Читать книгу Chasing the King of Hearts - Ханна Кралль - Страница 15

The Voice

Passes for the ghetto are issued at Krasiński Square, inside the old theater warehouse (formerly used for storing sets and costumes). She steps up to the German clerk and introduces herself as Maria Pawlicka. She used to keep house for a Jewish family, she left some of her belongings with them and now she needs them back because she doesn’t have a thing. To prove her point she lifts her blouse a bit to show there’s nothing underneath. The German looks up from under his glasses. A civilian, completely gray headed except for two tufts of red hair sticking out of his ears. Those hairs make her feel a little safer; they remind her of a doctor she once knew who’d moved from Vilna to be with his grandchildren in Józefów. The doctor used to examine her when she was little, whenever she had bronchitis. He never had his stethoscope with him, so he’d hold his ear against her chest and say breathe, breathe, in his funny eastern Polish accent. The red hairs sticking out of his ears tickled so much that her mother had to quiet her down.

The German with the same coloring as the doctor from Vilna lowers his glasses and writes out, very meticulously: Maria Pawlicka. She takes her pass and crosses into the ghetto (through the theater warehouse) but right away is stopped by a German gendarme who doesn’t like the look of her permit. He rips it in half and sends her back to the Aryan side. She shows the torn pieces to the clerk. So is that all your piece of paper is worth?

She’s amazed at her own voice—fast, shrill, all the words in one breath—and is somewhat surprised to recognize the voice of Wandzia, the redheaded daughter of the caretaker at Ogrodowa Street. Izolda had been there once when Wandzia came back from a wedding and immediately wanted something to eat. Didn’t they have any food at the wedding? her mother asked. They did, but they didn’t exactly force it down our throats, the dogs—and then the girl burst into laughter. Izolda would occasionally imitate that laugh and that voice—high, provocative, self-assured. Just right for a tall blond, she thinks now, with satisfaction, as she places the damaged permit on the German’s desk. Repeating his earlier gesture, the clerk lifts his glasses. Without a word he glues the paper back together and stamps it once again. This time they let her in.

She hands the document to her mother and they both walk out of the ghetto. Her mother by way of the guard post, Izolda through the theater warehouse. The old clerk doesn’t stop her, he knows her papers are in order.