Wartime Lies Part 3

I saw that her mind was made up and asked what I should say to Kula or Komar if they asked where she was. Tania had not thought about this. First she told me not to worry, n.o.body would ask, because she would have returned to Piasowe before I brought the cows back from the pasture. Later, when I was almost asleep, she said it would be best to pretend I knew nothing; let them guess she had gone to meet Nowak. She was too tired to think, but on her way back to Piasowe she would decide what story to tell, depending on whether she had found grandfather and what he thought she should do. After that, we tried to sleep, but we slept very little, we were so full of hope and so frightened. It was still dark when Tania tiptoed barefoot out of the kitchen. The dog recognized her; he made no noise.

The day pa.s.sed slowly. Stefa said it was going to snow, but it didn't. It just got colder and windier. All the good of our fire seemed to disappear in the gale. An old cow, almost entirely black, with heavy eyes, was my favorite. She liked being scratched and talked to. I would put my arms around her neck and stand for a long time pressed against her flank. When the warmth of her body had penetrated mine, I would go back to Stefa and the boys and our fire. We talked about the pig killing, about the hams and the sausages Kula would be selling, and about Christmas. I told them the Russians would soon be in Piasowe. Then the war would be over, and Tania and I would go back to the city. I still didn't want to mention T.; that seemed like revealing too much of our story without need. Warsaw was destroyed; I knew we couldn't go there. I said we would probably live in Cracow. That was where my grandparents were from. I told them grandmother was dead, but we would move in with my grandfather. We would invite them all to visit in the winter, when there wasn't that much work in Piasowe. We would send a horse and cart to take them to G. and train tickets for Cracow. Or perhaps I would come to travel with them so they wouldn't be startled by the railroad and the big city. They shook their heads and said I would be too far away to think of them, but I was excited by the vision of Cracow and being with my grandfather in his house and made more promises: I thought my grandfather would want to come with me from Cracow to Piasowe. Then they would see how strong he was and how he could handle animals. After a day of meeting everyone and wandering through the fields, we would all leave together.

All the while, fear like nausea was rising to my throat. What if the refugee in Bieda wasn't grandfather? Where would we look for him? Would Tania be safe walking to Bieda? What would she do if she was stopped by a German patrol or if some peasant in his cart, seeing her on foot and alone, decided to rob her instead of letting her ride with him? Never, since Lwow, had she left me for a whole day or gone so far away from me. The boys in the pasture liked me, but they were not my friends. Only Stefa was my friend here, and perhaps Kulowa, but without Tania I was like a stray cat that anyone could stone. I decided to tell them about my father as well: I said I was sure he would return from the prisoner-of-war camp, in his officer's uniform, to look for Tania and me as soon as the Germans left. He was a major; he would be wearing a pistol on his belt and perhaps a sword. The police would have to help in the search. He would not give up until he found us.

The wind was blowing harder. The cows became nervous; they stopped grazing and began to low and move about uneasily. Stefa said that if they were off their feed it was best to take them back, and that is what we did. I finished with the cows in the stable, but Tania still had not returned. Kulowa told me Kula was asleep; it served him right to be sick after all the vodka he had drunk; who did he think he was to be in his feather bed on a weekday? That scoundrel Tadek had also disappeared, busy vomiting somewhere. She was making cheese, pouring curdled milk into rectangular linen pouches. The whey had to be squeezed out carefully into a basin. Then the cheeses, in their pouches, were arranged on a board, covered by another board with a weight on it, and left to rest. I helped, holding the pouches for her. We tasted some of the moist, fresh cheese. We fed the poultry and the pigs, and I helped Kulowa milk the cows, putting hay into their mangers so they would keep quiet. Masia had also disappeared.

We ate the evening meal late, after Kula woke up. By then Tadek and Masia were also in the kitchen; only Tania wasn't there. I told Kulowa I didn't know where she was. The others didn't ask; it seemed to me they didn't mind being by themselves, with just their little cowherd keeping his mouth shut except to thank Kulowa for each piece of food. Then it was time for bed; Masia dragged in her bedding, I brought in Tania's and mine, Kula said Tania must have found a softer mattress somewhere else, they snuffed out the lamp, and I was still alone.

