Sophie's Choice (52 page)

front of me or my mother or anyone like that. At least when I was a child. But in Italy, you see, at Oberbozen with Princess Czartoryska it was different. She was an eighty-year-old woman who always wore fine long gowns even in the middle of the summer, and wore jewelry--she had an immense emerald brooch, I remember--and she and my father would have tea in her very elegant Sennhütte, chalet, that is, and talk about the Jews. They always spoke in German. She had a beautiful Bernese mountain dog and I would play with the dog and overhear their conversation, almost always about the Jews. About sending them off somewhere, all of them, getting rid of them. The Princess even wanted to establish a fund for it. They were always talking about islands--Ceylon and Sumatra and Cuba but mostly Madagascar, where they would send the Jews. I would half listen while I played some game with Princess Czartoryska's little grandson, who was English, or played with the big dog or listened to the music on this phonograph. It was the music, you see, Stingo, that has to do with my dream." Sophie fell silent again, and she pressed her fingers against her closed eyes. Something quickened in the monotone of her voice. She turned to me, as if she had become diverted from her remembrance. "We will have music where we're going, then, Stingo. I wouldn't be able to last long without music." "Well, I'll be honest, Sophie. Out in the sticks--outside New York, that is--there's nothing on the radio. No WQXR, no WNYC. Only Milton Cross and the Metropolitan Opera on Saturday afternoon. The rest is hillbilly. Some of it's terrific. Maybe I'll make you a Roy Acuff fan. But like I say, the first thing we'll do after we move in is to buy a record player and records--" "I've been so spoiled," she put in, "after all the music Nathan bought me. But it's my blood, my life's blood, you know, and I can't help it." She paused, once again collecting the strands of her memory. Then she said, "Princess Czartoryska had a phonograph. It was one of those early machines, not very good, but it was the first one I had ever seen or heard. Strange, isn't it, this old Polish Jew-hater with her love of music. She had a lot of records and it almost drove me mad with pleasure when she'd put them on for our benefit--my mother and my father and me and maybe some other guests--and we'd listen to these recordings. Most of them were arias from Italian and French operas--Verdi and Rossini and Gounod--but there was one record that I remember just made me nearly swoon, I loved it so. It must have been a rare and precious record. It's hard to believe now, because it was very old and filled with noise, but I just adored it. It was Madame Schumann-Heink singing Brahms Lieder. On one side there was 'Der Schmied,' I remember, and on the other was 'Von ewige Liebe,' and when I first heard it I sat there in a trance listening to that wonderful voice coming through all those scratches, thinking all the while that it was the most gorgeous singing I had ever heard, that it was an angel come down to earth. Strange, I heard those two songs only once during all the times I went with my father to visit the Princess. I longed to hear them again. Oh God, I felt I would do almost anything--do something very naughty, even--to hear them once more, and I was just so hungry to ask that they be played again, but I was too shy, and besides, my father would have punished me if I had ever been so... so bold... "So in the dream that has returned to me over and over I see Princess Czartoryska in her handsome gown go to the phonograph and she turns and always says, as if she were talking to me, 'Would you like to hear the Brahms Lieder?' And I always try to say yes. But just before I can say anything my father interrupts. He is standing next to the Princess and he is looking directly at me, and he says, 'Please don't play that music for the child. She is much too stupid to understand.' And then I wake up with this pain... Only this time it was even worse, Stingo. Because in the dream I had just now he seemed to be talking to the Princess not about the music but about..." Sophie hesitated, then murmured, "About my death. He wanted me to die, I think." I turned away from Sophie. I walked the few steps to the window, filled with a disquietude and unhappiness that was like a deep, twisting, visceral pain. A faint and bitter odor of combustion had seeped into the room, but despite this I opened the window and saw where smoke drifted down the street in fragile bluish veils. In the distance over the burning building a cloud rose in dingy turbulence but I saw no flame. The stench, growing stronger, was of scorched paint or tar or varnish mingled with hot rubber. More sirens sounded, but this time dimly, from the opposite direction, and I glimpsed a plume of water that gushed skyward toward hidden windows, met some hidden inferno and then evaporated in a nimbus of steam. Along the sidewalks