The Zookeeper’s Wife (18 page)

A
S SPRING SIDLED CLOSER AND NATURE HOVERED BETWEEN
seasons, the snow melted and a low green cityscape of garden plants arose during the day, but at night the land froze over again and moonlight glittered the walks into silver skating trails. Hibernating animals still curled up underground, waiting in suspense. The villa's people and animals sensed the lengthening light, and when a gust of air swept indoors, it carried the mossy sweet smell that rises from living soil. The faint pink coating the treetops promised rippling buds, a sure sign of spring hastening in, right on schedule, and the animal world getting ready for its fiesta of courting and mating, dueling and dancing, suckling and grubbing, costume-making and shedding—in short, the fuzzy, fizzy hoopla of life's ramshackle return.

But spring floated outside the small rupture in time the war had gouged. For people attuned to nature and the changing seasons, especially for farmers or animal-keepers, the war snagged time on barbed wire, forced them to live by mere chronicity, instead of real time, the time of wheat, wolf, and otter.

Confined to her bed's well-padded prison, Antonina rose occasionally to hobble the few painful steps onto her balcony, from which she had a wide view, and could even hear the powerful noise of ice cracking on the Vistula River, a tympani signaling winter's end. Being bedridden had slowed the world down, given her time to page through memories, and brought a new perspective to some things, while others lay beyond reach or evaded her view. Ryś spent more unsupervised time, but she reckoned him "more capable and levelheaded than any child his age should have to be."

Older children, from youth groups aiding the Underground, had begun arriving unexpectedly, and neither Antonina nor Ryś knew who would be appearing when; though Jan had warning, he was often away at work when they floated in like clouds or just as suddenly vanished. They usually stayed in the Pheasant House for a night or two, then melted back into Warsaw's undergrowth, with Zbyszek, a boy high on the Gestapo's most-wanted list, lingering for weeks. It fell to Ryś, as the least conspicuous villa-ite, to deliver their meals.

Antonina and Jan never spoke of the scouts' doings in front of Ryś, even if some appeared like sightings of rare animals, then mysteriously slipped away, and to her bafflement Ryś didn't seem to care much, despite his usual curiosity. Surely he'd fabricated some story about them? Wondering what, she asked him if he had any thoughts about the young visitors, any opinion about Zbyszek, for instance.

"Oh,
Mom
," Ryś said in the long-suffering tone children reserve for benighted parents, "I know all about it! A
man
can naturally understand these things. I never asked you any questions because I could see that you and Zbyszek had secrets you didn't want to share with me. But I don't care about Zbyszek! I have my own friend now. Anyway, if you really want to know what I think of Zbyszek—I think he's a stupid boy!" And with that Ryś shot out of the room.

Antonina wasn't surprised by his jealousy, which seemed only normal, but Ryś had become more secretive of late, she thought, and much less talkative. Realizing something had collared his attention, she wondered what he was up to. The only answer that rose to mind was his new friend, Jerzyk Topo, the son of a carpenter whose family had recently moved into a staff apartment on the zoo grounds. Antonina found Jerzyk polite and well behaved, a few years older than Ryś, handy with tools, a boy learning his father's trade. Ryś admired his woodworking skills, the two shared an interest in building things, and since they lived close they played together every day. From her second-story watchtower, Antonina sometimes glimpsed them building secret shapes and talking constantly, and she felt relieved that he'd found a new playmate.

Then one day, after the boys had gone to school, Jerzyk's mother appeared at the villa and anxiously asked Antonina if they could talk in private. Antonina ushered her into her bedroom and closed the door. According to Antonina's account, Mrs. Topo then said:

"The boys have no idea I'm here. Don't tell them! I don't really know how to begin. . .."

Antonina began to worry—what had her son done?

Then Mrs. Topo blurted out: "I was eavesdropping on them—I'm sure they didn't see me. And I know that's a terrible thing to do, but how could I help myself once I got wind of what they were planning? I had to learn what they were up to. So I was quiet and listened, and I was shocked! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. When they left I didn't know what to do, and I decided I'd better come and talk to you. Maybe together we can figure something out!"

Antonina found the news alarming. Could Mrs. Topo be overreacting to the boys' innocent capers? Hoping so, she said:

"Your son is such a good boy. I'm sure he wouldn't do anything to hurt you. And Ryś is still so little. . .. Okay, I can watch him more closely. . .. But what exactly did our boys
do
?"

"They didn't do anything wrong
yet
, but they're planning something big."

Antonina wrote that "my heart fell into my feet" as Mrs. Topo explained that she'd overheard the boys pledging to oust the Germans, which they believed their patriotic duty, first by hiding a bomb in a tall haystack near the Germans' storehouse of weapons near the zoo fence.

