The Winds of War

Radio Warsaw. He now knew a few key words and phrases about the crisis, and much could sometimes be surmised from the shaky or relieved accents of the newscasters. In the United States, announcers in a time of crisis tended to use sonorous doom-filled voices, to thrill their listeners. The Polish broadcasters, nearer the action, were less bent on being dramatic. In the past day or two they had not sounded quite so worried.

He said, “Have you heard any news?”

“I just got BBC on shortwave. Same bulletins as last night. Henderson’s talking to Hitler.”

“Natalie. This would be a damned wild excursion.”

“Why? I’ll probably never have another chance to see where my parents were born. I’m here now. Leslie himself said last night that the worst seems to be over, that they’ve agreed to negotiate. Anyway, you don’t have to come. I mean that. It’ll be a bore for you, slogging around in the Polish countryside.”

“Well. I’ll have breakfast with you.”

Byron packed fast. The more time he spent with Natalie Jastrow the more she puzzled him. Her relationship with Leslie Slote now baffled him too. If they were spending time in bed together — and he had to assume that this was part of her purpose in coming to Warsaw, if not all of it — they were finding odd hurried occasions for this, or taking pains to mislead him. Night after night Slote had said his farewells in the hotel lobby. She treated Slote, when they were together, with the loving warmth of a fiancee, yet when Byron tried to withdraw from their company — for dinner, for a concert or the theatre, even for a tour of the embassy — she made him come along. It had crossed his mind, of course, that she might be using him — perhaps had even asked him along to Warsaw — to provoke Slote. If so, the tactic was failing. The Foreign Service man was cordial to Byron and appeared to take his tagging along entirely for granted. But it was hard to tell anything about Slote, except that he was weary, swamped with work, and very concerned about Natalie’s presence in Poland.

There had been more to her persistence in the journey — that was becoming clear to Byron — than desire for her lover. The Jewish streets of Warsaw fascinated her. No matter where they started an evening, they ended in those narrow byways. She had even dragged Byron (Slote had begged off) to a performance of O’Neill’s Ah, Wilderness! at a little Yiddish theatre in a back alley, with a stage not twenty feet wide and a ragged curtain. For him, it was a bizarre and tedious experience. But the mixture of apple-pie American characters and stylized Jewish emoting in that shabby hall had much amused and moved her. “That was me, I guess,” she had said, coming out of the theatre into the warm night, in the muddy alley bordered with sagging half- timbered houses. “That exact strange mixture. I never quite understood that, and I’m still sorting it out. It’s disconcerting but exciting. Like seeing myself for the first time in a home movie.” Evidently this same fascination was drawing her to Medzice.

She was waiting for him in the restaurant. Somewhere she had bought a Polish dress, a bright flowery print with an open neck, and she had combed her heavy hair forward covering much of her forehead in an outdated American style, as the Warsaw women did.

“Will I get by? I’m so bored with all these stares, as though I had horns.”

“So long as you’ve got your passport handy, okay. Don’t go too native.”

“Oh sure, and there’s always this.” At her feet was a blue suede sack with drawstrings. “Suit, shirt, hat, stockings, girdle. I can go into a ladies’ room anytime and emerge a complete Amerikanka, full of indignation and waving dollars. Are you coming? No, of course.”

“Yes. My bag’s in the lobby.”

“Honestly? You’re as goofy as I am, Briny.” She looked at him from under her eyebrows, with a slow blink of her dark eyes, and Byron thought of the little ghetto girl in the lilac dress. “Tell me, don’t you like Slote a little better now?”

“I don’t dislike him. I’m sorry for him at the moment, he’s certainly in over his head.” The waitress put down plates of food. He said, “Well, you ordered for both of us. Fine. There’s nothing like this Polish ham.”

She said, “I’m even beginning to feel slightly guilty here, eating ham. Imagine! Natalie cut and ate the thick pink meat with no visible remorse.

“I don’t know anything about your religion,” Byron said.

“Neither do I, and it’s hardly my religion. I dropped it before I was eleven years old — temple, Hebrew classes, everything. It grieved my father: he’s a Zionist, an officer in the temple, and all that. But our rabbi was such a boring dunce, Briny! And my father simply couldn’t answer my questions. He’s not an intellectual like Aaron, he’s a businessman. When I was eleven I’d read more books than he had.”

