Child of the Holocaust E-Book

Jack Kuper

• Herausgeber: The Robson Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 378

Beschreibung

What would you do if, at nine years of age, you arrived home to find your family and friends had disappeared, rounded up by the Nazis? Jack Kuper lived this nightmare, and Child of the Holocaust is the suspenseful true story of his desperate attempts to survive persecution and extermination in Poland. Forced to abandon his Jewish upbringing and disguise his true identity to hide from the death squads, Jack grew up a stranger in his own skin. Initially finding refuge with a local family, Jack's youthful tenderness for daughter-of-the-house Genia belies the terrifying aggression and virulent destruction outside. Eventually turned out by a loving foster mother in fear for her family's life, Jack wandered the treacherous Polish soil. This is his unforgettable account of suffering and, ultimately, survival in the face of the most extreme privation and hatred. For this new edition of a lost classic, Jack Kuper has revisited the manuscript for the first time since he wrote it more than forty years ago, adding new material and including the real names of those who helped him.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title Page

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

Copyright

We know that a man can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, that he can play Bach or Schubert, and go to his day’s work at Auschwitz in the morning.

George Steiner

ONE

A heavy layer of mist covered the village of Kulik, disclosing a few chimneys and thatch roofs as if they were suspended in the air.

I sat in the back of the wagon, clutching the bag of food, and listened to the wheels turning and the horse’s trot.

Mrs Pejzak sat in the front holding the reins, her back towards me. ‘Giddy up,’ she called out to the horse, hitting him across the back whenever he slowed down.

The horse too could barely be seen, and it seemed as if we were sitting on a cloud being pulled by some magic force.

Perhaps all this is a dream, I thought. When I wake I’ll find Mrs Pejzak and Genia gone.

Every week on market day, Mrs Pejzak drove into Siedliszcze. She would sell some produce and buy a dress or pair of shoes, matches, oil, or a reel of thread. Usually Genia would accompany her and I’d be left behind to feed the pigs and the chickens, take care of the cows, and wait impatiently for their return with messages from my mother.

For the first time since leaving home I was now going to see my mother. There are so many things I want to tell her. She’ll be so surprised; she probably doesn’t even expect me! What will she say when she unties the bundle and finds a loaf of bread, some potatoes, a small sack of flour, and three eggs?

I pressed this treasure against my body and could see my mother’s dark eyes beaming with pride.

The same eyes weeks earlier had covered my cheeks with tears. ‘He’s only a child, Mrs Pejzak. How can I let him go?’

‘I’m not a child any more,’ I answered indignantly. ‘I’m ten!’

‘You’re nine, Jankele.’ My mother smiled. I lowered my head.

‘Well, I’m almost ten, and don’t call me Jankele; my name is Jakob.’

The mist lifted, and a slow-rising sun appeared. The countryside now visible was moving away from me revealing mud houses with small windows and crooked chimneys from which black smoke rose, here and there a cowhand taking his herd to pasture, a cock waking the village.

In a meadow, an old farmer was ploughing. By the roadside an angry dog barked, and over the road loomed an ancient dead tree. Under it rested a stone on a crudely made grave. Buried in the cold ground beneath was my grandfather, Shie Chuen the cobbler from Pawia Street in Warsaw, but for a split second I imagined he was running behind our wagon, wearing his brown leather coat and hat with earflaps. Icicles hung from his nostrils and beard, and his worn black boots were caked with snow. One hand held the burlap bag over his right shoulder, the other reached towards me, and he called, ‘Jankele, wait! I need a ride into town.’

Several times Mrs Pejzak turned to look at me, and once, she tossed me a wink. I cracked a smile and began to sing a song Genia had taught me about an orphan named Jasio:

Driving the cows to pasture, Jasio plays the flute,

But what sad sounds drift, drift afar.

The shepherd boy plays but in his heart there is grief.

Why do you play so, Jasio? What troubles you?

Is your life on this earth so unbearable? Tell, tell me.

We now crossed a wooden bridge, entered the town, and were soon driving through winding narrow streets. It was unnaturally quiet; not a living creature to be seen, except a cat roaming the rooftops. Broken household articles littered the roads, and echoing through the streets was the horrible sound of uncontrolled laughter.

I was stunned. Mrs Pejzak lashed the horse, and ordered, ‘Giddy up.’ The horse began to gallop; the wagon jumped and shook along the cobbled road, then came to a sudden halt in the marketplace.

The stalls were not there. The square was deserted, and loose pillow feathers hung in the air like snowflakes in winter. Across the square two peasants lugged a chest of drawers out of a house. Another struggled with a mattress, a third a sewing machine; a young girl wrapped in a coat pirouetted like a ballerina.

An aged man, bent in half and clutching a tailor’s dummy, suddenly materialised beside us.

‘Praised be Jesus Christ!’ said Mrs Pejzak.

And the man answered, ‘For all the ages. Amen.’

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘You should have been here earlier, sister. There’s nothing left.’ The old man’s eyes slowly widened and he set the dummy down. ‘In the middle of the night, the Germans took all the Jews away. They marched them out like a herd of cattle. There isn’t one left.’

