Warsaw (4 page)

Halina Rubenstein sighed, tired and famished. She closed her
eyes and quietly absorbed the aching discomfort from her shoes again.

"You'll have to remove all that stuff from the table
first if you want to eat. Put it all in the cupboard Kolya."

"Please, may I be excused from eating for now Mama? I'm
tired and not really hungry at the moment. May I have a nap on your bed?"

"Okay, rest but then you must eat. If you feel worse,
tell me," Halina answered, her tone suddenly maternal.

"Thank you Mama - and sorry Mama," she meekly,
tiredly, exclaimed.

Jessica closed the worn curtain behind her which substituted
for a door between the two rooms. Hunger chomped upon her stomach and she was
tempted to change her mind and eat with the family but she couldn't muster the
energy. Jessica desired to be on her own, to sleep, more. Hugging her pillow
like she did when she was a girl - when she was too old for dolls - Jessica
finally drifted off to sleep, forcibly trying to replay her conversation and
picture the Corporal's friendly face as he had kindly escorted her home.

Kolya lit the candle and, as that signalled to Halina that
it was officially night time and her day was over, she allowed herself to
remove her shoes. After clearing the table she took up her usual position of
resting near the window, feet up upon the family trunk, gazing out of the
greying pane whilst sewing - and wondering when the Russians or British were
coming.

Kolya and his Papa had their routine too as the solitary
candle upon the dining table glimmered dimly. Both would hunch around the light
with a book (either the Bible or a collection of children's stories by Tolstoy
that Solomon had himself owned and read from when he was boy). Sometimes the
routine would change slightly, maybe Solomon would ask his son to translate the
Bible into Polish, from Hebrew, or vice versa read the Tolstoy in Hebrew, which
was written in Polish. "Clever boy," Solomon would proudly say as his
son did so, pleasure just about traceable in his enervated features. A year or
so ago Solomon had tried to teach his son English but his memory and
concentration too often failed him. Their routine had been the same for so long
now that one couldn't tell if Kolya read to his father because it made him
happy, or did Solomon let his son read to him because it seemed to give
pleasure to his boy? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

"Can't we read from the new book Papa?" Kolya
eagerly said, holding the soft leather cover to his small chest.

"No, we'll wait for your sister. She might like to read
it as well Kolya."

"Can I wake her up then?"

"No, let her sleep. Read me a Psalm - and then pick a
story of your choosing."

Briefly creasing up his small but expressive face in
disappointment Kolya nevertheless retrieved the heavy, fading book. The page
marker was left in the Book of Joshua but Kolya turned to the Psalms. Believing
it to be his father's favourite extract, as Solomon often requested it to console
himself or his son, the boy, in a solemn and pleasing voice, read from the
book,

"Whoever goes to the Lord for safety,

Whoever remains under the protection of the Almighty,

  
can say to him,

‘You are my defender and protector.

  
You are my God; in
you I trust’

He will keep you safe from all hidden dangers

  
and from all
deadly diseases.

He will cover you with his wings;

  
You will be safe
in his care;

  
His faithfulness
will protect and defend you.

You need not fear any dangers at night

  
Or sudden attacks
during the day

  
Or the plagues
that strike in the dark

  
Or the evils that
kill in the daylight.

A thousand may fall dead beside you,

  
Ten thousand all
around you,

  
But you will not
be harmed.

You will look and see

  
How the wicked are
punished.

You have made the Lord your defender,

  
the Most High your
protector,

  
and so no disaster
will strike you,

  
No violence will
come near your home.

God will put his angels in charge of you

  
to protect you
wherever you go.

They will hold you up with their hands

  
to keep you from
hurting your feet

  
on the stones.

You will trample down the lions and snakes,

  
fierce lions and
poisonous snakes.

God says, ‘I will save those who love me

  
and will protect
those who

  
acknowledge me as
Lord.

When they call to me, I will answer them;

  
when they are in
trouble, I will be with them.

I will rescue them and honour them

I will reward them with long life;

  
I will save
them."

