rose over the snow. I'm starving, he said. She brushed her hair. I'm going to order venison. And wash it down with Polish vodka. My sweetheart, this is not the Hotel Bristol, he informed her. But I will buy you a venison dinner in Warsaw. Now that I can, he added.

Do you suppose the dining car is open? she asked. She pulled another chocolate from her purse. I'm ravenous, she whispered. What shall we eat? What shall we eat? he replied. We'll have cabbage and pierogi, latkes and goose liver, roasted potatoes and duck dripping with fat and drowning in sour cherry sauce. We'll mop it all up with black bread and finish off with Black Forest cake. What won't we have? She smiled. How delicious. Jascha, she said happily, we'll have a banquet. A banquet in the ruins, he replied. Jascha! No darling, he said, just a banquet.

They put on their fur hats and re-buttoned their coats. He put his hand beneath her arm. Come my sweetheart, let me escort you. Now even Jews can dine in first class dining cars.

It happened that when the leaves on the trees turned red and gold, Jascha received a letter from Poland. It lay on the hall table in their house in London, a cream colored envelope with a Polish stamp. Jascha looked at it. What is this? he asked. News from Poland after forty years? The news can only be bad. And he left it lying there. Open it, Lilka had said. No, darling, he replied, better not. She reached for the envelope. He put a warning hand on her wrist. Let me, she said softly. What's the harm?

She pulled out a cream colored card. It's an invitation, she informed him.

An invitation? he asked. Do they miss their Jews? Are they inviting us back after all these years? Come back, dear Jews? And in writing! She read from the stiff card written in a Polish hand.

To Mr. Jascha Kroll: We invite you, our esteemed Polish writer, to honor us with a reading of your work at Writers' House in Warsaw on December 9th. We shall be happy to welcome you back and look forward to the honor of having you with us at Writers' House. With cocktails and a light buffet to follow.

Jascha went to the freezer and took out a bottle of vodka. Ha, he said, slamming the door. First they want me dead. Now I'm a native son, an “esteemed Polish writer.” Who will come to this reading, I wonder? He poured out the vodka into two shot glasses. Three spinster schoolteachers, a couple of birds, six dead Jews? What chutzpah. They haven't changed.

They sat together at the round wooden table covered in a dark red cloth. Why shouldn't we go? asked Lilka. Her thin silver bangles clinked as she raised her glass. I want them to know what a great writer they lost. Who writes in Polish. Who speaks to them of all they would like to forget. And do you think, he asked, that they will want to be reminded? When you read from your books, they'll be reminded. Reminded? he asked. They'll run off into the snowy night. They won't sleep for a week. We didn't sleep for four years, she remarked, and lifting her throat she drank back the vodka.

I'm not going back to that hellhole, he told her. Not for anything. Not if you paid me. Not if Churchill took me by the hand. Write and tell them that. December? he asked in disbelief. When all of Poland lies frozen beneath the snow? When the wind sings in the chimneys and the water freezes in the pipes? Well the answer is no. You can tell them that. But Jascha, it's our last chance. Soon it will be too late. Why? he asked. Are we leaving for the next world? She shrugged. We're no longer young. Speak for yourself, he said. We'll go for three days, she said. What can happen? Many things, he replied. The war is over, she told him. It's not the same Warsaw. Is it not the same Poles? he asked.

You'll read to them from your brilliant books, said Lilka. What's the harm? He studied her as she drank. It's you who wants to go back, you sly witch. Why don't you say so? She took up the small wooden bird that sat on the table. Maybe I do, she said at last.

The room was in near darkness. What are we getting to eat? he asked. I'm starving. She got up and turned on the lamp. I couldn't face cooking, she replied, so everything is cold. He lit a cigarette. Cold leftovers, he said mournfully. Once upon a time you cooked for me every night. This is what happens. Women lose interest. There was a time when your dearest desire was to spend hours cooking me my favorite things. I could say the same, she replied. You used to bring me stockings with a black seam up the back. You brought me chocolates. And pink soaps tied up in little packages. And now? Do you still want all that? he asked. She shrugged. Yes. No.

She set the table and brought plates of smoked salmon and dark bread, potato salad, beet salad, sour cream, lemons, a pot of butter, and the frosted bottle of vodka. He poured out two more shots of vodka. And spooned out a large serving of beet salad for her. Your beloved beets, he said. That's the peasant in you. And you, she said, bending forward to light the candles, with your coarse black bread and your herring.

Jascha raised his glass. Let us drink to two refugees from the former city of Warsaw, he said. Sometimes late at night they remember the trees, the bread, the birds of their native land, and the soft sounds of their own language.