"And under Jerzyk's mattress," Mrs. Topo continued, "I found one of your towels, with big red letters on it that said 'Hitler kaput!' They want to hang this towel above the main gate of the zoo, because there are so many Germans coming here all the time and they're bound to see it! What are we going to do? Maybe your husband could talk to them and explain that they're much too young to fight, and if they go through with their plan they'll put us
all
in danger. . .. But what do you think we should do?"

Antonina listened quietly, trying first to absorb, then analyze the disturbing news that she found both noble and foolish. She assumed Ryś had concocted the idea while eavesdropping on the scouts, who were staging similar acts of sabotage. By now, not drawing attention to the bustle at the zoo had become a fine art, like sleeping with dynamite. All they needed was the boys hanging up a literal red flag.

She also wondered how she could have missed this plot of Ryś's, and misjudged his ability to understand the grown-up world of consequences, when she'd thought she could count on his absolute secrecy, and on her ability to gauge his maturity. Her anger at him and at herself quickly turned to sadness as she realized that

instead of praising his bravery and initiative, and telling him how proud he made me, I had to punish him, and tell his father that he stole some explosives, and maybe even embarrass him in front of his friend. I knew Jan would be furious.

"Yes," she said to Mrs. Topo, "I will ask Jan to talk with the boys. Meanwhile, it is best to burn the towel."

That evening, she overheard her menfolk, father and son, quietly talking in a formal, military way:

"I hope you appreciate that I'm not treating you like a child, but like a soldier," Jan said, appealing to his son's natural wish to be taken seriously as a grown-up. "I am an
officer
in this house and your
leader
. In the military field of action, you must do
only
what I order, nothing on your own. If you want to continue having this kind of relationship with me, you have to swear that you won't do anything without my knowledge. The action you planned with Jerzyk falls into the category of 'anarchy,' and 'arbitrary'; and you should be punished for it—just like you would be in the regular army."

But what punishment should a father in the role of a military leader impose on a small child in the role of a soldier? Risk isn't shaped the same in a child's eyes, nor can a child see as far downstream from an event, and punishment works only if both parties feel it to be fair,
fairness
being the gold standard of childhood.

So he said: "Maybe you want to suggest
how
I should punish you?"

Ryś considered it seriously. ". . .You can spank me," he finally offered.

And presumably Jan did, because Antonina, in recording the scene in her diary, noted simply: "And, in this small way, our own private family Underground ceased to exist."

I
N SPRING OF
1943,
ANTONINA ROSE FROM BED AT LAST, IN
tune with hibernating marmots, bats, hedgehogs, skunks, and dormice. Before the war, she had loved the yammering zoo in springtime, with all its noisy come-ons,
bugger off!
s, and hallelujahs, especially at night, in the quiet city, when feral noises leapt from the zoo as from a giant jukebox. Animal time colliding with city time produced an offbeat rhythm she relished and often wrote of, as in this reverie in her children's book about lynxes,
Rysie
:

When the spring night wraps Warsaw in a dark coat, and the glaring, luminous signs scatter the dark streets with cheerful reflections, when the quiet of the sleeping city is interrupted by a horn of a late car—on the right bank of the Vistula, among old weeping willows and poplars, the secret sounds of wilderness and the piercing rumble of the jungle is heard. A dance band made up of wolves, hyenas, jackals, and dingoes is heard. The cry of an awakened lion seizes the neighboring population of monkeys with horror. Startled birds scream terrifyingly in the ponds, while in their cage Tofi and Tufa [lynx kittens] croon a homesick serenade. Their meowing in sharp and penetrating notes rises over the other night sounds of the zoo. Far from the untouched corners of the world, we think about the rule of Mother Nature, with her untold secrets still awaiting discovery, we live among our earthly companions, animals.

While chill still clung to the air and her muscles felt faint from disuse, she lived in a cocoon of woolen undergarments, heavy sweaters, and warm stockings. Wobbling around the house with a cane, she had to learn how to walk again, her knees trembled, and things slipped from her fingers. A toddler again after so many years, she felt cosseted by Magdalena and the others, who allowed her to be a sick little girl, fussed over by family, but she also scolded herself and "felt so embarrassed and useless." For three months, others had done her work for her, waited on her, nursed her, and even now, eager to return to her role in the working household, she couldn't handle chores. "What kind of woman am I?" she chided herself. Whenever she said so in their earshot, Magdalena, Nunia, or Maurycy would counter with:

"Stop that! We're helping you out of pure selfishness. What on earth could we do without you? Your only job is to get stronger. And to give us our orders! We've missed all your energy, wit, and, okay, sometimes your scatterbrained behavior. Amuse us again!"

