Richard Zimler - The Warsaw Anagrams

‘That’s Andrzej,’ he told me, ‘the eldest, and a good boy, but’ – here, Izzy tapped his temple and added, ‘not much up here – der shoyte ben pikholtz .’

Andrzej looked up on hearing the bells on the door tinkle. ‘Mr Nowak, what a surprise!’ he exclaimed gleefully, coming around the counter with his arms open.

After hugging Izzy, the young man remembered that nosy neighbours might be watching. Locking the door with a decisive click, he invited us into his storeroom. Once we were safely out of view, I introduced myself and shook his hand.

Andrzej’s hair was a brown skullcap, but he’d left a four-inch whip in front that dangled between his eyes. In his thick, black-rimmed spectacles, he looked like a cross between a Talmud student and a jazz musician.

‘So, tell me about the ghetto,’ he said to us in a fearful tone. ‘Is it bad?’

I deferred to Izzy. He was already seated in the armchair in the corner and was pressing at the shooting pains in his right hip. ‘Don’t ask,’ he replied wearily. ‘Listen, Andrzej, we’re in a hurry. We need to sell a wedding ring. Show him, Erik.’

While the young jeweller examined the diamond, I dropped down on the bench along the wall. After a minute or so, he lowered his ivory-handled magnifying glass. ‘Times are hard, Dr Cohen, so if you’d be willing to accept two thousand, then…’

‘Where’s your father?’ Izzy cut in.

‘Papa’s got a cold. So I’m not sure I can…’

‘Get him on the phone.’

‘The phones are down. I think that…’

‘It’s worth eight thousand and we won’t take less than four!’ Izzy announced, using a jabbing finger to intimidate Andrzej.

‘Papa has set a two-thousand-złoty limit for me,’ Andrzej replied sadly.

They began to haggle, and their words became needles poking into my fragile composure. When Izzy began to plead, I told them I’d wait in the shop. Seated at the desk, with the door to the storeroom closed behind me, I eased open the top drawer and found a handsome silver letter opener on top of a ledger book. I slipped it in my pocket. I lit a cigarette, then leaned down to undo the laces on my shoes. The smoke made my eyes tear, which gave me an excuse to shut them. To never open them again seemed my best option.

Izzy was sputtering curses in Yiddish and French when he hobbled out. Andrzej trailed behind him like a punished puppy. He came to me and apologized for not being able to offer a fair price, desperate for forgiveness, and I gave it to him, but I curled my fingers around the letter opener in my coat pocket as though its theft were my real reply.

After I’d done up my laces, Izzy handed me a stack of notes – two thousand four hundred złoty. ‘Let’s go,’ he told me, and after twisting the deadbolt, he pulled open the door as if he was ready to clobber the first person we met on the street. I faced Andrzej and asked if he knew of a nearby crossing point back to the ghetto. He said no, but Izzy didn’t believe him. To shame the young man, he tried to stuff a ten-złoty note into his coat pocket, saying, ‘Here’s what you Christians need to make you charitable!’

Andrzej pushed the money away. ‘For the love of God, Mr Nowak, stop!’

Outside, shivering, the young man pointed towards a bakery down the block. ‘I’ve seen delivery men loading sacks of flour on to wagons. I’m not sure, but try there.’

Izzy marched off without shaking Andrzej’s hand. When I caught up, he snarled, ‘I know I behaved badly, but don’t you dare start with me!’

At the bakery, the owner’s wife advised us to go to a garage on Freta Street. ‘Ask for Maciej.’

Maciej came to the door reeking of gasoline, his face streaked black with grease. ‘No, no, no,’ he told us when we asked after a crossing point, shooing us away like mosquitoes, but Izzy held up two ten-złoty notes and said, ‘Abracadabra!’

Maciej and another mechanic pushed a black Ford into the corner of the garage, revealing a two-metre square of corrugated iron on the cement floor. Sliding it to the side gave us access to a hole the size of a wagon wheel.

‘What’s down there?’ I asked, peering in and seeing only sandy earth at the bottom.

‘A tunnel. And despite the rumours, I haven’t spotted a single albino crocodile inside – though I can’t guarantee you won’t find frogs.’

‘Frogs?’ Izzy asked.

‘A smuggler came back with a handful the other day. They must breed somewhere down there in the dark. Our theory is that they’re a bit shy when it comes to fucking.’ Grinning, he added, ‘Like Jewish girls.’

I expect he thought that was witty. Izzy and I failed to laugh, so he apologized. He seemed a good man, but I didn’t trust him; he was a Christian, after all – with a wholly different destiny from ours, whether he wanted it or not.

‘How far do we have to go to reach the ghetto?’ I asked him.

‘After twenty-five metres you’ll reach another hole leading up. Just call out – the women will open the trap door.’

‘Women?’

‘They sew children’s clothing for the Germans.’

A candle cost us fifty groszy; use of a ladder was free. Izzy climbed down while I showed Maciej my photos of Adam and Anna, but he didn’t recognize either of them.

The tunnel’s entrance was only a few inches wider than our shoulders. The candle succeeded in pushing the darkness back just four or five metres. Wooden beams held up the ceiling; it looked like a tiny mineshaft. And it didn’t look like it had been built to last very long.

‘We’re going to have to crawl,’ Izzy told me morosely.

‘Listen,’ I replied in an urgent whisper, ‘we have no proof this even leads to the ghetto. We could be buried alive.’

‘Why the hell would Maciej want to trap us?’ he asked.

‘Why wouldn’t he? There are rewards for catching Jews.’

Izzy scoffed, but then climbed back up and talked to Maciej. I stood on the second rung of the ladder and watched, but they kept their voices down, so I couldn’t make out what they said. At one point, Izzy took out Marlene. The burly mechanic patted his shoulder and smiled, as though they were old army comrades.

‘What did you tell him?’ I asked Izzy after he’d climbed back down.

‘That if we had any trouble I’d come back and blow his brains out.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘That I was sure as hell one angry Jew, but that he didn’t mind, because it was about time the Jews got fed up.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘He also said that my Jimmy Cagney imitation was excellent.’

‘Did he really say that?’

‘No, but I could see he wanted to!’

I laughed – and for a few moments all that mattered was Izzy’s unstoppable sense of humour. Then his face grew grave. ‘I’m going to tell you a secret, Erik,’ he told me.

‘What?’

‘When you laugh, your eyes twinkle and you look like you did when we were seven years old and planning adventures in our neighbourhood. It’s the best thing about you, your laughter, and the thing I’ve always loved, and that Hannah most loved, and though you probably think other things about you are much more important and profound, they aren’t. Because the way you can switch from grief or dread to absolute joy in an instant… like there’s a spring always ready to push you towards what’s best… It says something significant about the way you are – and it makes people side with you. And one other thing,’ he added, taking my arm, ‘it’s what Adam adored about you more than anything else.’

I wanted to say something equal to my feelings, but the words wouldn’t come.

Izzy came to my rescue, as always. ‘I’ll go first, Dr Freud,’ he said cheerfully.