The Train to Warsaw (3 page)

I dreamed that I was hungry, he would tell her as he ate eagerly. I dreamed that I was dying of thirst, she would say. Who else could we live with if not each other? he would ask. Who else could understand?

After dinner they would go out for a walk or to the casino. He was too restless to work at night. It was in the afternoon that he struggled with his stories in the room at the end of the hall. Once upon a time the words had poured out of him and he had become famous. Now, he told her, I cannot find my way. So many stories. But I seem to have lost access to all that. As though it were all buried deep within the earth and I cannot dig it out . . .

Many years ago, Lilka told him, Hagar was wandering in the desert with her small son Ishmael. There was no water. They walked and walked. Soon they would die of thirst. Hagar prayed to God for help. And He answered her. Hagar, look, He said. The well is in front of your eyes. And she saw that it was. Jascha turned to her in surprise. Where did you learn that? From you, she replied.

Near midnight when the moon rocked in the night sky, he said to her: brush your feathers, darling,
schnell schnell
. We're going to try our luck at the tables. Several times a week they went out to the casino. Often they stayed until three or four in the morning. Sometimes as they walked home, the sky had already begun to lighten in the east. Now they walked through the darkened London streets, still slick with rain. It will soon be winter, she said, pulling her coat tightly around her. Why won't you wear a coat, you stubborn man?

They came to a black door and rang the bell. Inside they showed their passports to a broad shouldered man and were buzzed through to the gaming room. Let me see, she said and reached for his passport. Inside the Polish passport with the golden eagle was the photo of a much younger man. I forgot how handsome you were, she said. I still am, he replied. Why do you keep this? she asked. You always say that the name and memory of Warsaw should be blotted out. He took back the passport roughly. That's not the whole truth. Now let's go and play.

They sat together at the table covered in green felt with squares of red and black. Shaded lamps illuminated the numbers. Beyond the tables the room lay in darkness. Tonight I'm feeling reckless, Lilka said, and she placed a stack of chips on the 28. You're getting a bit too reckless, he remarked, eyeing the stack. Never mind, she said gaily, I'm going to win tonight. And if I win on the 28, you'll come to Poland. Who says so? he asked.
Faites vos jeux,
called out the croupier.
Rien ne va plus
.

This is where I feel at home, he would tell her. Here there is no time or space, no day or night. All your problems disappear and only the numbers exist. Unlike her, he took risks. He would place a large pile of chips on one number and then put them on the same number again. And again. Numbers are mystical, he told her. Each has a meaning. When I look at the numbers on the felt, I remember my ancestors who understood the universe that separated the 3 from the 4. He sat at the table, smoking continuously, intent on the silver wheel as it spun round and round. At those moments she couldn't talk to him.

When he won, he was happy and all of life seemed good. When he lost, shadows appeared beneath his eyes and the end of the world seemed imminent. Why do you get so worked up each time the ball drops into the slot? As though your life depended on it? she asked him. It does, you silly girl, he replied and blew out a cloud of that foul black tobacco. From one second to the next, your fortunes change—just like during the war.

He inhaled deeply and blew out small smoke rings. Winston Churchill said: play for more than you can afford to lose and you will learn the game. That's me. He let slide a stack of blue chips onto the 7. During the war you could disappear from one moment to the next. A turn of the wheel and it was all over. Lovemaking was never as good as when you might die in the next moment. A girl's soft thighs were never as enticing as when they might disappear from one moment to the next. Only the casino where you can lose everything from one moment to the next reminds me of that other life. A girl's? she said. What girl?

At the end of a losing streak she would plead with him not to put any more money down. I'll get it back, he would say. At the last moment, when all seems lost, the earth spins on its axis, your luck changes, and you win it back. And sometimes he did. When he won big, they would go to the bar and order champagne. And he would slide his hand up her leg and ask if they should do it right there. On top of the bar. Let them see, he crowed. What do we care? We've won!