below gawkers in shirt sleeves sidled tentatively toward the fire, and I saw two policemen begin to block the street with wooden barricades. There was no threat to the hotel, or to us, but I found myself shivering with anxiety. Just as I turned back to Sophie, she looked up at me from the bed and said, "Stingo, I must tell you something now that I've never told anyone before. Never before." "Tell me, then." "Without knowing this, you wouldn't understood anything about me at all. And I realize I must tell someone at last." "Tell me, Sophie." "You must get me a drink first." With no hesitation I went to her suitcase and plucked from the slippery jumble of linen and silk the second pint bottle of whiskey which I knew she had hidden there. Sophie, get drunk, I thought, you earned it. Then I walked to the tiny bathroom and half filled a sickly-green plastic glass with water and brought it to the bed. Sophie poured whiskey into the glass until it was full. "Do you want some?" she said. I shook my head and returned to the window, inhaling the brown chemical, acrid breaths of the distant blaze. "On the day I arrived at Auschwitz," I heard her say behind me, "it was beautiful. The forsythia was in bloom." I was eating bananas in Raleigh, North Carolina, I thought, thinking this not for the first time since I had known Sophie, yet perhaps for the first time in my life aware of the meaning of the Absurd, and its conclusive, unrevocable horror. "But you see, Stingo, in Warsaw one night that winter Wanda had foretold her own death and also my death and the death of my children." I don't recall precisely when, during Sophie's description of those happenings, the Reverend Entwistle began to hear himself whisper, "Oh God, oh my God." But I did seem to be aware, during the time of the telling of her story, while the smoke churned up over the nearby roofs and the fire erupted at last toward the sky in fierce incandescence, that those words which had commenced in pious Presbyterian entreaty became finally meaningless. By which I mean that the "Oh God" or "Oh my God" or even "Jesus Christ" that were whispered again and again were as empty as any idiot's dream of God, or the idea that there could be such a Thing. "I sometimes got to think that everything bad on earth, every evil that was ever invented had to do with my father. That winter in Warsaw, I didn't feel any guilt about my father and what he had written. But I did feel often this terrible shame, which is not the same as guilt. Shame is a dirty feeling that is even more hard to take than guilt, and I could barely live with the idea that my father's dreams were coming true right in front of my eyes. I got to know a lot of other things because I was living with Wanda, or very close to her. She got so much information about what was going on everywhere, and I knew already about how they were transporting thousands of Jews to Treblinka and Auschwitz. At first it was thought that they were just being sent for labor, but the Resistance had good intelligence and pretty soon we knew the truth, knew about the gassings and cremations and everything. It was what my father had wanted--and it made me ill. "When I went to my job at the tar-paper factory I would go on foot or sometimes by streetcar past the ghetto. The Germans had not bled dry the ghetto yet, but they were in the process. Often I could see these lines of Jews with their arms upraised being pushed along like cattle, the Nazis pointing guns at them. The Jews looked so gray and helpless; once I had to get off the streetcar and get sick. And all through this my father seemed to. .. authorize this horror, not only authorize it but create it in some way. I couldn't keep it bottled up any longer and I knew I had to tell someone. No one in Warsaw knew much about my background, I was living under my married name. I decided to tell Wanda about this... about this badness. "And yet... and yet, you know, Stingo, I had to admit something else to myself. And this was that I was fascinated by this unbelievable thing that was happening to the Jews. I couldn't put my finger on it, this feeling. It was not at all pleasure. It was the opposite, if anything--sickening. And yet when I'd walk past the ghetto at a distance I would stop and really be entranced by certain sights, by seeing them rounding up the Jews. And I knew then the reason for this fascination, and it stunned me. I could barely breathe with the knowledge. It was just that I suddenly knew that as long as the Germans could use up all this incredible energy destroying the Jews--superhuman energy, really--I was safe. No, not really safe, but safer. Bad as things were, we were oh so much safer than these trapped, helpless Jews. And so as long as the Germans were draining off so much power destroying the Jews, I felt safer for myself and for Jan and Eva. And even Wanda and Jozef, with all the dangerous things they were doing. But this just made me feel more ashamed, and so, on this night I am talking about, I decided to tell Wanda. "We were finishing this very poor meal, I remember--beans and turnip soup and a kind of joke sausage. We had been talking about all the music we'd missed hearing. I had delayed all during the dinner to say what I really wanted, then I finally got the courage, saying, 'Wanda, did you ever hear the name Biegañski? Zbigniew Biegañski?' "Wanda's eyes looked vacant for a moment. 