Then Antonina would laugh, brighten, and slowly wind the machinery of the crazy household as if it were an antique clock. She wrote that they monitored her constantly, fussed, "didn't allow me fatigue, chill, hunger, or worry," and in return, she thanked them for "spoiling me like no one ever had." Writing those words is the closest she comes to talking about being an orphan. Always present in their absence, her dead parents belonged to singed events, a grief before words when she was only nine, a final end at the hands of the Bolsheviks too horrible for a child to keep imagining. They may have haunted her memories, but she never mentions them in her memoirs.

Antonina's friends bundled her up, encouraged her to heal through rest, and embraced by that close circle, she thrived and sometimes "even forgot the occupation" and her "relentless yearning for the war to end soon."

Jan continued to leave the house early and return just before curfew hour, and, although the villa-ites never saw him at work, at home they found him short-tempered and uneasy. To keep their life livable, he checked and rechecked every ritual and routine, a taxing responsibility, since the tiniest chaos, neglect, or impulse could unmask them. Small wonder that he rigidified from the strain and began addressing them as his "soldiers" and Antonina as his "deputy." Jan ruled the villa and the Guests couldn't disobey him, but the atmosphere began to sour because, as a volatile dictator, Jan apparently made daily life tense by often yelling at Antonina, despite her efforts to please him. In her diary, she wrote that "he was always on the alert, took all the responsibilities on his shoulders, and protected us from bad events, trying to check everything very carefully. Sometimes he talked to us as if we were his soldiers. . .. He was cold and expected more from me than from the rest of people in our household. . .. [T]he happy atmosphere in our home was gone."

She went on to say that nothing she did ever seemed good enough, nothing made him proud of her, and perpetually disappointing him felt wretched. In time, her loyal, angry Guests stopped talking to Jan entirely or even making eye contact with him—hating how he treated her but unwilling to confront him, they blotted him out. Jan bristled at their silent protest, complained that civil disobedience in the household wouldn't do, and anyway why were they blaming and excluding
him
?

"Hey, everybody! You're ignoring me just because I criticize Punia a little," he said, using one of his pet names for her (Little Wildcat, or Bush Kitten). This is undeserved! You think I don't have a say here at home? Punia isn't always right!"

"You're away all day," Maurycy said quietly. "I know your life outside of this house is full of all sorts of dangers and traps. But that keeps it interesting, too. Tola's situation is different," he said, using another of Antonina's nicknames. "It reminds me of a soldier who's on constant duty on a battlefield. She has to stay alert all the time. How can you not understand this and scold her for being a little absentminded now and then?"

One afternoon in March the housekeeper yelled from the kitchen, "My God! Fire! Fire!" Looking out the window, Antonina saw a huge mushroom of smoke and flames, a devouring blaze in the Germans' storage area, where a blast of wind was spreading fire like honey across the roof of the barracks. Antonina grabbed her fur coat and ran outside to check on the zoo buildings and the fox farm, which stood only a gust away from the flames.

A German soldier biked up fast to the villa, dismounted, and said angrily:

"You set this fire! Who lives here?"

Antonina looked at his hard face and smiled. "You don't know?" she said pleasantly. "The director of the old Warsaw Zoo lives here. I am his wife. And we're much too serious for pranks like setting a fire."

Anger met by pleasantries is hard to sustain, and the soldier calmed down.

"Okay, but those buildings over there—"

"Yes. Our previous employees occupy two small apartments. They're nice people I know and trust. I'm sure they didn't do it. Why would they risk their lives to burn down a stupid haystack?"

"Well,
something
started it," he said. "It wasn't lightning. Someone had to
set
this fire!"

Antonina faced him innocently. "You don't know? I'm almost positive who set the fire," she said.

The amazed-looking German waited for her to solve the mystery.

As Antonina continued in a friendly, conversational tone, rarely used German words floated up from a deep bog of memory. "Your soldiers take their girlfriends to that place all the time. The days are still pretty cold, and it's cozy to sit in hay. Most likely a couple was there again today, they smoked a cigarette, and left a butt there. . .and you know the rest." Despite her poor German, he understood perfectly well and started to laugh.

Heading into the house, they talked of other things.

"What happened to the zoo's animals?" he asked. "You had the twelfth elephant born in captivity. I read about it in the newspaper. Where is she now?"

Antonina explained that Tuzinka survived the first days of bombings, and that Lutz Heck had shipped her to Königsberg with some other animals. As they approached the porch, two German policemen pulled up on a motorcycle with a sidecar, and her companion told them the whole story, after which the men laughed crudely, then they all went indoors to write a report.

Soon after they left the telephone rang. She heard a stern German voice say, "This is the Gestapo," then speak too fast for her to follow. But she caught the words "Fire?" and "Who am I talking to?"

"The haystack was on fire," she said as best she could. "A building burned down, a fire truck came, and everything is fine now. The German police were already here and they wrote a report."

"You say they did an investigation? Everything is fine? Okay.
Danke schön
."