‘Dear Jesus!’ exclaimed Mrs Pejzak, and made the sign of the cross.

For a moment, I sat paralysed. Then I bolted off the wagon and ran. My feet pounded the cobbled road and carried me faster than I had ever imagined possible. The houses seemed to be removed from their foundations, and reclined at different angles; sometimes they appeared to sway from one side to the other and even turn upside down. Soon they were no more than fast-moving blurs passing in front of my eyes.

Mrs Pejzak. I’ve left Mrs Pejzak. Why am I even thinking about Mrs Pejzak? But what if she needs my help? What about Genia? Has she taken the cows to pasture? Why do I persist in thinking about these things?

The small crooked window of my home was now before me. I hoped to see my little brother Josele’s face in it and hear him shout, ‘Mama, Mama, Jankele is home!’ But the glass was shattered and no one looked out from behind the pane.

Isn’t it possible, I thought, that by some miracle, by some fortunate chance, by an act of God, my entire family was still inside? Perhaps they hid in the attic, or in the cellar, or under the bed. Or maybe the Germans who came to deport them took pity and spared them! It’s possible. Why not?

The door lay broken, torn from its hinges. That’s only for appearance, I consoled myself, to make it seem that no one lives here. It’s possible; in fact, it’s very clever.

I entered. Our two pots were still on the stove. A torn straw mattress lay on the floor, a sheet beside it. Several floorboards had been removed and, in the corner, crumpled and smudged, lay a small drawing of Tarzan swinging from a tree.

Uncle Shepsel, I thought. Will I ever see him draw again? Will his voice ever again keep me spellbound for hours with tales of cowboys and Indians in a distant land called America?

‘Mama!’ I whispered. ‘Josele, Uncle Shepsel … don’t be afraid. It’s safe to come out now.’

On the floor among the debris I recognised the two pieces of fur that once adorned my mother’s coat pockets. I picked them up. ‘Josele, Uncle Shepsel, Mama! Please come out. It’s Jankele.’

I must cry. Why can’t I cry? I’ll think of onions, or the little bird I treasured once then found dead, its head crushed between two bars of the cage. I cried then … why can’t I cry now? I must cry. What else can I think of? Quickly, something heartrending has to come to my mind …

Suddenly, I heard footsteps.

Perhaps it’s my mother! It’s possible … why not? No, it’s probably a German coming to get me. I’ll hide … but where? No, why hide? I want to be taken with the others. I’ll go willingly.

I faced the door. Mrs Pejzak’s stocky figure appeared. Her eyes were wet, her head tilted to one side. She made several attempts to say something but nothing came out. She scanned the room, examining the few articles, and finally said, ‘Jakob, we might as well take these.’ I remained silent. ‘If we don’t, some thieves will.’ And she gathered the total sum of what remained of our household into the sheet.

She eyed the pieces of fur I was holding, but I enclosed them in my hand.

‘My mother will be worried about me,’ I finally said.

‘She knows you’re in good hands, my child,’ answered Mrs Pejzak, tying the sheet.

‘How will I manage on my own?’

She fell to her knees, held my face in the palms of her hands, and said, ‘You’re not alone. I’ll look after you always.’

‘There’s no one left from my family.’

‘You have your uncle, what’s his name …?’

‘Moishe?’ I reminded her.

‘Oh yes, Moniek. Isn’t he working for some farmer?’

My Uncle Moishe! How can I find him? What if he was home visiting and was also taken away? How can I find out? Where can I look? I have to find him.

My arm was pulled, and I found myself outside. More looters were now to be seen, with axes and saws, ransacking and fighting for the spoils.

On the outskirts of town we saw others carrying empty burlap bags, walking briskly towards Siedliszcze. As they passed us they shouted, ‘Anything left there, or did you grab everything?’

Again I saw the tree, the grave, the stone; once more my grandfather, Shie Chuen the cobbler, from Pawia Street in Warsaw, was trudging along the snow-covered road.

Suddenly, out of the blinding snowstorm came three German soldiers on horseback, their faces in shadow. One drew his revolver and fired. My grandfather only wavered. The second German aimed. A bullet whistled through the air and found its target. The cobbler groaned, but still stood. The third bullet was the fatal one. The towering old man in the brown leather coat fell to the ground. The burlap bag flew through the air and out of it tumbled pieces of bread, a few frozen potatoes, and cobbler tools.

‘Sing something, Kubus,’ I heard Mrs Pejzak say.

‘Kubus? My name isn’t Kubus.’

‘It’s the same as Jakob,’ she answered, ‘only more fitting for a little boy like you.’

I turned my back to her and in choking tones began to sing:

Driving the cows to pasture, Kubus plays the flute,

But what sad sounds drift, drift afar.

The shepherd boy plays but in his heart there is grief.

Why do you play so, Kubus? What troubles you?

Is your life on this earth so unbearable? Tell, tell me.

And then the tears came, trickling in rivulets down my face.