'Oh yes, you mean the Fascist professor from Cracow. He was well known for a while before the war. He made hysterical speeches here in the city against the Jews. I had forgotten all about him. I wonder what ever happened to him. He's probably working for the Germans.' "'He's dead,' I said. 'He was my father.' "I could see Wanda shiver. It was so cold outside and inside. There was this spitting sound of sleet against the window. The children were in bed in the next room. I'd put them there because I'd run out of fuel, coal or wood, in my own apartment downstairs, and Wanda had at least a big comforter on the bed to keep them warm. I kept looking at Wanda, but there was no emotion on her face. She said after a bit, 'So he was your father. It must have been strange to have had such a man for a father. What was he like?' "I was surprised at this reaction, she seemed to take it so calmly, so naturally. I mean, of all the people in the Resistance in Warsaw, she was the one who maybe done the most to help the Jews--or to try to help the Jews, it was so difficult. I suppose you could call it her specialty, trying to get aid to the ghetto. She felt, too, that anyone who betrayed the Jews, or a single Jew, was betraying Poland. It was Wanda who started Jozef on this way of murdering Poles who betrayed Jews. She was so militant about this, so dedicated, a socialist. But she didn't seem to be at all shocked or anything that my father had been who he had been, and she obviously didn't feel that I was--well, contaminated. I said, 'I find it very difficult to talk about him.' And she said back to me very gently, 'Well, don't, dear heart. I don't care who your father was. You can't be blamed for his miserable sins.' "Then I said, 'It's so strange, you know. He was killed by the Germans inside the Reich. At Sachsenhausen.' But even this--well, even this irony didn't seem to impress her. She just blinked and ran her hand through her hair. Her hair was red and wispy, with no gleam in it at all--so drab and wispy because of the bad food. She just said, 'He must have been one of those faculty members at the Jagiellonian who caught it right after the occupation began.' "I said, 'Yes, and my husband too. I never told you about that. He was a disciple of my father's. I hated him. I've lied to you. I hope you'll forgive me for once telling you that he died fighting during the invasion.' "And I started to finish what I was saying--this apology--but Wanda cut me off. She lit a cigarette, I remember she smoked like a fiend whenever she could get cigarettes. And she said, 'Zosia sweetheart, it don't matter. For God's sake, do you think I care what they were? It's you that matters. Your husband could have been a gorilla and your father Joseph Goebbels and you'd still be my dearest friend.' She went to the window then and pulled down the blind. She only did this when there was some danger coming. The apartment was five floors up, but it was in this building that stuck up out of some bombed-out lots and anything that went on could perhaps be spotted by the Germans. So Wanda never took any chances. I remember she looked at her watch and said, 'We're going to have visitors in a minute. Two Jewish leaders from the ghetto. They're coming to collect a bundle of pistols.' "I remember thinking: Christ in heaven! My heart always gave a terrible jump and I'd feel this nausea go through me whenever Wanda mentioned guns, or secret rendezvous, or anything having to do with danger or the possibility of being ambushed by the Germans. To get caught helping Jews meant death, you know. I would get all clammy and weak--oh, I was such a coward! I would hope Wanda had not noticed these symptoms, and whenever I had them I would sometimes wonder if cowardice wasn't another bad thing I inherited from my father. But Wanda was saying, 'I've heard of one of these Jews through the grapevine. He's supposed to be a very brave type, very competent. He's desperate, though. There's some resistance now, but it's disorganized. He sent a message to our group saying that there's bound to be a full-scale revolt in the ghetto soon. We've had some dealings with others, but this man's a powerhouse--a mover. I think his name is Feldshon.' "We waited for a while for the two Jews, but they didn't come. Wanda told me the guns were hidden in the basement of the building. I went into the bedroom to look at the children. Even in the bedroom the air was so cold it was like a knife, and there was this little cloud of vapor over Jan's and Eva's heads. I could hear the wind whistling