 
Kolya glanced at his
father for approval and to witness the childish satisfaction lined in his
features but the old man had once again retreated into himself, seemingly
staring into nothingness. Dumb. Distracted. The flame from the candle bent and
wriggled as the depressed doctor breathed upon it through his hairy nostrils.
As to their routine though, Kolya continued to read on.

4.

The evening was mild and clear. A luminous orb of a moon
hung happily in the night sky surrounded by a bright vista of stars. For a
moment Duritz, with a glimpse of peace and wonder in his expression, got lost
in the lustrous firmament but he was soon brought back down to earth as a
policeman's cudgel nudged him in the ribs.

"Hey, I said the alley's clear. We can move on."

Yitzhak Meisel was Duritz's companion for the evening. They
were policing curfew together. Duritz shot his partner a look to show his
displeasure of his fellow constable having touched and disturbed him.
Everything about Yitzhak Meisel - his guttural accent, pockmarked face, the
nasty odour from the onion soup which he frequently ate, his morals, being -
conspired to vex the young Jewish student. His bald head and hook nose made him
look like an eagle or rat even. Even before the ghetto Meisel's profession was
that of petty thief, bully and smuggler. "The ghetto is the best thing
that has ever happened to me," he had once joked distastefully to Duritz,
"my belly is always full, I am a figure of respect and authority - and I
no longer have to pay for it (sex)," he had remarked with a wink to the
new recruit. Indeed had it not been partly due to Meisel's example and tuition
that Duritz had begun to abuse his position and extort and accept various
favours?

"Watch where you're pointing that thing," he
warned. In a way Duritz sometimes wished that the bully would goad him further
one time so he could teach him a lesson, give him a taste of the medicine which
he so contentedly dished out to inhabitants of the ghetto.

"Why are you in such a miserable mood tonight?" he
replied, wary of the fiery look in the unstable student's eyes. Although Meisel
was far from scared of the bigger, stronger Duritz, he had no wish to
antagonise him and unduly start a fight. At the back of his mind Yitzhak also
weighed up that, should there ever be a dispute between the two policemen, the
Germans would side with the clever student who could speak their language.

"Perhaps it is because of the company I have to
keep."

"Maybe. You are a loner after all. Even the boys have
noticed how unsociable you are."

"I really, passionately, couldn't care less. Now let's
get this over and done with."

The two spectral figures continued to methodically patrol
their quarter of the district through the lambent moonlight. A few impish eyes
of children gazing through murky windows followed them. So too a few adult
faces tried to discern who was doing the rounds, making pointed comments to
their housemates about the relevant constables as they did so,

"I think he actually enjoys his work that
Yitzhak...They're all the same...Is that Adam Duritz? Just like his father that
one...One day that snake Meisel will get what's coming to him...You see that
man on the left, boy, never make eye contact with him or talk to him... I
remember his mother, a lovely woman. She'd be turning in her grave if she could
see him now..."

Such had been the systematic professionalism of the Germans,
who had performed the task initially, the two policemen rarely stumbled upon
anything or anyone suspicious during their curfew rounds together. They had
only encountered this evening one pair of ghoulish eyes staring up at them,
huddled up and prostrate upon the pavement. A half-naked beggar. His twig limbs
looked as if they could snap or prick through his stretched skin at any moment.
They left him. Yitzhak made a mental note of his location for the morning; if
he needed him he could make up one of his five. Duritz too, oppressed by pity
and guilt but also the necessity to turn oneself into a block of stone, made a
note of the poor soul. Perhaps neither one of the policemen would get there first
however. On their way home Duritz had heard the distant rumble of German
trucks. They may well be just shooting them now and loading them on, Duritz
thought to himself, cleaning the streets of anyone they discovered - locking
them into the trains ready for tomorrow. Or it could've been Kleist. The
policeman struggled up the stairs with a heavier heart than usual after his
duties - he had been thinking of Jessica Rubenstein again - and locked himself
away in his room. Entombed.

Lieutenant Christian Kleist took one last drag on his
cigarette and tossed it out from the open-topped truck. He stood on the
passenger side with his hunting rifle in his hand, the barrel resting upon the
top of the vehicle's windscreen. A large signet ring on his left hand glinted
in the moonlight. Four of his SS acolytes, loyal and zealous Privates grinning
with drink and anticipation in their eyes, sat in the back. One of them held a
rifle to the eight emaciated prisoners they were guarding. An identical truck,
carrying just its driver, was parked ten metres behind. An eeriness and
humidity filled the street.