TANIA woke me from a deep sleep. She was s.h.i.+vering from cold and sobbing terribly and kissing me. I kissed her too and stroked her hair and after a while she told me what had happened. Getting to Bieda had taken longer than she had expected. She must have walked two-thirds of the way before a peasant with a cart going in the right direction caught up with her. He was a quiet man with a good, fast horse; he refused to take money from her. When they got to Bieda, he showed her the house of the peasant who dealt in vodka and drove on. She had decided to start out by doing a little business and then casually asking questions about refugees from Warsaw or elsewhere who might be in the village. This peasant was very cautious. At first he wouldn't talk about woke me from a deep sleep. She was s.h.i.+vering from cold and sobbing terribly and kissing me. I kissed her too and stroked her hair and after a while she told me what had happened. Getting to Bieda had taken longer than she had expected. She must have walked two-thirds of the way before a peasant with a cart going in the right direction caught up with her. He was a quiet man with a good, fast horse; he refused to take money from her. When they got to Bieda, he showed her the house of the peasant who dealt in vodka and drove on. She had decided to start out by doing a little business and then casually asking questions about refugees from Warsaw or elsewhere who might be in the village. This peasant was very cautious. At first he wouldn't talk about bimber bimber at all, pretending he just sold regular vodka. He loosened up after she made it clear how well she knew Nowak, and they drank a gla.s.s of at all, pretending he just sold regular vodka. He loosened up after she made it clear how well she knew Nowak, and they drank a gla.s.s of bimber bimber together. All the while, she was telling him that she had many sources of supply and just wanted to know if he needed more together. All the while, she was telling him that she had many sources of supply and just wanted to know if he needed more bimber bimber than he was getting from Nowak. He didn't seem very interested, so she said that she regretted there was no business the two of them could do, but maybe, while she was in Bieda, she should see if there were any refugees who had jewelry to sell; she also dealt in that. than he was getting from Nowak. He didn't seem very interested, so she said that she regretted there was no business the two of them could do, but maybe, while she was in Bieda, she should see if there were any refugees who had jewelry to sell; she also dealt in that.

At that, the peasant laughed and said she had come too late, they had had a very fine refugee, with a gold watch and gold rings and money, but the Germans came last week and shot him right against the barn wall. He pointed to his own barn. He was here, that Pan-and the peasant named my grandfather-drinking with me just like you, when they drove up in a big car, four of them with Pan Miska, who has been living in Zielne, over that way. It seems this Pan with gold was a Jew who owned a big farm and two forests. Pan Miska was his estate manager. My Pan was always helping peasants here when a cow or a horse was sick, he knew more about it than a veterinarian, and one day he walked over to Zielne to give a hand with a calf being born. That's where Miska saw him and right away decided this Jew shouldn't live to go back to his estate; better give him to the Germans before the Russians come. Miska told it to the Pan right to his face, before all the peasants standing around in the stable, and my Pan got his hands out of the cow, wiped them on the straw and hit Miska across the face with the stick he always carried with him. Then he spat and said next time Miska wanted to talk to him he should remember to take off his hat first. The peasants were laughing so hard their stomachs hurt, but the Pan went on working with the cow as though nothing had happened. Some of us told the Pan to run away, because Miska wasn't joking, but the Pan wouldn't listen. So they came in the car with Miska, spoke in German, and shot the Pan in the head. Miska is still in Zielne, if you want to see him: he might want to sell the gold he took from the Pan's body. Tania said she asked the peasant for another vodka and then yet another, she was so weak, and then she thanked him; she would see about going to Zielne. After she left him, she walked around Bieda, across the fields, in circles, realizing she had not asked what they had done with grandfather's body but too scared to go back. Then she lay down in a pasture and fell asleep and woke up before she froze, and she wished she hadn't awakened, except for me, because now I only had her left in the world. Night was falling. She began to walk back to Piasowe. She had not eaten and kept stumbling and falling down, and sometimes she wasn't sure that she was on the right road. But she did make it, she kept on saying, more than five hours in the dark, but she made it. We were both crying now and we cried until the Kulas woke up and we had to get ready for work. This was the worst day in our lives.

AND so Tania went as usual to see Komar and sell their so Tania went as usual to see Komar and sell their bimber bimber. I took the cows to the pasture. A headache came upon me that kept on throbbing, and although it was again very cold and felt like snow, I was hot and sweating and had to keep unb.u.t.toning my layers of coats to let the air cool my skin. In the evening, Tania felt my head and said I had a big fever. She said my eyes were strange and she could hear a noise in my chest she didn't like. At once she told Kulowa I would have to stay in the house under the feather bed until she was sure I was well; she would pay for having Stefa take out the cows. My fever didn't go down, although Tania made me take aspirin she brought from W., and I remained on my mattress till I lost count of the days, the kitchen turning around me, Kulowa giving me water while I sweated and shook. Tania was sharp with Kula when she came home in the evenings; then she would give him bimber bimber and even vodka to make up. and even vodka to make up.

