belong here and if I go home I won’t belong there. They’ll stick me in some institution, try and make a Nazi out of me.’ The words fell from his mouth.
Reuben studied him. ‘What do you want to do?’
Gregor shrugged. He didn’t even know how to fire a pistol. He was probably a useless fighter like his father.
Reuben stroked the rug, saying nothing for a while. ‘I’ll speak to a friend of mine who’s close to Vargá,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps he’ll have some
suggestions.’
‘This Vargá . . .’
‘What about him?’
‘Everything seems to come back to him. And yet everyone’s always so vague about who he is exactly.’
Reuben nodded. ‘No bad thing in wartime, a bit of vagueness.’ Gregor sensed no more information was to be obtained on the subject of Vargá and stood.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I mean it. Thank you for accepting me.’ God, he’d probably sounded like an idiot.
Reuben was still staring at him. ‘You’re almost one of us really.’
‘How d’you mean?’
Reuben ran a finger round one of the flowers on the rug. ‘A Mischling. A mixture. That’s enough.’ And there was a note in Reuben’s tone that told Gregor he’d
been accepted in a way he hadn’t been before.
A single postcard of girls in embroidered headdress came from Eva, with an address in Brest on the river Bug. Eva had written a brief message saying she hoped to travel on to
the countryside east of the city within the next week. She didn’t sign the card.
Rumours came of arrests and executions both sides of the new border. Mr Gronowski got out his map again. Mrs Gronowska packed cases. ‘We’re going to a farm near Zakopane where we
used to spend summers,’ she told Gregor. ‘Come with us. I promised your mother I’d look after you.’
Gregor watched her fingers flying through piles of woollens and shirts, sorting them into piles to be taken or left, just as his own mother had a month earlier. Mrs Gronowska’s once
perfectly manicured fingernails were bitten to the quick. She came from a rich family who’d made their money in the jewellery business. This large Marianska Street apartment, so tastefully
decorated with paintings and porcelain and formerly the venue for so many literary and artistic soirées, had been her childhood home. Now she was stuffing blankets and woollens into cases
and abandoning most of the family treasures.
‘Mama wanted me to try and get myself repatriated to Germany.’
‘She gave me the name of the official you need to see. I have it in the desk in my room.’
Reuben had come into the room and stood listening. ‘The more I think about it the more I think it’s a bad plan, Gregor,’ he said. ‘You can’t just waltz in and hand
yourself over. It’s too risky.’
‘Precisely. Besides, I don’t want to go back to Germany. I hate them. I want to go to my mother.’ He handed Mrs Gronowska a shirt.
‘Join Eva in the east? Is that wise, Gregor? You’ve heard about the Russians,’ she said.
Word had already reached them of the deportations from eastern Poland.
‘Perhaps we can still get to Hungary. From there – who knows?’
Mrs Gronowska stared at the pile of jumpers and socks. ‘Reuben and Jacob are heading off to a forest somewhere between here and the border,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not
supposed to know but I saw them looking at that map again. They’ll help you get to the Soviet sector.’
Gregor helped Mr and Mrs Gronowski and the two girls carry their bags to Warsaw Central. The station was crowded with passengers clutching bags and attaché cases and
trying not to make eye-contact with the Gestapo men at the ticket office.
Gregor lifted Lydia, the smallest Gronowska girl, into her mother’s arms, handed Mrs Gronowska her jewellery case and wished the family a safe journey. ‘Zakopane’s always
fun.’ Mr Gronowski was trying hard to inject enthusiasm into his tone. ‘We could do far worse. At least we’ll get some fresh
Reuben studied him. ‘What do you want to do?’
Gregor shrugged. He didn’t even know how to fire a pistol. He was probably a useless fighter like his father.
Reuben stroked the rug, saying nothing for a while. ‘I’ll speak to a friend of mine who’s close to Vargá,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps he’ll have some
suggestions.’
‘This Vargá . . .’
‘What about him?’
‘Everything seems to come back to him. And yet everyone’s always so vague about who he is exactly.’
Reuben nodded. ‘No bad thing in wartime, a bit of vagueness.’ Gregor sensed no more information was to be obtained on the subject of Vargá and stood.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I mean it. Thank you for accepting me.’ God, he’d probably sounded like an idiot.
Reuben was still staring at him. ‘You’re almost one of us really.’
‘How d’you mean?’
Reuben ran a finger round one of the flowers on the rug. ‘A Mischling. A mixture. That’s enough.’ And there was a note in Reuben’s tone that told Gregor he’d
been accepted in a way he hadn’t been before.
A single postcard of girls in embroidered headdress came from Eva, with an address in Brest on the river Bug. Eva had written a brief message saying she hoped to travel on to
the countryside east of the city within the next week. She didn’t sign the card.
Rumours came of arrests and executions both sides of the new border. Mr Gronowski got out his map again. Mrs Gronowska packed cases. ‘We’re going to a farm near Zakopane where we
used to spend summers,’ she told Gregor. ‘Come with us. I promised your mother I’d look after you.’
Gregor watched her fingers flying through piles of woollens and shirts, sorting them into piles to be taken or left, just as his own mother had a month earlier. Mrs Gronowska’s once
perfectly manicured fingernails were bitten to the quick. She came from a rich family who’d made their money in the jewellery business. This large Marianska Street apartment, so tastefully
decorated with paintings and porcelain and formerly the venue for so many literary and artistic soirées, had been her childhood home. Now she was stuffing blankets and woollens into cases
and abandoning most of the family treasures.
‘Mama wanted me to try and get myself repatriated to Germany.’
‘She gave me the name of the official you need to see. I have it in the desk in my room.’
Reuben had come into the room and stood listening. ‘The more I think about it the more I think it’s a bad plan, Gregor,’ he said. ‘You can’t just waltz in and hand
yourself over. It’s too risky.’
‘Precisely. Besides, I don’t want to go back to Germany. I hate them. I want to go to my mother.’ He handed Mrs Gronowska a shirt.
‘Join Eva in the east? Is that wise, Gregor? You’ve heard about the Russians,’ she said.
Word had already reached them of the deportations from eastern Poland.
‘Perhaps we can still get to Hungary. From there – who knows?’
Mrs Gronowska stared at the pile of jumpers and socks. ‘Reuben and Jacob are heading off to a forest somewhere between here and the border,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not
supposed to know but I saw them looking at that map again. They’ll help you get to the Soviet sector.’
Gregor helped Mr and Mrs Gronowski and the two girls carry their bags to Warsaw Central. The station was crowded with passengers clutching bags and attaché cases and
trying not to make eye-contact with the Gestapo men at the ticket office.
Gregor lifted Lydia, the smallest Gronowska girl, into her mother’s arms, handed Mrs Gronowska her jewellery case and wished the family a safe journey. ‘Zakopane’s always
fun.’ Mr Gronowski was trying hard to inject enthusiasm into his tone. ‘We could do far worse. At least we’ll get some fresh
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