through the cracks around the window. But this comforter was a huge old Polish comforter filled with goose down and it protected the children in place of heating. I remember praying, though, that I would be able to get some coal or wood for my own place the next day. Outside the window it was so incredibly black, a whole city in darkness. I was just shuddering with the cold. That evening Eva had had a cold and a very bad earache and she had taken a long time to go to sleep. She had been in such pain. But Wanda had found some aspirin, which was very scarce--Wanda could find almost anything--and Eva was asleep. I gave another prayer that in the morning her infection would be gone, and the pain. Then I heard a knock at the door and I went back to the living room. "I don't remember the other Jew too well--he didn't say much--but I do remember Feldshon. He was stocky and sandy-haired and in, I guess, his mid-forties and had these piercing, intelligent eyes. They pierced through you even though they came through these thick glasses, and I remember one lens was cracked and had been glued back. I remember how angry he seemed, beneath the politeness. He just seemed to be seething with anger and resentment, even though his manners were okay. He said right away to Wanda, 'I won't be able to pay you now, to reimburse you right away for the weapons.' I couldn't understand his Polish too well, it was rather, you know, groping and difficult. 'Certainly I'll be able to pay you soon,' he said in this clumsy, angry voice, 'but not now.' "Wanda told him and the other Jew to sit down, and began speaking in German. What she first said was very crude. 'Your accent is German. You may talk German with us, or Yiddish if you'd care to--' "But he interrupted her in this angry, irritated way, in perfect German, 'I don't need to speak Yiddish! I was speaking German before you were born--' "Then Wanda very quickly interrupted him. 'There's no need for elaborate explanation. Speak German. My friend and I both speak German. You won't be required to pay us for weapons at any time, particularly not now. These were stolen from the SS, and we wouldn't want your money under such circumstances. We can use funds, though. We'll talk about money some other time.' We sat down. She sat next to Feldshon underneath this dim bulb. The light was yellow and pulsing, we never knew how long it would last. She offered Feldshon and the other Jew cigarettes, which they took. She said, 'They're Yugoslav cigarettes, also stolen from the Germans. This light may go out at any minute now, so let's talk business. But first I want to know something. What's your background, Feldshon? I want to know whom I'm dealing with and I have the right to know. So spit it out. We might be doing business for some time.' "It was remarkable, you know, this way that Wanda had, this absolutely direct way she had of dealing with people--anybody, strangers. It was almost--The word would be brazen, I guess, and she was like a tough man that way, but there was enough in her that was young and female, a certain softness too, that allowed her to get by with it. I remember looking at her. She looked very... haggard, I guess you would say. She hadn't had any sleep for two nights, always working, moving, always in some danger. She spent much time working on an underground newspaper; this was so dangerous. I think I told you, she was not really beautiful--she had this milky-pale freckled face with a large jaw--but there was such magnetism in her that it transformed her, made her strangely attractive. I kept looking at her--her face was as harsh and impatient as the Jew's--and this intensity was just very remarkable to see. Hypnotic. "Feldshon said, 'I was born in Bydgoszcz, but my parents took me to Germany when I was a small child.' Then his voice became angry and sarcastic: 'That's the reason for my poor Polish. I confess that some of us speak it as little as possible in the ghetto. It would be pleasant to speak a language other than that of an oppressor. Tibetan? Eskimo?' Then he said more softly, 'Pardon the diversion. I grew up in Hamburg and was educated there. I was one of the first students at the new university. Later I became a teacher in a gymnasium. In Würzburg. I taught French and English literature. I was teaching there when I was arrested. When it was discovered that I was born in Poland, I was deported here, in 1938, with my wife and daughter, along with quite a few other Jews of Polish birth.' He stopped, then said bitterly, 'We escaped the Nazis and now they're hammering down the walls. But whom should I fear more, the Nazis or the Poles--the Poles whom I suppose I should consider my compatriots? At least I know what the Nazis are capable of.' "Wanda ignored this. She began talking about the guns. She said that at the moment they were in the basement of the building, wrapped in heavy paper. There was also a box of ammunition. She looked at her watch and said that in exactly fifteen minutes two Home Army members would be in the basement ready to transfer the boxes to the hallway. There was a prearranged signal. When she heard it she said she would give a sign to Feldshon and the other Jew. They would leave the apartment immediately and go down the stairs to the hallway, where the parcels would be waiting. Then they would get out of the building as fast as possible. I remember she said she wanted to point one thing out. One of the pistols--they were Lugers, I remember--had a broken firing pin or a broken something or other, but she would try to get a replacement as soon as she was able. "Feldshon then said, 'There's one thing you haven't told us. How many weapons are there?' "Wanda looked at him. 