I awoke pierced by light. Izzy was staring down at me, and his face seemed too big. A young woman with pretty brown eyes was also gazing down at me. Her eyelashes were long and delicate – like fern tendrils.
‘Yes, you’re alive,’ Izzy assured me. ‘We pulled you out with a rope.’
‘Out of where?’ I asked; my memory of the last hour was gone.
‘The tunnel.’
‘And where are we?’
‘Where would you like to be?’
‘London – the British Museum.’
‘Good choice! Anything I can get you?’ he questioned.
‘Some tea. And a scone. And maybe a thunderstorm.’ Strange things to ask for, but I was thinking that there was a lot to be said for English cliches when one has been crushed by German ones.
‘Sorry, we took a wrong turn somewhere near Brussels,’ Izzy replied. ‘We’re back home. How about a week-old
He sat down beside me and lifted a cup of water to my lips. I drank gratefully. My head was pounding.
‘So, how are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘That I wish I’d gone first.
Smiling with relief, he helped me sit up. The woman beside him took his cup and held it to my lips again. I felt bruised and tender, as if I’d been stepped on. I looked around the room. Five women sat at sewing tables, pedalling like demons. I held up my hand and waved. Two of them noticed and smiled. They had sympathetic eyes and the same gaunt features we all had – starvation would make us all cousins before the Germans were through with us. Still, the whirring sound of the sewing machines was reassuring – a noble percussion that meant:
I was lying on a lumpy couch, covered by a woollen blanket. I lifted it up. I was in my underwear. My knees were crusted with blood. And my arm was throbbing – I looked again at the angry burn Mrs Sawicki had given me.
‘Checking on your
‘I thought it might be prudent to make sure it’s still there,’ I told him.
The women laughed.
The air had become warm and full. My trousers were folded neatly on the seat of a chair by my head. My coat and shirt were hanging over its back. When I reached for my pants, an old season ticket for the omnibus fell out of my pocket. And just like that, I seemed to have entered one of Papa’s jokes: a skeleton crawls out of his grave five years after burial and finds a receipt in his coat pocket for the trousers that he’d been having altered when he died, so he goes to his tailor, presents the receipt to him and says, ‘So, Pinkus, are my pants ready?’
For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the punchline of the joke, but I giggled anyway. Izzy looked at me inquisitively.
‘Too little oxygen,’ I told him, which must have been partially true, but I was mostly giddy at finding myself still alive.
At home, Izzy and I found that Stefa was still unable to leave her bed. After I slipped into fresh clothes, I emptied her chamber pot, and she asked me what had happened to my hair. I reached up to check it was still there. Then I remembered. ‘I needed a disguise,’ I told her.
She sighed as if I required great patience. ‘I’m sore all over,’ she moaned. ‘And my feet are still frozen. Could you make me some hot tea with lemon?’
We had no lemons, so I trudged over to the Tarnowskis’ while Izzy massaged Stefa’s shoulders. As I stood in the doorway, Ida Tarnowski asked about my hair as well. ‘I’m up for a part in a Yiddish production of
‘Sorry, I was just kidding,’ I replied, and I asked her for a lemon, but she told me she couldn’t even remember what one looked like.
I tried several other neighbours without luck. When I returned home, Stefa was snoring and Izzy was flat on his back in my bed, in all his clothes, his mouth open – an ancient cave with hidden gold. I chopped off most of my hair at the bathroom sink and ended up looking like a prisoner of war, which seemed right. Then I left a cup of hot water on my niece’s night table – sweetened with molasses – and climbed under the covers. The sheets were Siberian ice, but I was too exhausted to care.
I woke up when I heard Izzy clomping around the room. He was munching on a piece of matzo. He sat down at the foot of my bed. ‘Your raven has flown away,’ he noted.
‘Gloria told him that Poland was no place for a bird.’
We talked about our next moves. I needed to make some food for Stefa, so he agreed to go to Mikael Tengmann’s office and hand him the thousand zloty, then head to Mrs Rackemann’s shop, pay her what I still owed her and pick up my wedding band. I put Mikael’s money in one of Mrs Sawicki’s envelopes and asked him to note if the physician showed any unease or surprise on seeing her name; it occurred to me now that the killer – who must have lived outside the ghetto – might have had an accomplice inside. And Mikael was one of only two people I knew of who had known both Adam and Anna, the other being Rowy. Maybe one of them was conspiring with Mrs Sawicki.
An hour and a half later Izzy was back. I was frying up some wild onion to add to the borscht I’d made out of two withered old beets.
‘Mikael is getting the anti-typhus serum tomorrow,’ he told me. He stuffed the money in my coat pocket, since my hands were busy, and he put my wedding band down on the counter.
‘You could have paid Mikael already,’ I observed.
He took a long sip of ersatz coffee out of my cup, then said, ‘He told me not to – not until he had the serum. So he hasn’t seen the envelope yet.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ my niece called out from her room.
When I explained to her that we’d soon have the serum, she announced, ‘No one is injecting me with anything!’ Her voice was strong, but she gave herself a coughing fit and got bloody phlegm on her sheets.
‘I didn’t risk my life so you could put up a fuss,’ Izzy told her as I fetched a hand-towel from her wardrobe.
‘How did you risk your life?’ she asked, squinting suspiciously.
I glared at Izzy to keep the truth hidden, but he’d already figured that out. ‘Every outing with your uncle puts me in danger of a fatal moral decline,’ he said dryly.
‘Go away!’ she told him nastily. ‘And you, too!’ she added, turning to me.
The next morning, I awoke just after dawn, eager to speak to Anna’s friends before heading to Mikael’s office. Stefa looked fast asleep when I tiptoed into her room, so I turned round, which was when she spoke, making me jump.
‘I’m up,’ she said in a drowsy voice.
She dared open her eyes only a sliver; the light streaming through the window made her head throb. She instructed me to look for a small book with a leather cover in the top drawer of her dresser. Once I’d found it, she had me open it to the first page. Written in her neat square handwriting – in Polish – was the following:
Glued near the bottom of the page was a sprig of her son’s downy blond hair. On subsequent pages, I discovered records of his childhood diseases and medical treatments, as well as drawings of his hands and feet, and a portrait of him that she’d done when he was five. She had artistic talent – who would have guessed? Among a series of old sketches of her husband Krzysztof, I also discovered – to my surprise and delight – that she’d drawn me huddled over a book. I was smoking the meerschaum pipe I’d inherited from my father. She must have done it about ten years before. Had I really ever looked that strong and young?