‘Poor boy, poor boy,’ I heard Mrs Pejzak mutter to herself. The tears filled my eyes and blinded me. The road, the little houses with the straw roofs, seemed to melt.

IN THE EVENING, THE NEIGHBOURS would congregate in Mrs Pejzak’s farmyard. Like Mrs Pejzak, most Kulik inhabitants were Ukrainian. They gossiped, exchanged news, and sang haunting songs. But no matter what the topic, the conversation would invariably lead to Jews.

During my first days at the Pejzaks’ I had heard them complain about the opportunists, swindlers, and lice-infested herring merchants who chiselled and cheated them out of their produce and in turn sold them goods that fell apart after one outing to church. Now that the vendors had vanished, and with them market day, the evening conversations had a different slant.

‘You have to travel as far as Lublin to put something on your back,’ one ruddy-faced woman complained.

‘Those Jews weren’t all bad,’ added another.

Slowly, one after another would reminisce about his or her favourite Jew who was different from the others.

‘Moszek was all right; he sold me a coat twenty years ago and it still looks like the day it left his shop.’

And so it happened that Mrs Pejzak, a Ukrainian, filled the vacuum left by the deported Jews of Siedliszcze. With butter, eggs, bread, and other food, she travelled to the Warsaw Ghetto, and when she returned days later, half the village of Kulik would congregate at her small one-room house, with a queue stretching from her door to the main road. It was hard to believe that for the little produce she took with her she was able to return with so much merchandise: coats, dresses, shoes, underwear, scarves, umbrellas, and socks, things made of lace, wool, fine cotton, embroidered pillowcases, rare jewellery, and countless other goods.

The Jews of Siedliszcze, or for that matter of any town, would have envied her for the brisk trade she carried on. The same day she returned, her suitcases would be emptied and a crowd of angry women would be told that everything was sold, but not to despair, there would be more in a week or two.

I looked at the items being carried out of the house, articles from the Warsaw Ghetto, bought with a portion of butter or a slice of bread, and would wonder who their owners were. Perhaps that scarf or that brooch or maybe this pair of shoes had once belonged to my grandmother, or to one of my aunts, or even to my own mother.

The trips continued. Now farm women from adjoining villages heard of Mrs Pejzak, and they too came running, looking for bargains. The queues grew longer, the bartering louder, and it was surprising to see how adept Mrs Pejzak became in her new profession.

She was no longer a simple, honest, farm woman, but reminded me more of the shrewd market hucksters I’d seen on the corner of Pawia and Smocza in Warsaw. If there was a hole in a dress and a prospective buyer pointed it out, Mrs Pejzak, laughing, would say, ‘That’s the style, my dear. It’s for ventilation.’ And the peasant, who had never worn such fine attire, took her word for it.

Two gloves of different colours were sold as the latest style in Warsaw; costume jewellery magically transformed into pure gold or silver or rare diamonds from Africa; worn-out shoes, faded dresses, and dilapidated coats were sold for handsome sums, by a most unusual method.

‘I know it’s not in the best of shape, my dear,’ Mrs Pejzak would affirm. Taking the customer aside, she would whisper confidentially into her ear, ‘Would you like to guess who this coat belonged to?’ The would-be buyer’s eyes would open wide, as if expecting to hear the greatest revelation, whereupon Mrs Pejzak would utter a Jewish-sounding name. ‘Mrs Zilberberg herself. Of course you’ve heard of her, my dear.’

The poor woman had never heard of Mrs Zilberberg, and neither had anyone else, but how could she confess her ignorance? In fact, she had no time to, for Mrs Pejzak would allow her only to take a breath and say, ‘Is that a fact!’ or ‘You don’t say!’

Whereupon Mrs Pejzak would jump in. ‘You know, of course, how rich the Zilberbergs were! Who knows, maybe something’s hidden in this lining, or in the heels of those shoes. I shouldn’t really sell it before I examine it myself.’ By such unorthodox methods, the merchandise in question was sold, and even though no one in the village ever found money, gold, or silver in linings or in the heels of their newly acquired shoes, no one who bought from Mrs Pejzak ever lost hope of becoming rich. Shoes were torn apart and examined; coats ripped open and searched for treasure, and then mended.

As time went on, the village of Kulik had a new look. On Sunday mornings the maidens and matrons on their way to church were now bedecked in the fashionable attire of the former Zilberbergs, the renowned Tiszmans, or the famous Chuen family, the shoe magnates from Pawia Street.

And so it was with the silk dress. It was indeed made of silk, beautiful pale-blue silk, with two delicate narrow straps that held the dress up at the shoulders. On the left side was embroidered a red rose with a green stem and two green leaves. In fact, Mrs Pejzak didn’t intend to sell the dress and had put it aside for Genia, but as it lay there in the corner on the cot, a young girl with long straw-blonde braids, about Genia’s height, caught sight of it. She wanted it. She had to have it. Was it real silk?