Her hand was shaking so hard she had trouble setting the telephone receiver back on its cradle, as all the events of the past hour started flooding in on her and she replayed them inside her head, making sure she'd done and said the right things. With the coast clear, the Guests came out of hiding and hugged her, praising her bravery. In her diary, she noted that she "couldn't wait to tell Jan."

During supper, Jan listened to the whole story, but instead of the hoped-for approval, he grew quiet and thoughtful.

"We all know that our Punia is a wunderkind," he said. "But I'm a little surprised that everyone is so excited about this event. She acted exactly the way I'd expect her to. Let me explain what I mean from a psychological point of view.

"You already know from our stories about the zoo before the war that whenever I had a tough problem with some animal—whether it was sick or hard to feed or just too wild—I would always assign the animal to Punia. And I was right to, because nobody can handle animals as well. Why am I telling you this? Not as an advertisement for her, or to prove how wonderful she is, or how much in love I am, or to make her feel good. As we all know, even as a child, Punia lived around a lot of animals and identified with them.

"It's as if she's porous. She's almost able to read their minds. It's a snap for her to find out what's bothering her animal friends. Maybe because she treats them like people. But you've seen her. At a moment's notice, she can lose her
Homo sapiens
nature and transform herself into a panther, badger, or muskrat!"

"Well, as an artist working with animals," Magdalena said, laughing, "I have a flawless eye for these things, and I've always said that she is a young female lion."

Jan continued: "She has a precise and very special gift, a way of observing and understanding animals that's rare, certainly not typical for an untrained woman naturalist. It's unique, a sixth sense."

Antonina listened with pride to her husband's surprising speech, a banquet of praise so lengthy and rare that immediately afterward she recorded his words verbatim in her diary, adding: "He was talking about my talents, praising me in the presence of other people. It never happened before!. . .He was serious!? He had called me 'silly' so often I'd started hearing it as a second name."

"I'm talking about this," Jan said, "to explain a little how animals react in different situations. We know how cautious wild animals can be, how easily they scare when their instinct tells them to defend themselves. When they sense a stranger crossing their territory, they get aggressive for their own protection. But, in Punia's case, it's like that instinct is absent, leaving her unafraid of either two-or four-legged animals. Nor does she convey fear. That combination might persuade people or animals around her not to attack. Especially animals, which are better at telepathy than humans, and can read each other's brain waves.

"When our Punia radiates a calm and friendly interest in her animals. . .she works as a sort of lighting rod for their fear, absorbs it, neutralizes it. Through her comforting tone of voice, her gentle movements, the safe way her eyes meet them, she imparts a trust in her ability to protect them, heal them, nourish them, and so on.

"You see what I'm trying to say—Punia is able to emit waves of calm and understanding. Humans aren't as sensitive as other animals when it comes to signaling in this way, but everyone can tap into some of these invisible waves, more or less, depending on how sensitive their nervous system is. I think some people are much better at catching these signals, and I don't think that it has any connection with intellectual ability. It may even be that more primitive organisms are more receptive. If we were to use scientific nomenclature, we might ask: What kind of psychic transmitter is Punia, and what kind of message is she sending?"

Jan seems to have been influenced by Friedrich Bernhard Marby (1882–1966), an occultist, astrologer, and anti-Nazi who combined the occult tradition of Nordic runes with the scientific principles of his day:

man as a sensitive receiver and transmitter of cosmic waves and rays, which animated the entire universe and whose specific nature and effect were dependent on planetary influences, earth magnetism, and the physical form of the landscape.

If Jan were alive today, he'd know about the role of
mirror neurons
in the brain, special cells in the premotor cortex that fire right before a person reaches for a rock, steps forward, turns away, begins to smile. Amazingly, the same neurons fire whether we do something or watch someone else do the same thing, and both summon similar feelings. Learning from our own mishaps isn't as safe as learning from someone else's, which helps us decipher the world of intentions, making our social whirl possible. The brain evolved clever ways to spy or eavesdrop on risk, to fathom another's joy or pain quickly, as detailed sensations, without resorting to words. We feel what we see, we experience others as self.

"It's a funny thing," Jan went on, "she's not a child, she's not stupid, but her relationship with other people tends to be very naïve; she believes that everyone is honest and kind. Punia knows that there are bad people around her, too, she recognizes them from a distance. But she really can't believe that they may hurt her.

"Another thing Punia has going for her is the way she observes her surroundings and notices every little detail. She saw German soldiers dating their girls on that haystack, and knowing the Germans' crude sense of humor, she used it well in this particular situation. She didn't worry about her German vocabulary being poor, because her voice and speech are very musical and calming. Her instinct and intuition told her exactly what to do. And, of course, her looks were her trump card. She's tall, thin, blond—the ideal figure of a German woman, the Nordic type. I'm sure that was a big plus, too.