Chapter 14
Café au lait at the Café Monopol. They'd served it with crystalline lumps of pure beet sugar, the best in all of Katowice. With enormous self-restraint, Wolf and I sucked at them, rather than gobble them down. A few middle-aged couples sat beneath huge umbrellas next to our own on the terrace; single women lined the periphery, some sipping coffee, others merely watching the activities at the café.
"You're creating a bit of a stir," I told Wolf, pressing my calf against his under the table. "You're the only man here under forty." I tugged coquettishly at the ribbons hanging from the back of my sunbonnet, then pulled away from him when I saw he was in no mood for games.
"I know. I feel like we're on display," he said.
We were dressed in clothes provided at the safe house, sundress and bonnet for me, slacks and a white open-neck shirt for Wolf. They had given us a few zloty, enough to buy breakfast and pretend we belonged at the café. Wolf was told to feign an injury, and his limp as we walked to the Monopol would have done Lionel Barrymore proud.
"Stop fidgeting," I warned. "Witold will be here soon. He said it's all arranged, so why don't you relax? Besides, we should order something to eat. I'd like a sandwich."
"Do as you like," he growled. "But this waiting tears at me. I didn't like that Witold fellow, didn't trust him."
"You had no choice. He gave us these clothes, after all, and enough money for a sandwich. Waiter!" I searched for one then quickly turned back to Wolf. "A whole slew of Death Headers just walked in," I hissed. "Stop looking so guilty or you'll get us killed."
I smoothed the pleats of my sundress and dropped my eyes to the folded newspaper beside my coffee. Buried in the bottom corner of the front page was a notice that the United States had closed its German consulates. At last, I thought, something's happening, but why has it taken so long? Two year of German tyranny, not only in Poland, but throughout Eastern Europe. What were the Americans waiting for?
"Some flowers for Madame?" a voice inquired. "Surely the gentleman—he is her husband, yes?—would like to buy her a rose. These are fresh from my garden." A wizened, bent man stood before us, bearing a few meager roses in a wicker basket.
I tried to wave him away. The soldiers had moved to the bar and, though it was morning, were ordering pints of beer. I clutched the knife Witold had given me (Wolf also had one), rage rising in my throat.
"Put down the knife, you imbecile." I jumped involuntarily and did as Wolf bade me. But then I realized the voice was not Wolf's. The flower seller!
"Keep reading the paper," he said. "Yes, that's right. Now, sir, buy her a rose before they get suspicious."
Wolf fumbled in his pocket for some change. He looked like a bird caught beneath a cat's claw.
"Did you say two roses or three?" the vendor asked, leaning over his basket to select them. I noticed how deformed his spine was, forming his foreshortened chest into an S. He handed me the flowers. "We've got to get you out of here," he said, his voice suddenly that of a young man.
"I don't know who you are," I told him, "but I can assure you my husband and I have no reason to fear. We are law-abiding citizens of the Reich. My husband was wounded at the Eastern Front. Our papers are in order."
"Imbecile," he repeated. "There's no time to waste. A roundup is scheduled in five minutes. You'll be found out and executed, no matter how well forged those papers are. You're strangers here and the Krauts don't like strangers." He held out his hand to Wolf. "That'll be twenty zloty, mein Herr."
Wolf's eyes flashed and he handed over the money. I looked around the café, holding my breath. Soldiers had filled the bar. I watched their dull, complacent faces, listened to their banter. Most of them were already starting to get drunk.
I felt a chill. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I had seen a hundred Nazi roundups in the ghetto, and the thrill of the hunt always showed in the features of the peasant boys, posted to make sure no one would slip away. But where was that energy now? These soldiers were blinking at the sun like country dogs.
I caught a glimpse of a bearded man at a nearby table whose eyes were riveted on us. Behind his sunglasses he was recording the events, shaking his head as if—
I threw down by napkin and leapt up screaming. "Who let you in here anyway, filthy Polish swine? We don't want any of your diseased flowers." I struck at the vendor with my purse. "Waiter! Officers! Would one of you please escort this scum off the terrace?"
The soldiers advanced from the bar, brandishing pistols. Wolf had time to give me one wild, agonized look before I walked huffily from the café, praying he would follow.