‘Yes, it is,’ Mrs Pejzak told her, and then dropped the name of the supposed owner. But the dress wasn’t for sale. She had paid an exorbitant price for it, she informed the girl, and added that it was the only one of its kind. The more Mrs Pejzak tried to divert the girl’s attention to other dresses, the more the girl fondled her braids, and her eyes never lost sight of the one on the cot. Finally Mrs Pejzak caved in and quoted an excessive price.

By this time Genia was furious with her mother for even thinking of selling the dress that was promised her, but Mrs Pejzak soothed her by explaining that it wasn’t sold yet. Surely nobody would be crazy enough to pay what she was asking.

Taken aback by the price, the girl began to haggle. Mrs Pejzak refused to budge one grosz. The girl picked up the dress, held it up to her body, and gazed at the oval-shaped mirror on the wall. She put the dress down, sucked her thumb, meditating, then again picked up the dress and circled the room. In the end, she tossed the dress to Mrs Pejzak, accusing her of profiteering, and left. Mrs Pejzak winked at Genia, and her daughter’s beautiful face lit up.

Shortly thereafter the girl returned, followed by her buxom mother. The mother fingered the dress and concluded it was out of the question. The girl cried. She had to have it. The father was summoned. He shifted his feet and scratched his back on the doorway and then said, ‘No!’

Genia was crying, the girl was crying, the mother trying to reason with her daughter, her father shouting at both of them, and a laughing Mrs Pejzak was signalling to Genia. A bazaar-like tumult ensued. In the end, the mother extracted a bundle of bills from her bosom, counted and recounted, then paid, calling Mrs Pejzak every name under the sun. The girl wiped away the tears, the father grumbled under his breath, Mrs Pejzak diverted her attention to the next prospective buyers, and poor Genia sat in the corner crying.

The following Sunday before going to church, the girl with the long blonde braids came to show off her new dress, or perhaps she came only to make Genia jealous. Besides the dress, she wore a large straw hat with a bright blue ribbon and a pair of black-strapped low-heeled shoes. In her hand she clutched a pair of white gloves. From the distance she looked rather smart, and I could see Genia’s burning eyes watching her approach. Greeting us, she bowed like a countess, and waited for our reaction. Mrs Pejzak showered compliments upon her, and even poor Genia had to admit she looked stunning.

‘Kubus,’ Mrs Pejzak called me to her side, ‘Doesn’t she look like a high-class Warsaw lady?’

I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but now that my opinion was needed I looked critically at her outfit. Whose dress was this, I wondered. How can this girl wear it? It’s like wearing a dead person’s memories. Whose eyes once gazed into a mirror and admired themselves in it? Now I looked even closer at the dress and thought how immodest this girl was. The silk was thin, transparent, so that I could see her torn underpants, and her bare firm breasts under it.

I couldn’t recall anyone wearing such dresses in Warsaw, and yet the style looked familiar enough. Suddenly, my memory clicked in. Yes, my aunts and my mother too wore dresses like that, and as I tried to recall where, and on what occasions, a vivid picture flashed in my head.

‘Yes, Mrs Pejzak,’ I said, ‘they do wear such dresses in Warsaw.’ The girl beamed. As she turned to leave for church, Genia stuck her tongue out after her.

Did Mrs Pejzak know what she had sold this girl, or was she perhaps in the dark as well? Should I tell her, or keep silent? I decided to speak up, for no matter what Mrs Pejzak’s reaction might be, I felt at least Genia would get some satisfaction.

‘Mrs Pejzak,’ I said, ‘that isn’t really a dress.’

She looked at me quizzically. ‘No?’

‘It’s not a dress, it’s a nightgown.’

‘For sleeping, such fine silk?’

‘Yes,’ I answered.

Genia stifled a giggle followed by a smile that quickly transformed into peals of laughter.

Taking me aside, Mrs Pejzak murmured into my ear, ‘Kubus, that isn’t a nightgown, understand? That’s a dress.’

I understood. ‘It’s not a nightgown, Mrs Pejzak; for sure it’s a dress.’.

THE SUMMER CAME. The days were long and hot, and the nights were short and sleepless, for my mind wandered and my body turned restlessly from side to side waiting for daybreak.

I slept in the barn on a bed of hay, but on exceptionally warm nights I made my sleeping place outside the barn on the haystack. I’d lie awake listening to the croak of the frogs coming from the nearby pond, and my eyes would gaze at the stars, trying to count them … one … two … three … four … five … Then my thoughts would wander to my mother, Josele, Shepsel, and eventually to Moishe. Where was Moishe? If he’s still alive, why hasn’t he come looking for me? He knows where I am. It’s been weeks and yet no sign of him.

Due to my sleepless nights I found it difficult to stay awake during the long stifling days. I would squat on the ground and slowly my head would drop, my eyes close, and I would doze. ‘I must not fall asleep,’ I told myself, ‘for who knows where my cows could end up, and then what?’ But I wasn’t always in control of myself, especially on a day before a rainfall. I could feel a weakness overtaking me …

I was in bed at home in Pulawy, clean sheets, a soft quilt, and a pillow of goose feathers. I was flying on clouds; my mother was reading me a bedtime story, Little Red Riding Hood, no – it was Hansel and Gretel. How would Hansel and Gretel find their way home? I was flying. It was so soft, so sweet, and so pleasant. Mrs Pejzak’s voice or the feel of Genia’s soft hand touching my face would wake me. My eyes would open and once again I was Kubus the cowherd, far away from home.