'I thought you had been told. Three Luger automatics.' "This face of Feldshon went white, it actually went white. 'I can't believe it,' he said in a whisper. 'I was told that there would be a dozen pistols, perhaps fifteen. Also some grenades. I can't believe it!' I could see how filled with rage he was, but it was also despair. He shook his head. 'Three Lugers, one with a broken firing pin. My God!' "Wanda said in this very businesslike way--trying to control her own feelings, I could tell, 'It's the best we could do at the moment. We are going to try to get more. I think we will. There are four hundred rounds of ammunition. You'll need more and we'll try to get that too.' "Feldshon suddenly said in this softer voice, a little apologetic, 'You'll forgive my reaction, I hope. I had just been led to believe more, and it's a disappointment. Also, earlier today I was trying to deal with another partisan group, trying to see whether we might be confident of help.' And he paused and looked at Wanda with this furious expression. 'It was horrible--it was unbelievable! Drunken bastards! They actually laughed at us, they sneered at us--and they enjoyed laughing and sneering. They called us kikes! These were Poles.' "Wanda asked in this matter-of-fact way, 'Who were these people?' " 'The O. N. R. they call themselves. But I had the same difficulty yesterday with another Polish Resistance group.' He looked at Wanda, filled with this rage and despair, and said, 'Three pistols I get, and sneers and laughter, to hold off twenty thousand Nazi troops. In the name of God, what is happening?' "Wanda was getting very agitated at Feldshon, I could tell, just enraged at everything--at life. 'The O. N. R., that bunch of collaborators. Fanatics, Fascists. As a Jew, you could have received more sympathy from the Ukrainians or Hans Frank. But let me give you a further word of warning. The Communists are just as bad. Worse. If you ever meet the Red partisans under General Korczynski, you risk being shot on sight.' " 'It's unspeakable!' Feldshon said. 'I'm grateful for the three pistols, but can't you see how it makes me want to laugh? There is something beyond belief going on here! Did you ever read Lord Jim? About the officer who deserts the sinking ship, taking to a lifeboat while the helpless passengers are left to their fate? Forgive me this reference, but I can't help seeing the same thing here. We are being left to drown by our countrymen!' "I saw Wanda get up and put her fingertips on the table and lean a little toward Feldshon. Again she was trying to control herself, but I could tell it was hard. She looked so pale and exhausted. And she began to talk in this desperate voice. 'Feldshon, you're either stupid or naïve or both. It seems doubtful that someone who appreciates Conrad is stupid, so you must be naïve. Surely you haven't forgotten the simple fact that Poland is an anti-Semitic country. You yourself just used the word "oppressor." Living in a nation which practically invented anti-Semitism, living in a ghetto, which we Poles originated, how could you expect any help from your compatriots? How could you expect anything except from a few of us who for whatever reason--idealism, moral conviction, simple human solidarity, whatever--want to do what we can to save some of your lives? My God, Feldshon, your parents probably left Poland with you to get Jew-haters off their backs. Poor creatures, they certainly couldn't have known that that warm, assimilating, Jew-loving, humanistic bosom of Germany would turn to fire and ice and cast you out. They couldn't have known that when you returned to Poland, there would be the same Jew-haters waiting for you and your wife and daughter, ready to grind all of you into the dust. This is a cruel country, Feldshon. It has grown so cruel over the years because it has so many times tasted defeat. Despite the Dreck that's been written in the Gospels, adversity produces not understanding and compassion, but cruelty. And defeated people like the Poles know how to be supremely cruel to other people who have set themselves apart, like you Jews. I'm surprised you got away from that O. N. R. bunch with just being called a kike!' She stopped for a second, then said, 'Do