The tanned, clean-shaven officer turned his nose up in
disgust at the stench, thinking to himself that he needed to almost shower in
cologne to help fend it off, but nevertheless Christian Kleist was in a capital
mood. He recalled again the telegram that had come from Himmler no less. It had
praised him, saying that his superior officers had said good things about him.
But so too, he needed to not only keep up the good work, but to also re-double
his efforts. His father was also proud of him. Christian's father, Jorge
Kleist, was a wealthy industrialist who had long been in the service of the
Nazi Party and vice versa. Although his father had been fretful of his son
accepting a commission, Christian had believed it his duty to enlist. The cause
was a worthy, noble one. The patriotic Lieutenant afforded himself a portion of
self-congratulations also. The U-Boat battle in the Atlantic and Rommel's war
in Africa were, at best, hanging in the balance and the progress in Russia
didn't bare thinking about - but was not he winning on his Front? If one
measured their success in statistical terms were the numbers of evacuees not
impressively greater - rising in real and percentage terms - each month? The SS
officer took his duties and mission seriously. Every day he oversaw the loading
of the evacuees for resettlement at the station. Once a week he would ride
along with one of the trains himself from the ghetto to Treblinka, inspecting and
improving the operation, even if just by the tiniest detail. He consciously
tried to apply and modify the conveyor belt techniques and economies of scale
that he had learned from running one of his father's armament factories. And
his efforts and dedication were paying off. He was a rising star in the eyes of
the Party, or so Christian convinced himself. He knew that some of his fellow
officers took umbrage at his ambitiousness and self-appointed briefs, which
sometimes even extended into the spheres of his superiors, but Christian knew
that he had the patronage and support of Himmler himself. Indeed there was a
chance that he could even make the rank Major by the end of the year - the
Lieutenant richly told himself.

And so, partly in celebration of his unofficial commendation
from Himmler, Christian had treated himself to a fine bottle of claret with
dinner and informed his Corporal that he wanted some sport tonight. The
adjutant had taken his meaning to arrange one of his ‘hunting’ trips. Christian
had also asked his Corporal to specifically invite a young Wehrmacht Private,
Dietmar, in order to introduce the new recruit to his inner circle.

"Check the light again would you Private," the
Lieutenant instructed in an effortlessly well-bred, succinct accent. The Party
Member smoothed his eyebrow, both to preen himself and wipe away any
perspiration that might thread its way down from his brow into his eyes.

"Yes sir," issued an eager Private who switched on
and then off a searchlight which had been mounted onto the truck behind the
Lieutenant's head. The powerful beam produced a large cone of amber light on
the dismal street.

"Right, I believe it's about time we released our seven
little ducks, wouldn't you agree men?" Christian Kleist said cheerfully.
He had a variety of terms for his ‘ducks’, including ‘prey’, ‘vermin’ and ‘clay
pigeons’. The Privates (including the half-drunk, wholly enthusiastic Dietmar)
replied by kicking, cuffing and nudging their passengers out of the truck. They
indicated to one of the Jews to remain seated however. The soldiers then
proceeded to line them up before the Lieutenant at the front of the vehicle.
For a brief moment the officer turned his attention to the virginal Wehrmacht
Private and gave him an appreciative, encouraging nod. The captives, including
two women, were in a variety of physical and mental conditions. A couple were
in no better shape than the beggar that Duritz had encountered earlier on in
the evening. A few however seemed alert and in reasonably good health. A couple
of the prisoners knew what was coming from hearing about Kleist and his
previous hunts. Pale with terror they nevertheless tried to rein themselves in
- breathing deeply to fill their lungs with oxygen - so as to form some species
of strategy as to what to do - either to run as quickly as possible in a
straight line or zigzag towards the end of the street. Some prayed. Some
thought of their loved ones. The distinguished, infamous SS officer addressed
them in faultless Polish; he smiled immaculately before doing so, his teeth
gleaming in the moonlight like a sabre.

