Dark Star

between his temple and the hem of his cap. The man’s eyes were enormous and white, blind with terror. Szara squeezed himself into a ball as a shattering roar rocked the table above him, perhaps he howled, perhaps the man curled up next to him did-he no longer had any idea who he was or where he was, the world exploded inside his head and he forced his eyes shut until he saw brilliant colors in the darkness. The floor bucked and sang with the next explosion and Szara tried to claw his way through it into the safe earth below. Then there was another, and then another, receding, and, finally, a silence that rang in his ears before he realized what it meant.

“Is it over?” the man said in Yiddish.

The air was thick with smoke and dust; they both coughed. Szara’s throat felt as though it had caught fire. “Yes,” Szara said. “They’ve gone.” Together, and very slowly, they crawled from beneath the table. Szara saw that he was in a carpentry shop, and the man with the half glasses was apparently the carpenter. The windows were gone, Szara had to look for a long time before he discovered tiny sparkles of glass embedded in the back wall. But he could find no other damage. What had dissolved the windows had also slammed the door, and the carpenter had to pull hard before it sprang open.

Cautiously, they looked out into the street. To their left was a gap where a house had been-only a pile of board and brick remained-and the house next to it was on fire, black smoke boiling out of the upper windows. Somebody nearby shouted, “Help”-perhaps a woman’s voice. The carpenter said “Mein Gott” and pressed his face between his hands.

At the opposite end of the street from the burning house a vast crater had been torn open. They walked over to it and peered down; a broken pipe gushed water from a ragged end. “Help,” said the voice again. It came from a shop directly across from the hole in the street. “It’s Madame Kulska,” said the carpenter. The door of the shop had disappeared and the interior, a dressmaker’s workroom, had been swirled by a typhoon, bits and pieces of material were everywhere. “Who’s there?” said the voice. “Nachman,” said the carpenter. “I’m under here,” said the voice. Under here was covered by a jumbled layer of fallen bricks, Szara and the carpenter quickly cleared the rubble away, revealing the dusty back of a huge armoire and a small woman pinned beneath it. Szara took one corner, the carpenter the other. “Ein, zwei, drei,” said the man, and together they raised the cabinet until it fell back into the smashed brick wall, the door swinging open to reveal a row of dresses, of various shapes and colors, suspended from wooden hangers.

“Give me your hand, Mr. Nachman,” said the woman. They both helped her to sit upright. Szara could see no blood. The woman looked curiously at her hand, then wiggled the fingers. “Are you hurt?” the carpenter said. “No,” said the woman, her voice faint and giddy with astonishment. “No. I don’t think so. What happened?”

He heard the sound of a bell clanging. Leaving the carpenter with the woman, Szara went to the door. A fire engine had driven up to the burning building, and firemen were uncoiling a hose connected to a tank of water on the back. Szara wandered out of the shop and down the street. Two men hurried by, carrying an injured boy on a stretcher improvised from a quilt. Szara’s heart sickened. What was the point of dropping bombs on this neighborhood? To murder? Simply that? A man on a ladder was helping a young woman out of a window from which smoke drifted in a pale mist. She was weeping, hysterical. A crowd of neighbors, gathered at the foot of the ladder, tried to call out soothing words.

The next street was intact. So was the one after that. A man ran up to him and said, “There are eight people dead at the railroad station.” Szara said, “It’s terrible. Terrible.” Then the man ran off to tell somebody else. Another fire engine drove past. The driver was a rabbi with a bloody handkerchief tied around his forehead; sitting next to him a small boy conscientiously rang a bell by pulling on a rope. Szara sank to the cobblestones. Looking down, he saw that his hand still clutched the valise. He had to use his free hand to pry the fingers open. People wandered by, dazed, in shock. Szara put the valise between his feet and held his head in his hands. This is not human, he thought, to do this is not human.

But there was something else in his mind, a ghost of a thought caught up among everything he felt. The city of Lvov had been bombed by a flight of Heinkel-ins. People had been killed, houses blown up, and there were fires that had to be put out and wounded who had to be treated.