Again and again the long thin wrist of the croupier shot out from the white cuff and spun the wheel. Lilka placed another stack of chips on the 28. Sorry, darling, he said as her stack was raked off the table. Lilka carefully counted out thirty chips and placed them once again on the 28. Third time lucky, she said. Light me a cigarette. Stop, Lilka, what's gotten into you? You're playing like me. And he reached out to take back her chips. Leave them there, she warned. The wheel began to spin and she leaned forward to watch. As the wheel spun, the light glinted off the silver grooves, the black and red numbers blurred. Lilka watched, motionless. Now the wheel slowed at last. The silver ball rocked and nearly fell into the 29.
Prosz
e
¸
prosz
e
¸
,
she murmured. Please please. The ball hesitated for a split second and then dropped with a click into the 28. She turned to him triumphantly. Jascha, I've won! Straight up. On a number. Thirty-five to one—750 pounds! She laughed happily as the croupier's rake pushed toward her the high stacks of chips. Did I not tell you? I invite you, she said, to three nights at the Hotel Bristol. In the former city of Warsaw.

They walked home through the dark rain slick streets. It was meant to be, she informed him. Ach Lilka. So superstitious. Like everyone Back There. One woman saw the word G
e
¸
sia Street written on a sheet of newsprint and was convinced that the next roundup would be on G
e
¸
sia Street. Nearly everyone saw a significance in numbers. If they suddenly saw the number seven written somewhere it meant trouble in seven days. Or there would be a raid at #7 on some street or another. And so on. If there is a crazier way to predict the future, I would like to know it. Don't be so harsh, she said. When you are that helpless, why not tether yourself to a number? What else is there to cling to? Are you now a philosopher? he asked.

She took his arm. Come back to Warsaw with me, my Jascha. When have I ever asked you for anything? She stared at him. Well, once. And I gave her up, didn't I? he replied.

Two days later she went to get the tickets. How many did you get? he asked her.

That night, as the dog across the garden howled at the moon, she began to pull her clothes off the hangers and fold them into a suitcase. I'm coming, he said. And he threw two sweaters into the suitcase. Why do you do this to me? I want to return to Warsaw like I want the cholera, he informed her, and threw in a pair of socks. In the morning they went to the station.

In the dining car the tables were spread with dingy white cloths, there were white plates with faded silver rims and dull metal cutlery. Only a third of the tables were occupied. Who goes to Warsaw in winter? said Jascha. Only a madman. A tall bony maitre d' with a long melancholy nose came up to them and indicated a table for two by the window. At a nearby table sat a good-looking man in a double-breasted suit with his dark hair slicked back in the old manner. He examined Lilka as she passed. Unconsciously she lifted a shoulder gracefully. Why do you do that? he asked. Do what? That coquettish gesture of yours when you lift your shoulder. I don't lift my shoulder at all, she said irritably. The maitre d' pulled back her chair and she sat down. He handed them menus. I'm ravenous, she whispered.

Why are you looking at him? he asked. I'm looking at everybody, she replied. I want to see who our fellow passengers are. I'll tell you who they are, he said, they're traveling salesmen. All of them? Most likely. They spend their lives on trains, carrying their heavy sample bags, doing a bit of currency speculation on the side, and bringing a little thrill to lonely housewives all over Eastern Europe.

That man for example, he said, pointing to the one who had watched her. He has three different housewives along the line. In Berlin, on the border in Rzepin, and across the Polish border in Kalisz. But they must buy first before any fun. Those are the rules. They sit together on her couch and examine the merchandise together as he runs a hand smoothly up her leg and she squeals. She shook her head. With you, everything is a story. And why not? he wanted to know. How else will we entertain ourselves on endless train rides?

The waiter appeared, a ruddy-faced man whose uniform was too big, carrying oversize menus.
Polski?
he asked. English, said Jascha. The man looked at him in surprise. Very well, sir. What is it you are wanting?

