the kind of family who thought Picasso and Chagall were alternative names for Beelzebub. His mother didn’t need to hear these thoughts. He tried to rally
himself. ‘I’ll probably be back with Papa in our apartment before long,’ he assured her, his fingers tracing the Paisley pattern on a silk shirt he remembered his father giving
her one Christmas. After they’d arrived in Warsaw Eva had written to Marie asking her to send on some of their clothes. Marie had gone to the Berlin apartment and packed up a big trunk.
Gregor and his mother were well turned out. They didn’t look like refugees even if they could only pay rare visits to the cafés and cinemas Eva loved so much. ‘But where will you
go, Mama?’
‘East across the Bug. To my father’s old village. I still have cousins there, remote ones, but they’ll take me in. Perhaps I can find some kind of work.’
‘God, Mama!’ He could use language with her now; she seemed to treat him almost as a grown-up. ‘What kind of work would a trained actress find in a rural Jewish village?
And the Soviets—’
‘Have no quarrel with me. Remember the books by that Russian engineer your father published? About Soviet construction triumphs – the dams and canals? They went down very well in
Moscow.’
He didn’t like to tell her that he didn’t remember. And his father had probably destroyed all the remaining copies of those books years ago; they’d have been death warrants
after 1933.
‘This will only be a temporary measure.’ Eva sounded almost jaunty. But she was an actress, practised at feigning emotion. ‘The French and British will soon be making a
nuisance of themselves, I expect. And that’ll be the end of Hitler.’ Her defiant expression made her look like she had in the photograph of her as Joan of Arc in a Vienna
production.
She stared at the shirts. ‘Clothes will be in short supply now. Take care of your things. I’ll write to you once a week.’
‘How will you get out of Warsaw?’
Eva bent her head down to study a button on a velvet dress. ‘A friend has transport.’
‘Which friend?’ She’d never mentioned anyone like this before. Sometimes she slipped out of the house for an hour in the early evening. For fresh air, she said.
‘His name is Viktor. He has contacts in a construction company working for the Germans. Their trucks leave the city all the time.’
Viktor who?’
Viktor Vargá,’ she said slowly. ‘I know him from Vienna days. I didn’t realize until recently that he was in Warsaw too.’
Vargá. Is that Hungarian?’
She nodded. ‘But I don’t think he’s lived there for a long time. He spent some time in Russia before the war.’
‘And it’s this Vargá’s idea that you should go to the Soviet sector?’
‘What is this, an interrogation?’ She was almost annoyed with him now, he could tell.
‘Mama, it sounds dangerous. Do you trust him?’
Viktor will get me out of the city safely. He’s an old friend.’
‘He could be a spy for the Germans.’
‘His sympathies were for the other side, as I remember.’ She gave a wry smile before her expression became more sombre. ‘I really believe this is the best for both of us,
Gregor, Liebling.’ She sounded as though she were repeating a line she’d told herself again and again.
He wanted to ask her more about this Vargá fellow but she smiled that famous dazzling smile of hers and he knew she was trying to deflect further questions. ‘I want to come with
you. It’s not right that you should go by yourself. Papa wouldn’t have wanted me to let you do this.’
Eva bent down towards a silk dress and twisted one of its buttons between her fingers so the thread grew tighter and tighter.
One morning a few days after this conversation he woke to find his mother gone, the white quilt pulled neatly up over the pillow on her bed. Mrs Gronowska put a hand on his
shoulder. ‘It happened very suddenly in the early hours. Vargá got hold of a
himself. ‘I’ll probably be back with Papa in our apartment before long,’ he assured her, his fingers tracing the Paisley pattern on a silk shirt he remembered his father giving
her one Christmas. After they’d arrived in Warsaw Eva had written to Marie asking her to send on some of their clothes. Marie had gone to the Berlin apartment and packed up a big trunk.
Gregor and his mother were well turned out. They didn’t look like refugees even if they could only pay rare visits to the cafés and cinemas Eva loved so much. ‘But where will you
go, Mama?’
‘East across the Bug. To my father’s old village. I still have cousins there, remote ones, but they’ll take me in. Perhaps I can find some kind of work.’
‘God, Mama!’ He could use language with her now; she seemed to treat him almost as a grown-up. ‘What kind of work would a trained actress find in a rural Jewish village?
And the Soviets—’
‘Have no quarrel with me. Remember the books by that Russian engineer your father published? About Soviet construction triumphs – the dams and canals? They went down very well in
Moscow.’
He didn’t like to tell her that he didn’t remember. And his father had probably destroyed all the remaining copies of those books years ago; they’d have been death warrants
after 1933.
‘This will only be a temporary measure.’ Eva sounded almost jaunty. But she was an actress, practised at feigning emotion. ‘The French and British will soon be making a
nuisance of themselves, I expect. And that’ll be the end of Hitler.’ Her defiant expression made her look like she had in the photograph of her as Joan of Arc in a Vienna
production.
She stared at the shirts. ‘Clothes will be in short supply now. Take care of your things. I’ll write to you once a week.’
‘How will you get out of Warsaw?’
Eva bent her head down to study a button on a velvet dress. ‘A friend has transport.’
‘Which friend?’ She’d never mentioned anyone like this before. Sometimes she slipped out of the house for an hour in the early evening. For fresh air, she said.
‘His name is Viktor. He has contacts in a construction company working for the Germans. Their trucks leave the city all the time.’
Viktor who?’
Viktor Vargá,’ she said slowly. ‘I know him from Vienna days. I didn’t realize until recently that he was in Warsaw too.’
Vargá. Is that Hungarian?’
She nodded. ‘But I don’t think he’s lived there for a long time. He spent some time in Russia before the war.’
‘And it’s this Vargá’s idea that you should go to the Soviet sector?’
‘What is this, an interrogation?’ She was almost annoyed with him now, he could tell.
‘Mama, it sounds dangerous. Do you trust him?’
Viktor will get me out of the city safely. He’s an old friend.’
‘He could be a spy for the Germans.’
‘His sympathies were for the other side, as I remember.’ She gave a wry smile before her expression became more sombre. ‘I really believe this is the best for both of us,
Gregor, Liebling.’ She sounded as though she were repeating a line she’d told herself again and again.
He wanted to ask her more about this Vargá fellow but she smiled that famous dazzling smile of hers and he knew she was trying to deflect further questions. ‘I want to come with
you. It’s not right that you should go by yourself. Papa wouldn’t have wanted me to let you do this.’
Eva bent down towards a silk dress and twisted one of its buttons between her fingers so the thread grew tighter and tighter.
One morning a few days after this conversation he woke to find his mother gone, the white quilt pulled neatly up over the pillow on her bed. Mrs Gronowska put a hand on his
shoulder. ‘It happened very suddenly in the early hours. Vargá got hold of a
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