When the sun was directly above me I eagerly awaited Genia’s arrival with lunch; boiled potatoes with pork cracklings and, in another dish, curdled milk or cold borsht. If a cow had to be diverted, Genia would jump to her feet, ‘Eat in peace Kubus,’ and she would perform the task. She ran briskly, with her feet bare and her colourful skirt almost carrying her into the air like a balloon. Genia looked forward to bringing me my food and usually stayed longer than was necessary.

In fact, she never left unless Mrs Pejzak called her, ‘Genia, get home, you’ve got work to do!’

On days when the pasture field was close to the house, Genia would depart almost immediately after dropping off my midday meal, but when I was on grazing land far removed from Mrs Pejzak’s voice, Genia was in her glory.

She was about thirteen or fourteen, with an inner beauty that only enhanced her outward appearance. She loved fun and had a burning love of life. What she wanted I hardly understood, but whatever it was, it didn’t frighten or displease me in the least.

With lunch out of the way, her green eyes would scan the surrounding area, and once satisfied we were alone, she would proceed to tickle me. The first time this happened I giggled and laughed, and though I had the urge to tickle her, I resisted in case my hand touched her accidentally in a place where it might be embarrassing both for her and for me. But later, when she ridiculed me for being so meek and restrained, I tickled her too, always careful, though, to confine myself to her underarms. We giggled and laughed and chased each other around the field and stopped only when we saw her mother approaching from the distance, infuriated at Genia’s long absence, or when a farmer returned to a nearby field after a belch-producing meal.

As the days progressed, so did our tickling. Instead of my armpits, Genia now explored other sensitive parts of my body: my neck, the soles of my feet, my back, my belly button, my knees, and finally between my legs. The first time this happened I was sure it was accidental, and pretended not to notice. But I was wrong. It was no accident. Genia repeatedly tickled me there, and eventually confined herself to that area. When I did not respond by tickling her in her private areas, she taunted and dared me, saying she wasn’t ticklish there. I was embarrassed, but then, too, I wanted to show her that I was a man and would not fail to meet this challenge.

Before long I forgot the challenge and it became a matter of practice to tickle Genia between her legs and also on her breasts. I’d chase her, catch her, turn her over deep in the wheat field, and tickle her until she was exhausted from laughter. Then it was her turn. I’d run like a demon; she would catch me and almost tear my white cotton pants to shreds. We’d roll on the ground like a wheel down a hill; one moment I on top of her, the next she on top of me.

I told myself that what we were doing wasn’t really wrong, but also that it wasn’t entirely right. Why, I couldn’t tell, and didn’t intend to ask. Why spoil it? I thought. Genia seemed to enjoy it, so why deprive her of the pleasure. I didn’t mind it either; in fact, as time went on, it was something to look forward to in the middle of the day. And these diversions made me forget bitter memories. For that I was grateful.

But when she would depart, guilt would set in, and I’d berate myself for forgetting even for a moment. What kind of a son am I? Imagine rolling in the grass with a Gentile farm girl, and even enjoying it, when, who knows where my family is at this moment! What would my mother think if she could see me?

One day while sitting on top of me holding me pinned to the ground, Genia didn’t stop at tickling. She undid the lonely wooden button that held my pants up and proceeded to strip me. I couldn’t stop laughing, but at the same time tried desperately to free myself. When I succeeded in throwing her off, she pulled at my pant legs, and had it not been for my firm hold at the top of my trousers I would have ended up naked. As I tried to do up the button, Genia ran towards me again. I held my pants tight and ran. She caught me, threw me down, and turned me over, then fought to finish what she had set out to do.

Squirming, I pleaded with her. ‘Please Genia, that’s enough! No! No!’

‘What are you afraid of?’ she smiled. ‘I just want to look at it, that’s all.’

I was shocked. ‘What for?’ I trembled.

‘Well, I heard that Jews are circumcised.’

‘So?’ I said, perplexed.

‘So I want to see how much is cut off.’

I held my pants tighter than ever. I wasn’t going to be put on display. She would probably laugh once she saw it, I thought.

I now felt like a cripple, different from the others. As if, when I was eight days old, the rabbi had cut off one of my arms or legs. How mean, I thought, how unjust to inflict such punishment upon an infant and mark him for the rest of his life!

One day she surprised me by not instigating our noontime shenanigans. At first I was relieved but then began to worry. What was the reason for this change? Perhaps her mother was on to us. Even though I had wished many times to end our horseplay for good, now that it was her decision, I was hurt. And so I initiated the game, by pouncing on her, ready to do mischief.

‘Stop,’ Genia held me at bay. She explained it had nothing to do with me and that it was only temporary. Then she proceeded to tell me in great detail and with great pleasure that she had become a woman.