you find it strange, then, that I still love this country more than I care to say--more than life itself--and that if I had to I would willingly die for it ten minutes from now?' "Feldshon glared back at Wanda and said, 'I'm afraid I want to, but of course I can't, being ready to die myself.' "I was getting worried about Wanda. I had never seen her so tired, I guess you would say unstrung. She had been working so hard, eating so little, going without sleep. Her voice would crack every now and then, and I saw her fingers tremble where she had them pressed against the table. She closed her eyes, clenched them shut, and shivered, swaying a little. I thought she might faint. Then she opened her eyes and spoke again. Her voice was hoarse and strained, filled with such grief. 'You were speaking of Lord Jim, a book I happen to know. I think your comparison is a good one, but you somehow have forgotten the ending. I think you've forgotten how in the end the hero redeems himself for his betrayal, redeems himself through his own death. His own suffering and death. Is it too much to think that some of us Poles will be able to redeem the betrayal of you Jews by our countrymen? Even if our struggle doesn't save you? No matter. Whether it does or doesn't save you, I for one will be satisfied that we tried--through our suffering, and probably even our own deaths.' "After a moment Wanda said, 'I haven't wanted to offend you, Feldshon. You're a brave man, that's plain. You've risked your life getting here tonight. I know what your ordeal is. I've known ever since last summer when I saw the first photographs smuggled out of Treblinka. I was one of the first to see them, and like everyone else, I didn't believe them at first. I believe them now. Your ordeal can't be surpassed in horror. Every time I go near the ghetto I am reminded of rats in a barrel being shot at by a madman with a machine gun. That's how I see your helplessness. But we Poles are helpless in our own way. We have more freedom than you Jews have--much more, more freedom of movement, more freedom from immediate danger--but we're still under daily siege. Instead of being like rats in a barrel, we're like rats in a burning building. We can move away from the flame, find cool spots, get down in the basement where it's safe. A tiny few can even escape from the building. Every day many of us are burned alive, but it's a big building and we are also saved by our very numbers. The fire can't get us all, and then someday--maybe--the fire is going to burn out. If it does, there'll be plenty of survivors. But the barrel--almost none of the rats in the barrel will live.' Wanda took a deep breath and looked directly at Feldshon. 'But let me ask you, Feldshon. How much concern can you expect the terrified rats in the building to have for the rats outside in the barrel--the rats whom they've never felt any kinship with, anyway?' "Feldshon just looked at Wanda. He hadn't taken his eyes off her in minutes. He didn't say anything. "Wanda looked at her watch then. 'In exactly four minutes we'll hear a whistle. That means the two of you get out of here and downstairs. The parcels will be waiting at the door.' Then, after saying that, she went on, 'Three days ago I was negotiating in the ghetto with one of your compatriots. I won't mention his name, no need for that. I'll just say that he's a leader of one of those factions which violently opposes you and your own group. I think he's a poet or a novelist. I liked him, all right, but I couldn't stand a certain thing he said. It sounded so pretentious, this way he was speaking of Jews. He used the phrase "our precious heritage of suffering." ' "At this point Feldshon broke in and said something that made us all laugh a little. Even Wanda smiled. He said, 'That could only be Lewental. Moses Lewental. Such Schmalz.' "But then Wanda said, 'I despise the idea of suffering being precious. In this war everyone suffers--Jews, Poles, Gypsies, Russians, Czechs, Yugoslavs, all the others. Everyone's a victim. The Jews are also the victims of victims, that's the main difference. But none of the suffering is precious and all die shitty deaths. Before you go I want to show you some photographs. I was carrying them in my pocket when I was speaking to Lewental. I had just gotten hold of them. I wanted to show them to him, but for some reason I didn't. I'll show them to you.' "Just then the light went out, the little bulb simply flickered out. I felt this stab of fear in the middle of my heart. Sometimes it was just the electricity failing. Others times I knew that when the Germans laid an ambush they would stop the power to a building so they could trap people in their searchlights. We all stayed still for a moment. There was some light in a glow from the little fireplace. Then when Wanda was sure it was just a light failure she got a candle and lit it. I was still shivering, afraid, when Wanda threw several snapshots on the table beneath the candle