She pressed back her blonde hair and raised her glass. Let us drink to our return, she proposed. We'll go back. No darling, he replied. We won't. Outside a dog barked. Look at you, he said, your mouth is red with beet stain. Just like children in Poland before the war. When they harvested the beets the children's faces were red with the juice of beets. Wipe your mouth my sweetheart, I don't want to think about it.

He smoked and ate at the same time. She helped herself to another forkful of beets. I'm the only woman who would put up with the smell of that tobacco, she said. Quite a few others did, he said. I doubt it, she said, chewing slowly, you're too difficult. He smiled. But that's what women love, my sweetheart. She cut into the dark bread and placed a slice of smoked salmon on top. Don't speak to me, she said. He laughed. What a crazy woman, he said, his mouth full.

I dream of Warsaw all the time, she told him. Sometimes it is closer to me than anything. She pried open the jar. Just once more, she said, lifting a herring out delicately from the brine, I would like to see the street where I lived when I was a girl. She placed the herring on a piece of rye bread, added a thin slice of onion and handed it to him. Is that so terrible?

Lilka placed another herring on a piece of bread and pressed it into her mouth. If my mother could see me eating like this, she said with a laugh. Who did she think she was? asked Jascha. The Countess Razumovsky?

In Warsaw I want to walk down Marsza
ł
kowska, she said. Where we used to stroll before the war. And stop to look in the shop windows. My father wore his coat with the fur collar. My mother wore a small black velvet hat with a veil. I remember, she said, when the wind shifted and the scent of pines blew in from the Praga forests. And all of Warsaw smelled like a pine forest. His mouth tightened. When the wind shifted the smell of burning gagged us, he said, the place was rubble, the sky was black with ash, the facades had crumbled and the streets were full of corpses. That's your precious Warsaw. She turned her face away. Why do you ruin it for me?

Your beloved Warsaw is ashes and rubble, he said. There's nothing left. Not a building, not a house, not a street that remains from before. Everything you knew is gone. Burned. Finished. Kaput. Forget your idea of going back. Have they changed the sky? she asked, her cheeks flushed. The air? Has the Vistula changed course? He sighed. My darling, you sound like a schoolgirl. Ach, Lilka. Poland is a morgue.

Her thin bangle bracelets clinked against each other. Then I'll go alone. Ha, he replied. Let you return to Poland on your own? Let you wander in the kingdom of the dead on your own? How could I? I would have to come and rescue you. Oh Jascha, don't be so silly. It is no longer allowed to pull the earlocks of Jews in the third class carriages, he said. Nevertheless even now, forty years later, it is hardly a child's garden of verses in our beloved homeland.

The radiator clanked and the heat began to rise with a hiss. Lilka brought out a small chocolate cake. Is it the one I like? he asked. She nodded. With marzipan? His eyes grew shiny. Oh darling, he said. Come and sit on my lap. Let me hug you and kiss you. I'll take you to Paris. We'll go to Fouquet's. I'll buy you stockings with a black seam up the back. Like before the war. I don't want to go to Paris, she said. Take me to Warsaw.

She cut the cake into paper thin slices. He watched her. Do you think you are still Back There? Are you saving a sliver for tomorrow and another for the day after? She put one of the slices in her mouth and then another. Will you hide one under your scarf? he asked. Another in your underwear? Leave me alone, she said.

I'm going to call Warsaw tomorrow, she said. Call the ghetto telephone, he said. I still remember the number. I'm not staying in the ghetto. I'm going to stay at the Hotel Bristol, she said, chewing her cake. What? he cried. The most expensive hotel in Warsaw? And who may I ask will pay for that? I will, she said, licking her fork. You're crazy, he said. Where will you get that kind of money? I will get it, she said. He watched her. What a sweet girl, one might think. But behind that blonde hair, those big blue eyes, and goyish face lies Judah Maccabee. And who did I learn it from? she wanted to know. From you, my angel. She served them both another slice of cake. Eat, she said. Now that we can.

Many nights they dreamed of food. They saw loaves of dark rye bread flying through the air, pails of cherries spilling out on the ground, piles of shiny apples, tables of endless cakes, buckets of chocolates. In waking life the refrigerator had always to be full of food, the shelves stuffed with all manner of canned goods. God forbid, he said, that we should run out of food. They kept chocolate bars in the drawers of their night tables. And often during the night they got up and came into the kitchen in their nightclothes and sat down for an entire meal as the stars shone down on them from the black night sky.