Since what she told me seemed so outlandish, I pointed out that I was not born on a farm, and that I had lived for at least a year in the big city of Warsaw. I knew something about life, and had never heard of such old wives’ tales.

To prove me wrong, she immediately pulled up her skirt to demonstrate proof of her condition. ‘Look here and see for yourself, you big ten-year-old from Warsaw who knows so much.’

I covered my eyes. ‘I believe you, Genia.’

‘No, you don’t. Look, I don’t mind,’ she chuckled.

‘I can’t stand the sight of blood,’ I said.

She lowered her skirt and, pursuing the topic, she said, ‘Jewish girls have it sideways. You know that don’t you, Kubus?’

‘No, it’s not true,’ I protested. ‘Their bodies are just like yours.’

‘It’s sideways, Kubus, that’s a fact. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you.’ She pointed to the rear of a cow grazing nearby. ‘You see, Kubus, that’s the way normal women have it, but not Jewish women.’ When I continued to vigorously protest she said, ‘Why do you argue? Have you ever seen a Jewish girl naked?’

I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with it. Even if it was true, I had to defend what I felt was a terrible injustice that God inflicted upon Jewish women. For if the cows and the horses and everyone else in the whole world, man and beast alike, had it one way, why did God deem it necessary to set Jewish women apart?

‘Sure I’ve seen it, many times,’ I said, ‘and it looks just like yours.’ Hearing this, she laughed, and voiced a list of indictments against Jews. ‘Jews kill Christian children during Passover, and use their blood to bake matzah. That’s why the matzah has brown spots.’

‘Where did you hear such lies?’

‘In church,’ she replied defiantly.

I tried to recall what matzah looked like and to my sorrow I remembered the brown spots. ‘Those are the burned parts of the matzah,’ I retorted. But she wouldn’t accept that, and clarified that she didn’t blame me for not knowing the truth. In fact, most Jews didn’t know about it, only the elders, a very few chosen pious ones who are entrusted to carry out the deed.

I refused to accept that, but then I hadn’t believed her about her womanhood and she proved me wrong. Maybe it was true, but how could it be? I remembered my father’s father, Shloime Kuperblum, the baker from Pulawy, baking matzah during Passover and I couldn’t recall him mixing blood into the dough.

‘It’s not your fault, Kubus,’ she consoled me, ‘but because of that, and because the Jews killed God’s only son, our Lord Jesus Christ, the Germans are now repaying you.’

How horrible, I thought. If all this is true, then indeed there is good reason for our suffering. Why did we kill Jesus? This and many other questions plagued me. If only we had not killed Him and all those innocent infants, then I’d still have my mother and father and my brother Josele, and we’d all be back in Pulawy. I’d be going to Hebrew school, and every night my mother would tuck me into bed and read me fairy tales. Oh, how I wished that we had not committed those heinous crimes! But I argued emphatically that her stories were simply grandmother tales.

‘That’s a good one.’ She dismissed me with a shrug. ‘If so, then why can’t Jews see the sun?’

Now what did she mean by that? I was sure I could always see the sun, but was it the sun I had been looking at all my life or something I only thought was the sun? ‘I don’t know who filled your head with such silliness,’ I said.

‘Ask anyone in the village and see if they tell you differently.’

‘They’re all ignorant,’ I said defensively.

‘All right then, Mr Educated,’ she sneered, ‘show me the sun.’ I raised my arm and pointed it out. ‘You saw me looking in that direction.’ She took her rose-coloured kerchief off her head, tied it tightly around my eyes, then turned me several times to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, and again to the right. Dizzy, I was about to fall when she removed the blindfold. ‘Now point.’

I blinked and without hesitation pointed to the sun. She looked at the sun then at me, and said, ‘You’re a clever one. You felt the sun’s rays on your face, that’s how you know.’

I protested and tried desperately to convince her I could see the sun. Perhaps I was only trying to convince myself. At any rate I didn’t have a chance. Mrs Pejzak’s voice was suddenly heard, heaping all manner of invective at Genia for taking so long.

Genia scooped up the empty dishes and ran off saying, ‘Wait for a cloudy day, my educated cowherd, when there are no warm rays to guide you. Wait till then.’

Impatiently I waited for such a day, when the sun was a circle of golden yellow, peeking from behind the clouds but yielding no heat. Once again I was blindfolded, turned like a spinning top, and pointed. After many more trials, Genia was eventually convinced. She took me in her arms, lifted me off the ground and kissed me, screaming with joy, ‘It’s a miracle, Kubus!’ and ran off shouting, ‘Mother, dear Mother! Dear Jesus! Kubus can see the sun!’

Besides Genia’s noontime visits, I also had the company of another cowherd, whom I originally met during my first days at the Pejzaks’, when I heard a flute being played and followed its sound to the next grazing field.

‘Want to try it?’ he asked when he had stopped. I reached for it, placed the flute between my lips and, fingering the holes, I blew. But what came out scared the cows, and so I handed it back.