"Listen carefully, your aim is to run and reach the end
of the street. I will not lie to you. Most of you probably won't make it but,
should you do so, you have my word that you will be released and allowed to
return to your families or wherever you crawled out from. Now, spread
yourselves out along the width of the street. When you hear the gun you may
begin."

Before they were able to fan themselves out along the street
the Private who had remained in the truck switched on the searchlight again, as
was his task to do, and watched in amusement as the beam scorched their eyes
and they cowered before the simple light with their hands in front of their
faces.

The Private's pistol sounded just before the disorientated
prisoners reached their starting positions. Christian Kleist employed a variety
of tactics during his hunts, both to amuse himself and also so he could conduct
experiments as to what was the most efficient or entertaining strategy. He would
sometimes just try and shoot his quarry from left to right, or he would start
in the middle and shoot the prey on the ends last. Sometimes he would also
challenge himself and either attempt to kill his targets as quickly as possible
- before they were even half-way down the range. Or occasionally the Lieutenant
would test his skills by allowing them to get to the end of the street before
he commenced firing.

Enfeebled and petrified the first prisoner was slaughtered,
barely getting out of the blocks; he was in the area of the Private's
searchlight from the beginning. He dropped immediately, from his death and the
force of the shot. The sound of the shot, echoing throughout the closed in
street, reverberated in the air like thunder. A sobbing woman, barely running,
fell next. No sooner did she feel and see the dreaded light upon her than it
was over. A steely, demonic determination now possessed the Lieutenant's face -
or rather he possessed it. Satisfied with his first two torso shots he
nevertheless impatiently announced to the similarly pumped up Private
"Again. More!"; Dietmar looked on, exhilarated. For an instant the
Lieutenant became unfocused as the fateful, florescent beam fell upon two
targets simultaneously. The first he but winged, the bullet ripping through the
man's knee cap - almost severing his leg. Annoyed with his miss the huntsman
nevertheless regained his composure and felled his next target. The following
two targets were similarly clinically dispatched, one of which held his hands
behind his head whilst running as if they might provide protection against any
bullets. But one target remained and for a moment or two the searchlight
frantically darted about like a giant fire-fly in the inky blackness. Blanking
everything else out the final prisoner, one who had thought about his strategy
beforehand, had made his way to the edge of the street, running on the
pavement. He had surprised his opponents by his pace. Tuning his ear to the
desperate footsteps and hoarse panting the Private soon found his last
troublesome ‘duck’ and fastened the beam onto the fast-moving silhouette. The
man, a father of three and watchmaker by trade, continued to run but, as the
light illuminated his path his heart and face automatically began to tremble
and his legs nearly gave way from under him. Kleist swore underneath his breath
as he snatched and missed with his first shot. Gritting his teeth, narrowing
his eye, the Lieutenant could only wing his prey with his second shot. A hot,
cruel pain thudded into the prisoner's right shoulder. Disorientated and deaf,
from the bullet's hail ringing in his lobes and the warm flesh covering the
side of his head, the prisoner nevertheless made it to the end of the street.
He finally collapsed, wheezing and half-crying.

The frustrated, snarling Lieutenant pulled his trigger again
but he felt but a click instead of the report of the rifle jamming into his
shoulder. Spitting out a curse he removed his Luger pistol from its holster and
immediately began to aim and fire at the slippery Jew. Such was the prisoner's
distance, or the officer's loss of focus, the rounds fell just shy of the
wounded target. Cursing again the indignant Christian Kleist removed himself
from the truck and purposefully began to march down the street. With almost
perfect insouciance he silenced the man groaning and writhing on the ground who
had been shot in the leg, shooting him in the face. The wary Privates
approached not nor spoke to their superior officer. The only figure to meet his
heated gaze was that of his quarry. Resigned to his fate, perhaps even thankful
that it was now all going to be over, the bloodied mensch spared not a thought
for his own fate but used his last minute or so to pray for his family. The
Lieutenant tempered his fury towards himself by heaping it upon the insolent
parasite that cowered and crouched by his feet. Even in death though the
prisoner managed to grate upon the fervent Nazi's being by spoiling his freshly
polished soft leather boots.