There was no venison, only some whitish pork chops served with a tasteless gravy. She put down her fork. I'm ready for dessert.

He poured out more shots from the bottle of Polish vodka that stood on the table. At least that hasn't changed, she remarked. The dining car swayed and they heard the shrieking of the wind outside. Jascha looked at his watch. We will be at the border in half an hour, he told her. Let's order some chocolate cake, she suggested, to cheer us up. He refilled their glasses. She laughed. Jascha, she said loudly, soon I won't be able to stand up.

They made their way back to their compartment, weaving as they walked. The train was half empty. They passed a Polish family who sat squeezed together. The mother had laid newspaper over her lap and was carving slices of dark sausage onto chunks of bread. Her husband and children waited impatiently, reaching out stubby fingers, talking all at the same time.

Farther on, an old man lay with his head back against the seat, his mouth open, the skin stretched over the bones of his face. Lilka shuddered. A group of sturdy businessmen in suits that strained at the seams sat together smoking, drawing diagrams on sheets of paper.

Just before they reached their compartment, they passed through the platform between the cars. As soon as Jascha opened the door, they felt the sudden icy blast of the air and the shriek of the train as it sped through the landscape. In that small space sat an old peasant woman on an upturned bucket. She wore a voluminous wool skirt, her flowered head­scarf nearly covered her forehead. The train rattled, her bent figure vibrated, and she muttered to herself in an incomprehensible Polish dialect. We're getting near the border, said Jascha. It's just the Poles now. He turned to her with an ironic smile. We're almost home darling. Jascha, she said warningly.

They came into their compartment and collapsed side by side onto the maroon plush. God, I've had a lot to drink, she said and laid her head against his shoulder. That Polish vodka is no joke. He put his arm around her. Go to sleep, my sweetheart, he said. When you wake up we'll be in Poland. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Her head dropped onto his shoulder. And there, not far from the Polish border, they fell asleep.

They were awakened as the train ground to a sudden halt. Jascha sat up and looked out in alarm. He gripped her arm. We're here. Lilka awoke with a cry. I can't get out, she cried. It's like a coffin in here. Open the gate, open the gate, the wagon is coming. He shook her. That's enough. Wake up. It's only a dream. The gate, she called out. They've closed the gate. She opened her eyes and stared at him unseeing. I was standing in line. And then I saw that they were closing the gates. We pressed toward the gate but there was no way through. And then the snow began to fall. Stop it Lilka, he said. We're at the border.

She sat up straight and pushed back her hair. She peered out the window. A white sign dusted with snow proclaimed in Russian and Polish and German: You Are Entering Poland. They still have the same huts, she said. Forty years later. They heard the barking of dogs and shouting. She clutched his arm. He sat rigid, looking out the window. What is it? she cried. What's happening?

They stared out the window. In the darkness stood a station attendant in a maroon uniform trimmed in faded gold braid, swinging a lantern that threw faint gleams of yellow light onto the platform. The German shepherds were howling, straining at the leashes held by the men in uniforms. Jascha, she cried, it's not us, is it? He squeezed her arm tightly. No, he hissed. Of course not.

What is happening? she asked. Can you see? Wait, he said. They're taking someone off. A Jew? she whispered. He gripped her arm, his dark eyes cold. Stop this, Lilka, he said. As they watched in the feebly lit darkness, they saw that the police were dragging someone down the steps of the train. She was kicking out her feet in felt boots, her wide skirt ballooned out as they pulled her off. Look at that, said Lilka in surprise. It's the old peasant woman in the headscarf. The woman was screeching at them in high-pitched tones like the squawking of poultry, her kerchief sliding off her skull. The snow fell on her, on the uniforms of the policemen, on the yellowish coats of the dogs. What has she done? cried Lilka. Is she a Jew? The police and the woman disappeared into one of the huts. My God, Jascha, she said wildly, clutching at him. He looked out at her from dark eyes.
Witamy w Polsce,
he said. Welcome to Poland.