Café au lait at the Café Monopol. They'd served it with crystalline lumps of pure beet sugar, the best in all of Katowice. With enormous self-restraint, Wolf and I sucked at them, rather than gobble them down. A few middle-aged couples sat beneath huge umbrellas next to our own on the terrace; single women lined the periphery, some sipping coffee, others merely watching the activities at the café.
"You're creating a bit of a stir," I told Wolf, pressing my calf against his under the table. "You're the only man here under forty." I tugged coquettishly at the ribbons hanging from the back of my sunbonnet, then pulled away from him when I saw he was in no mood for games.
"I know. I feel like we're on display," he said.
We were dressed in clothes provided at the safe house, sundress and bonnet for me, slacks and a white open-neck shirt for Wolf. They had given us a few zloty, enough to buy breakfast and pretend we belonged at the café. Wolf was told to feign an injury, and his limp as we walked to the Monopol would have done Lionel Barrymore proud.
"Stop fidgeting," I warned. "Witold will be here soon. He said it's all arranged, so why don't you relax? Besides, we should order something to eat. I'd like a sandwich."
"Do as you like," he growled. "But this waiting tears at me. I didn't like that Witold fellow, didn't trust him."
"You had no choice. He gave us these clothes, after all, and enough money for a sandwich. Waiter!" I searched for one then quickly turned back to Wolf. "A whole slew of Death Headers just walked in," I hissed. "Stop looking so guilty or you'll get us killed."
I smoothed the pleats of my sundress and dropped my eyes to the folded newspaper beside my coffee. Buried in the bottom corner of the front page was a notice that the United States had closed its German consulates. At last, I thought, something's happening, but why has it taken so long? Two year of German tyranny, not only in Poland, but throughout Eastern Europe. What were the Americans waiting for?
"Some flowers for Madame?" a voice inquired. "Surely the gentleman—he is her husband, yes?—would like to buy her a rose. These are fresh from my garden." A wizened, bent man stood before us, bearing a few meager roses in a wicker basket.
I tried to wave him away. The soldiers had moved to the bar and, though it was morning, were ordering pints of beer. I clutched the knife Witold had given me (Wolf also had one), rage rising in my throat.
"Put down the knife, you imbecile." I jumped involuntarily and did as Wolf bade me. But then I realized the voice was not Wolf's. The flower seller!
"Keep reading the paper," he said. "Yes, that's right. Now, sir, buy her a rose before they get suspicious."
Wolf fumbled in his pocket for some change. He looked like a bird caught beneath a cat's claw.
"Did you say two roses or three?" the vendor asked, leaning over his basket to select them. I noticed how deformed his spine was, forming his foreshortened chest into an S. He handed me the flowers. "We've got to get you out of here," he said, his voice suddenly that of a young man.
"I don't know who you are," I told him, "but I can assure you my husband and I have no reason to fear. We are law-abiding citizens of the Reich. My husband was wounded at the Eastern Front. Our papers are in order."
"Imbecile," he repeated. "There's no time to waste. A roundup is scheduled in five minutes. You'll be found out and executed, no matter how well forged those papers are. You're strangers here and the Krauts don't like strangers." He held out his hand to Wolf. "That'll be twenty zloty, mein Herr."
Wolf's eyes flashed and he handed over the money. I looked around the café, holding my breath. Soldiers had filled the bar. I watched their dull, complacent faces, listened to their banter. Most of them were already starting to get drunk.
I felt a chill. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I had seen a hundred Nazi roundups in the ghetto, and the thrill of the hunt always showed in the features of the peasant boys, posted to make sure no one would slip away. But where was that energy now? These soldiers were blinking at the sun like country dogs.
I caught a glimpse of a bearded man at a nearby table whose eyes were riveted on us. Behind his sunglasses he was recording the events, shaking his head as if—
I threw down by napkin and leapt up screaming. "Who let you in here anyway, filthy Polish swine? We don't want any of your diseased flowers." I struck at the vendor with my purse. "Waiter! Officers! Would one of you please escort this scum off the terrace?"
The soldiers advanced from the bar, brandishing pistols. Wolf had time to give me one wild, agonized look before I walked huffily from the café, praying he would follow.
