LITMIR.BIZ

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It was closed, and before it opened, Malecki finally was able to get a look at his companion, still hunched over and frightened, but whose profile was now turned toward him. The moment he saw her, he gasped in amazement.

      “Irena!”

      She looked at him with dark, uncomprehending eyes.

      “Irena!” he repeated.

      At the same moment, the frightened young doorkeeper opened the gate.

      “Faster! Faster!” she urged.

      Malecki grabbed Irena by the hand and yanked her inside. The entryway was filled with people, so he pushed his way through the crowd toward the courtyard. Irena allowed herself to be led, obediently and without resistance. He pulled her deeper into the courtyard, where it was empty.

      The courtyard was old, dirty, and very run down. In place of what had once been an annex rose an empty plaster-specked wall, a remnant of wartime devastation. In the middle was a tall stack of bricks, alongside which lay a gray patch of poor barren earth, evidently prepared for planting vegetables.

      As they came to a stop next to a steep set of stairs leading to the basement, Malecki let go of Irena’s hand and took a closer look at her.

      She was still beautiful, but very changed. She had grown thin, and her features had become sharper and more subtle. Her oval eyes had become somehow even larger, but their expression had lost the warm color that had been so characteristic of her. They were now foreign, almost raw. Irena was very well dressed.

      She wore a light-blue wool suit brought over from England before the war and a becoming hat, which Malecki did not recognize. Whether because he had not seen her for a long time or whether the changes were real, at first glance she now seemed to Malecki even more Semitic than before.

      “It’s you?” she said quickly and without surprise.

      Her eyes gave him a careless once-over. She seemed still to be listening to the sounds of gunfire from the street.

      Malecki pulled himself together.

      “Where did you come from? What are you doing here? You’re in Warsaw?”

      “Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly, as if they had parted just a short time ago.

      Her voice was the same as before, low and resonant, but perhaps somewhat less vibrant, a bit flat.

      “How long have you been here?”

      Irena shrugged.

      “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t even remember exactly. It seems like a very long time.”

      “And you didn’t let me know?”

      She looked at him more closely and a trifle mockingly.

      “What for?”

      Malecki lost his composure. This simple question was completely unexpected, so unlike the Irena he had known before. Not knowing what to say, he fell silent. Irena was listening again to the din from the street, and in her strained, somewhat distraught and frightened focus, she seemed to have forgotten about her companion. The silence became prolonged and increasingly uncomfortable and burdensome for Malecki. He felt a clear sense of estrangement from Irena, and in view of the situation in which she now found herself, he very much wanted to erase the distance between them but did not know how.

      In the meantime, voices could suddenly be heard in the entryway. Part of the crowd hurriedly began to withdraw into the courtyard. A little boy in torn pants and a ragged shirt flew through the entrance and, knocking against Malecki in his haste, shouted excitedly down into the basement:

      “Mama! They’ve set up a gun in our gate! They’re going to shoot from our gate!”

      Brushing back a flaxen strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead, he ran back to the gate. A pale and wasted woman leaned out of the basement.

      “Rysiek! Rysiek!” she called after the child.

      But he was no longer there. Walking heavily, the woman lumbered up the steep and uncomfortable stairs. Suddenly an antitank gun began to fire. A deafening series of booms rattled the walls. From somewhere on an upper story plaster sifted down.

      “Oh, Lord!” cried the woman, clutching at her heart.

      The gun pounded without interruption. Everything about trembled and quaked, while the shooting from the Jewish side had grown quiet. And in this deafening uproar there mingled the sound of a raspy phonograph from the next courtyard playing some kind of sentimental prewar tango. More and more people withdrew from the gate.

      “Oh, Lord!” the woman from the basement repeated wearily. “For what sins must we suffer so?”

      Irena, trembling and pale from the strain of the gunfire, roused herself to respond to this complaint.

      “Those people over there are suffering more,” she said hostilely.

      Her eyes flashed and her mouth was tightly clenched. Malecki had never seen such malice and bitter antagonism in her.

      The woman raised her tired, faded eyes to Irena.

      “More? And how do you know what I have suffered?”

      “Over there people are dying,” Irena cut her off in the same hostile voice.

      “Drop it …” Malecki whispered.

      But Irena, unable to control herself, turned on him viciously.

      “Why should I? People are dying over there, hundreds of people, and you, over here, are letting them die like dogs … worse than dogs.”

      She raised her voice and became much more agitated. Malecki grabbed for her hand and pulled her aside toward the entry to one of the stairwells.

      “Get hold of yourself! You’re looking for trouble. Think about what you’re doing—people are already beginning to stare at us.”

      As a matter of fact, several people who had drawn back from the gates were peering curiously in their direction. Irena looked around. Perceiving their glances, she immediately calmed down and fell silent.

      “My papers are in order,” she whispered timidly.

      She anxiously looked Malecki in the eyes.

      It made him uncomfortable, as never before in his entire acquaintance with Irena. He was terribly embarrassed and humiliated by her situation and by his own helplessness and privileged position.

      “What are you talking about?” he blurted out somewhat artificially. “No one is going to look at your papers now. The worst thing is that there’s no way of knowing when we can get out of here. Where are you living?”

      “Nowhere.”

      Malecki shuddered.

      “What do you mean nowhere?”

      “Just as I say.”

      “But you said you’ve been in Warsaw for a while.”

      “For a while, but what of it? I can’t go back to where I was living. But no matter,” she said disdainfully, “it’s not important.”

      “How is it not important? Listen, what about your father?”

      She looked at him briefly.

      “He’s dead.”

      “So it’s true?” he whispered. “There were rumors to that effect …”

      “It’s true.”

      He was silent for a while. Finally, forcing himself, he asked:

      “And your mother?”

      “She’s dead too.”

      It was the answer he had expected, but as soon as he heard it, he felt its full weight upon him.

      “That’s terrible!” was all he managed to say.

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