A handsome, middle-aged woman met us in the foyer, which was floored with black and white marble squares, as in a medieval Italian painting. She was tall and slender, with a man’s closely cropped blonde hair. Her healthy face was red-cheeked, and her blue-blue eyes were the stuff of Aryan mythology. Scandinavian, I’d have bet. And eating three square meals a day, just like my German escorts.
I will always remember the first lingering look she gave me, her eyes moistening, as though she had been hoping to meet me for years, and the way, too, that she breathed in slowly, filling herself with this moment.
‘Thank goodness you’re here!’ she exulted in French-accented German, and she reached out for my hand with both of hers. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Dr Cohen. I’ve heard so much about you. My name is Sylvie Lanik.’
The Gestapo men stood stiffly by the door, which meant that my host was a powerful woman.
‘
I tried my rusty French because I preferred the Germans not to know that I was asking why I’d been summoned.
‘It’s Irene… it’s my daughter,’ Mrs Lanik answered, also in French, embarrassment reducing her voice to a whisper. ‘She’s not well. I’m hoping you can help her.’
‘Send the Germans away,’ I told her.
‘Yes, whatever you want.’ Mrs Lanik summoned her elderly housekeeper and asked her to give the men coffee and cake in the kitchen. The Gestapo comedian showed me a predatory smile as he strode off, no doubt envisaging the revenge he’d take. The only question was whether I’d survive.
‘You must be important,’ I remarked in German as soon as they’d left.
She flapped her hand. ‘My husband is the important person around here.’
‘Is he a Nazi?’
‘Yes, though he and I both know that what Hitler says about Jews is all lies.’
Did she expect me to thank her for not hating me? I forced a laugh.
‘Have I offended you, Dr Cohen?’ she questioned fearfully.
I despised her for being a traitor to her own beliefs and refused to give her the satisfaction of an answer. ‘Where’s your husband?’ I asked roughly.
‘He left yesterday morning and will be gone until tomorrow.’
‘Does he know I’m here?’
‘I told him we were sending for someone who could help Irene.’
‘But not a Jew.’
‘No, that was my decision,’ she said firmly.
‘Mrs Lanik, I may have been reduced to nearly nothing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a life. I have to get back to the ghetto.’
‘Dr Cohen, please just give my daughter a half-hour of your time. She needs help. I’ll pay you whatever you want.’
I grinned maliciously. ‘Why do you people always think you can buy a Jew with money?’
‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ she replied angrily, but she added in a contrite voice, ‘though I suppose I deserved that.’
‘Look, why should I help you?’
‘Given the unfairness of the world and all that’s happened to your people, maybe you shouldn’t,’ she observed.
Her honesty impressed me. ‘Very well, tell me what’s wrong with your daughter,’ I requested in a business-like tone.
‘A few days ago, she tried to take her own life – with pills. She won’t talk to me about what’s bothering her. She’ll only talk to you.’
‘Me? How does she know about me?’
‘Irene found out you were a well-known psychiatrist before you were…’ She searched for the word; her German was excellent, but she was clearly under an enormous strain.
‘
‘Yes, imprisoned,’ she agreed.
I discovered that day that Mrs Lanik stepped cautiously through her thoughts, as though searching for hidden motives in herself and others. As a consequence, all her responses were delayed. It was unnerving. I began to believe she led an isolated life – and conversed with very few people.
‘Where is your daughter?’ I asked.
‘She refuses to leave her room. I’m losing my mind.’ She clutched at the collar of her blouse. ‘If… if Irene should die…’
‘Mrs Lanik,’ I said more gently, ‘how did you find my address?’
‘My husband is the chief physician for the German forces in Warsaw. It wasn’t hard to locate you.’
‘I don’t have much time. Take me to her.’
On the way up the curving central staircase to the gallery, I told her, ‘I’ll want to bring some things back to the ghetto with me – food mostly.’
‘What would you like?’
‘Find me a dozen lemons – two dozen if you can. I’ll also want cheese and meat, and good bread and coffee. And pipe tobacco – Achmed, if you can find it. And I’ll take you up on your offer to pay me – two hundred zloty per session.’
‘Of course, though it might be difficult to find so many lemons.’
‘If you can’t get them, I’ll need oranges or fresh cabbage.’
Standing in front of her daughter’s door, I faced Mrs Lanik again. To my surprise, I was embarrassed now about my shabby clothing and withered state – suddenly arm in arm with my desire to return to a normal life.
‘I want you to order the Germans to take me home in silence,’ I told her. ‘I won’t see your daughter unless they promise not to speak to me – or hurt me in any way.’
‘Very well. I’ll take care of it.’
‘And tell them not to touch any of the food you give me. You’re going to have to threaten them with reprisals.’
‘Leave it to me,’ she assured me. ‘Can we go in now?’
When I gave my permission, she knocked. ‘Irene…?’ she called softly, but there was no reply. ‘Dr Cohen is here. We’re coming in.’
She tried the door handle, but it was locked.
‘Irene, this is Dr Cohen,’ I began. ‘I don’t have much time. Let me in, please.’
The girl whispered through the door, ‘Only you, Dr Cohen, not my mother.’
Mrs Lanik shook her head violently, as if her daughter was sentencing her for a crime she hadn’t committed.
‘Irene will be safe with me,’ I told her. ‘Sit in the foyer, and when I come out we’ll talk about what I’ve learned. And bring me strong coffee, as well,’ I added, since the efficient heating in the house was making me drowsy. ‘When it’s ready, have your servant knock on the door and leave it on the floor. I’ll come out and get it.’
Mrs Lanik looked back as she crept down the stairs. She gripped the railing hard; I realized she was close to fainting.
I called to Irene through the door in German again, telling her that we were alone. After a few seconds, I heard the latch click. A blue eye peeked in the doorway.
CHAPTER 23
Irene was a willowy girl, and nearly six feet tall, though she had the hunched posture of someone who had been taunted for years about her height.