‘It’s yours,’ he said, ‘I’ll make me another.’ He asked my name and revealed his, Wojciech. His head was almost clean-shaven, and he was barefoot, wearing torn pants and a soiled peasant shirt. He saw me staring at his bruised and scarred face, and thus offered an explanation: ‘The bitch had nothing better to do,’ he spat.

‘The bitch?’ I puzzled.

‘My stepmother. No matter what I do it is no good. One of these days I’ll punch her one, and knock her frickin’ head off. The whore! Wait till my father gets back and I tell him everything.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In Germany,’ he said, ‘forced labour.’

I was tempted to tell him that my father was also away, in Russia, but I had second thoughts.

Wojciech and I would meet on days when our animals grazed in adjacent fields. Besides whittling flutes from willow branches with his sharp pocket knife, his specialty was killing frogs. With one blow he could bludgeon a bullfrog’s head to smithereens. I was repulsed but pretended to admire him.

But his favourite topic was Genia, and he constantly prodded me with questions concerning her.

‘I bet she would be good in the hay,’ he told me one day. ‘I’d like to break her in.’ He looked at me, and then slapped me on the back. ‘Or did you do that already, Kubus?’

I resented his remarks, in fact, I despised him for it. How could he talk like that about a girl? ‘She has nice tits,’ he continued. ‘I’d love to pinch them.’

I wanted to defend Genia’s honour. I wanted to strike him or at least sever my friendship with him, but he might think I was a sissy, and so I laughed along. But my laughter was filled with painful guilt.

This preyed on my conscience and every time I ran into Wojciech, I resolved to do something about it. Although about my own age, he was physically better developed, and had proved his might on occasion when jokingly he would twist my thumb or hold me on the ground, wrench my arms and legs, and say, ‘Let’s see if you can get up.’

I envied his strength and at the same time detested him for it: the way he could climb a high tree, the way he swam, and his self-assurance.

From him I also heard many indecent words and lewd songs. ‘Who was that guy I saw Genia with last Sunday?’ he would interrogate me. ‘I bet he’s getting into her, eh, Kubus?’

‘I don’t know,’ I would reply.

He’d laugh, then, half-closing his eyes, he’d add, ‘I bet he’s in, but good.’

Sensing my ignorance, he explained to me in great detail and with much zest what went on between men and women. Even though I knew vaguely of these matters, his teaching clarified many things for me.

‘Is that what Genia does?’ I asked him one day.

‘What do you think, stupid?’

I began thinking of all the boyfriends Genia had. There were so many of them, especially on Sunday. During the week one or two would show up in the evening and take Genia out for a swim in the pond or a walk in the fields, but on Sunday the farmyard was filled with young men in polished shoes and white shirts with ties.

I could see them coming across the fields from far away. The parade would start about noon and, when the sun had set, there would still be new ones coming, each desiring to hold her hand, or at least play with her kerchief. Genia laughed and joked with all of them, giving each and every one her personal attention, while Mrs Pejzak, beaming with pride, would busy herself with providing refreshments.

I now began to feel ashamed for Genia, but I couldn’t entirely take my friend’s word as to how Genia behaved. If it’s true, I thought, then no wonder she’s so popular, while some of her other girlfriends never received a single visitor. In the end I dispelled these negative thoughts from my mind and believed only the best of her. Certainly she flirted with all her boyfriends, but that’s all, I convinced myself. I was certain she wouldn’t even tickle one of them the way she did me.

I thought of confronting Genia, but I was embarrassed and feared she might think I was jealous. I wanted desperately to tell her about the gossip, and confess that I was incapable of defending her against such slander. But I didn’t. For who knew what she would think of me then? In the end I resolved to continue the way I had, and say nothing.

Normally when Genia brought me lunch and Wojciech happened to be nearby, he would greet her and then busy himself with the frogs, or serenade us from afar. But on this day he joined us and made no move to leave. As I began to wolf down my lunch, he made obscene comments to Genia.

‘Say, when will I have a chance to try you out, filly?’

Genia looked him up and down. ‘When you stop wetting your pants, little boy.’

This humiliated him, especially in front of me. ‘Any day you say, flower,’ he went on. ‘Let me show you how well I could roll you in the hay.’

Genia laughed and told him to get lost. I was embarrassed for her, but to my surprise she didn’t seem to be uncomfortable and obviously knew how to handle him. In fact, she was getting the better of him. This infuriated him even more, and he began to deliver more hurtful indecencies.

‘Why don’t you let me pinch your tits, whore?’

Genia looked at him with disgust. ‘Go tend your cows,’ she said. ‘Look, they’re in someone’s cabbage patch.’

‘Cabbage is good for them,’ he answered smugly. ‘Well, what do you say? I’ll make you feel good. I’ve seen my father doing it with that bitch.’

‘Then go play with your dick,’ said Genia.

I wanted to stand up and hit him, but just the mere thought made me tremble. And yet how could I just sit and do nothing? I had to show Genia I could stand up to him like a man.