But the city was still there. It had not been reduced to a mound of smoking ashes, not at all. He suddenly understood that a dark shape he’d seen half buried in a neighboring alley was a bomb that had failed to explode. Others had fallen in the streets, between houses, in courtyards and parks, while some had destroyed rooftops but left the occupants of the building miraculously unharmed. Slowly, a realization worked its way into his consciousness. He could not believe it, at first, so he spoke the words out loud. “My God,” he said. “They were wrong.”

Poste Restante

In the dappled, aqueous dusk of the hydrotherapy room, the journalist Vainshtok cleaned his spectacles with a soiled handkerchief. He screwed up his eyes and wrinkled the bridge of his nose, producing the ferocious scowl of the intellectual momentarily separated from his glasses. “Chornaya grayaz,” he said with contempt, squinting through each lens in turn. “That’s all it was.” The slang phrase was peculiar to journalists- literally it meant gray mud-and described a form of propaganda intended to obscure an issue and cover up reality. ” ‘The pathetic state of Poland’s national minorities,’ ” Vainshtok quoted himself with a sneer. “Boo-hoo.”

“Why?” Szara asked.

Vainshtok settled the spectacles back on his nose and thought a moment. “Well, whatever the reason, they certainly did want it- they gave me the front page, and a fat byline.”

They were six miles from Lvov, at the Krynica-Zdroj, one of the more elegant spas in Poland, where the privileged had gathered to have their exhausted livers, their pernicious lumbago, and their chronic melancholia cured by immersions and spritzes, dousings and ingestions, of the smelly sulfurous waters that bubbled up from deep within the earth. And if simultaneously they chanced to do a little business, to find a husband or a wife, to consummate a love affair, well so much the better. Currently the spa’s clientele was limited to a handful of Soviet journalists and a horde of foreign diplomats and their families who’d fled east from the fighting in Warsaw. “As to why they wanted it, really why,” Vainshtok went on, “that seems fairly obvious.” He inclined his head and gave one of his wild eyebrows a conspiratorial twitch.

Szara almost laughed. Vainshtok was one of those people who are forever impervious to their physical presence, but he looked, at that moment, extraordinarily strange. His skin shaded green by the rainy-day gloom of the basement pool, he wriggled in discomfort on the skeleton of a garden chair-the cushions had disappeared, along with the white-smocked attendants who’d laid them out every morning-and wore, the strap crushing a hand-painted tie, a shoulder holster with the grip of an automatic protruding from it. On the wall behind him, the foam green tile gave way to a Neptune riding a sea horse in ultramarine and ocher. “It is certainly not the truth,” he said. “Those starving Ukrainians and sorely persecuted Byelorussians groaning under the heel of Polish tyranny are, in fact, as we sit in this godforsaken grotto, attacking army units as they try to set up defensive positions in the marshland. What you have are the same old Ukrainian outlaw bands behaving in the same old ways, yet Moscow requires a sympathetic view. So, what do they want with it? You tell me.”

“They’re preparing an action against the Poles.”

“What else?”

Szara stared into the pool. It was green and still. At either end stood imposing water machines, nickel-plated monsters with circular gauges and ceramic control knobs, their rubber hoseworks strung limply from iron wheels. He imagined a long line of naked, bearded aristocrats awaiting treatment-there was something nineteenth century, and slightly sinister, about the apparatus, as though it were meant to frighten madmen back to sanity.

“Meanwhile,” Vainshtok said, “the highly regarded Andre Szara goes off on a tour of the battlefields of southern Poland, misses his chance to write the big national minorities story, and in general causes great consternation.”

Szara grinned at Vainshtok’s needling. “Consternation, you say. Such a word. Why not alarms and excursions, as the English put it. In fact, with all this chaos, I doubt anybody even noticed.”

“They noticed.”

A certain tone in Vainshtok’s voice caught Szara’s attention. “Did they? “