“But he just allowed you to drop it?” Byron said. “Like that? My father wouldn’t have, that’s for sure.”

“Possibly military men are different,” Natalie said with a skeptical smile. “Most fathers can’t do much with daughters. Anyway, I was an only child, and very good, on the whole. I just wouldn’t keep up flummery that made no sense to me. Well!” She set her knife and fork down. “Coffee and then on to Medzice. Correct?”

“I’m with you.”

A rickety taxi, with thick surgical tape crisscrossing the cracked yellow windows, brought them to the airport. The lone aircraft on the sunny field looked so rusty and patched that Byron thought it might be a wreck; but as they arrived, people came out on the grass and began boarding it.

“I don’t know,” Byron said as he paid the cab driver. “Do you suppose it will leave the ground? Maybe we should have this fellow wait.” Natalie laughed and went to telephone Slote; but he was not in his apartment, nor at the embassy. The terminal was still crowded with Germans, though so few seemed left in Warsaw. Only Poles, and a few Jews, boarded the Cracow plane and took the awkward iron seats.

The plane did leave the ground, with bumps and shudders that slightly parted the metal floor plates, affording a view underfoot of green fields and admitting a jet of warm air that billowed Natalie’s skirt. She tucked it under her thighs and fell asleep. After a half hour or so the plane dived, slamming down to a stop near a barn in an open field, amid tall grass and wild flowers. Byron thought it was a forced landing, but several passengers took their valises and got off. Another hop of about an hour brought them to Cracow, the plane passing from green flatlands to low mountains, part forested, part farmed, all checkered with fields of yellow, black, and purple.

The Cracow terminal was a wooden hut inside a wire fence. Byron was glad to leave the plane, which reeked of hot iron and gasoline, and to walk out on a sunny breezy field as fragrant as a flower garden. On either side of the tarred landing strip, kerchiefed peasant women were mowing hay in the sunshine. There were no taxis in sight, and only one mud-caked green bus. Some passengers, met by their relatives, climbed into heavy horse-drawn wagons and went creaking off.

“Any idea how we get to Cracow?” Byron said.

“That bus must go there,” Natalie said.

A brown-bearded Jew standing alone and erect at the gate, in a long dark coat and a wide flat dark hat, drew near, touching his hat with his hand. “You excuse? Americans? Jastrow?”

Natalie regarded him dubiously. “Why, yes. You’re not Berel?”

“Yes, yes. Jochanan Berel Jastrow.” He broke into a broad smile. “You excuse, poor English. Speak you Dytsche? Francais?”

“Francais, un peu,” and she switched into French. “How did you know we’d be on this plane? Well! Byron, this is Uncle Aaron’s cousin, my father’s cousin. Byron Henry is a good friend of mine, Berel.”

The two men shook hands, and the Jew smoothed his long gray-flecked brown beard, scanning Byron’s face. Berel Jastrow had a broad nose, heavy eyebrows, and surprisingly blue deep-set eyes with an almost Tartar slant. His glance was incisive. Byron felt that Jastrow classed him in a second or two as a Gentile, though probably a friendly one. “Enchante,” Jastrow said.

He led them to a rust-pitted car on the other side of the shed. The driver was a scrawny man in a light sweater and a skullcap, with a little bright red beard. After a parley in Yiddish they set off. Natalie explained to Byron that they were going straight to Medzice. The Jastrow family was agog to see her, and Cracow was twenty miles the other way. They regarded it as a wonderful omen that the American cousin was falling on them from the skies the day before the wedding. Natalie had telegraphed to Jochanan Jastrow, Medzice, saying she expected to arrive today. But she had not mentioned the plane, scarcely expecting that the wire would reach him.

“Mais pourquoi pas? La Pologne n’est pas l’Afrique,” Berel interjected, brightly following Natalie’s English. “C’est un pays tout a fait moderne et civilise.”

Byron found it decidedly peculiar to hear clear good French spoken by this figure out of a ghetto painting or