One moment I imagined Genia being proud of me for my chivalry, and the next I could see my bleeding nose and feel a broken rib.

Impulsively, I got to my feet and reached for my stick. I intended to strike him, but now I was sorry I had stood up. Genia was looking at me, expectantly. Grinning, Wojciech sized me up, as if to say, Look who’s going to defend the lady!

‘Wojciech, why don’t you leave us, please,’ I asked.

‘And who’s going to make me? I’m staying right here, and let’s see what you’re going to do about it.’

His insult didn’t bother me as much as Genia awaiting my next move. ‘Come hit me,’ he said mockingly, and stretched his arms out like a bird in flight.

I had no choice. I raised my cane and struck him lightly so as not to really hurt him. At that moment I realised I had not been afraid of being beaten. What really worried me was that if I hit him with all my might I could kill him.

He mocked me. ‘You hardly touched me, you fly. Even the bitch hits harder than that.’

I struck him again, but with restraint.

He didn’t laugh this time but said, ‘Now, that hurt a little. Not much, mind you.’

Then I felt his fists smashing into my face and jabbing my body, but I didn’t respond. I simply closed my eyes and accepted the blows.

When his energy was spent, he retreated, panting like a dog. Genia praised me for my courage and, while trying to stop the bleeding from my nose, told me what a licking I had given him. I knew that wasn’t so.

From then on, Wojciech and I kept our distance. He stayed in his field and I in turn kept my back to him; but even then I could hear the insults he directed at me.

‘Wait, they’ll make soap out of you, you cut-off-dick Jew boy!’

THE EVENING WAS QUIET and warm, and only the crickets could be heard. Across the village, naphtha lamps were being lit, and now a faint glow of light appeared in the Pejzaks’ window.

Night was about to descend. My two cows were resting in the stable from a weary day of chewing cud and swatting flies with their long tails. Mrs Pejzak and Genia had been out in the field that day weeding, and were now inside preparing supper.

I stood by the well washing my hands and face, and was reaching for the bristle brush to scrub my feet when from the abutting golden wheat field I heard a rustle. I turned and listened. But now it was quiet. It must be my imagination, I thought, and returned to my task. Again I heard a sound. Perhaps it’s a dog, or bird, or a wild rabbit, I reasoned. But the distraction continued. I tried to ignore it, but suddenly I sensed I was being watched. I could feel something peering at me.

I wanted to rush into the house and inform Mrs Pejzak, but what if it’s only my imagination? Or what if it was only a bird, or a cat? Then Genia and Mrs Pejzak would laugh at me and call me a city mouse.

I’ve got to be brave, act like a man, and not run like a child crying for help. I picked up my stick and, though my legs were trembling, I approached the wheat field and whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ There was no reply. I stepped forward, trying to appear confident, but now that I was close I could hear the beat of a heart, and the eyes, even though I couldn’t see them, were boring right through me. ‘Come out, whoever you are!’ I called, and hoped that a reply would not come. I was about to turn back when suddenly a figure rose up. Facing me was an unshaven man with fierce eyes, attired in a train conductor’s uniform. It was obvious the costume didn’t belong to him; the jacket hung loosely on his shoulders, the trousers were too short.

I had to ease my way out as one does when confronted by an unfriendly dog, and so I acted as if finding him there was the most natural thing.

His eyes shifted, and I could see he was trembling. At last he said something I couldn’t understand. It sounded Ukrainian, and yet it wasn’t. He repeated the same words slowly, enunciating every syllable, and gesturing with his hands. I guessed he was asking whether there was anyone inside the house.

‘My employer and her daughter,’ I replied in a blend of Polish and the Ukrainian I had picked up.

‘No one else?’ he bore into my eyes, as if squeezing a truthful answer out of me.

‘No, I swear,’ I reassured him. ‘Do you want to see my employer?’ I asked, and backed up towards the farmyard. ‘I’ll get her.’

I could feel him trailing me, and when I reached the house, I turned and caught a glimpse of him at the well, drinking from the pail like a parched animal. Rushing into the house, I bolted the door behind me, and shouted frantically, ‘Quick! Look outside!’

Genia didn’t react. Mrs Pejzak unlocked the door and looked out. The man was standing by the well staring at us.

I could now see his bare feet. Over one shoulder hung a pair of black leather boots. Who is this man? I wondered. Certainly not a train conductor. He’s not an escaped Jew either. Then a frightening thought struck me; he’s a German disguised as a train conductor, and he’s here to get me.

‘Good evening,’ said Mrs Pejzak at last. He answered her in that strange tongue. Mrs Pejzak slowly approached him. They exchanged a few words and then, led by Mrs Pejzak, both entered the house. His eyes scanned the room, and then he sat down.

By the flickering light of the lamp, I studied his face. He looked almost as old as my grandfather, the baker. Mrs Pejzak barked orders at Genia to set the table, to mash the potatoes, to cut some bread, to pour the milk.

At the slightest noise the stranger would jump up like a rabbit about to flee. At every such instance, Mrs Pejzak reassured