One night she got drunk with him and Tadek; through my headache, I heard them singing and banging on the table with their gla.s.ses to keep time. I kept having strange half dreams; Tania told me it was the fever, she was sure I had pneumonia. There was nothing to do but keep quiet and very warm. On Christmas day, Nowak came with another scarf for Tania and lemon hard candy for me. He was calling her now by her first name only; perhaps saying Pani was too much trouble. The whole family was in the kitchen, eating the ham Kula had kept for the holiday. The smell made me sick. All at once, I heard Tania shouting at Nowak that he must never again touch her arm, never again forget his place, the war was ending and so was her acquaintance with louts like him.

A few days later I was still weak and dizzy but no longer felt hot. Tania came back to the house after the evening meal; she said she had eaten with Komar. When she lay down beside me, she said she did a terrible thing when she insulted Nowak. Komar had just explained to her how Nowak was going to get his revenge. Apparently, Nowak was convinced we were Jews. He had already told the Polish police in W.; it wasn't a question of money because the Polish police didn't want to have anything to do with Jews anymore. Instead they gave the information to the Germans. The Gestapo would come to get us. When she protested to Komar that we weren't Jews at all and that she could show him our papers, Komar asked her not to be stupid, it was all the same to him: he would help us because she was his friend. He would come with his cart and two horses while it was still dark and drive us to the train in Rawa. She trusted him; he even settled his accounts with her. In a moment, she would wake up Kulowa and tell her we were going. She would say there was such a rasping in my lungs that she had to take me to the city to a doctor, even if it meant traveling in this terrible cold.

VII.

WE WERE in Kielce, where the first train we were able to board in Rawa had taken us. The front was approaching. The drumming of the artillery never stopped; Tania said the Russians were only twenty kilometers away. My fever had returned and with it the headache. Tania and everything else around me seemed uncertain and s.h.i.+fting, like pieces of gla.s.s in a kaleidoscope, every turn of which brought a new hurt. A doctor came, listened to my lungs, and said the pneumonia was over. Now I had pleurisy; it would probably pa.s.s. I should take more aspirin. He was able to sell Tania some. in Kielce, where the first train we were able to board in Rawa had taken us. The front was approaching. The drumming of the artillery never stopped; Tania said the Russians were only twenty kilometers away. My fever had returned and with it the headache. Tania and everything else around me seemed uncertain and s.h.i.+fting, like pieces of gla.s.s in a kaleidoscope, every turn of which brought a new hurt. A doctor came, listened to my lungs, and said the pneumonia was over. Now I had pleurisy; it would probably pa.s.s. I should take more aspirin. He was able to sell Tania some.

Once again, we were living in a rented room, in the apartment of a woman who took lodgers. Once again, Tania had found her through the buffet in the station. The apartment was long and brown, our room was brown and greasy; the overhead lamp, useless because there was no electricity, swayed with each wave of sh.e.l.ling. Sometimes a little plaster fell.

In bed Tania lay by my side all dressed. I could not bear to have her under the quilt next to me. I was too hot. We both slept very deeply for short periods. Then I would begin my horrible coughing, and if she did not wake up, I would shake her and ask for milk. But there was no milk left in Kielce. Instead, Tania would heat water with sugar on the little Primus stove and try to get me to drink it, always with more aspirin.

I thought that the bed and my body had grown extraordinarily long. To cool myself, I would stretch my legs on top of the quilt. Far away were my feet. Between the toes I could discern dark bushes crawling with life. Tania put cold, wet cloths on my head. She said these things were as unreal as my old giant; the Russians were before Kielce, in a few days I would be in a clean bed of my own in a large sunny room; she would give me oranges and chocolates. When I wasn't coughing too much, Tania sang to me. There was an old song: Maciek is dead, laid out on a board, but if the music plays he will dance some more.... What a polite boy he was.... What a pity he couldn't live forever....

Bombs and artillery sh.e.l.ls began to fall on Kielce. They were louder than anything we remembered from Warsaw. Late one afternoon, the gla.s.s in our windows shattered, and a furious wind began to blow through the room. The landlady came to say everyone was going to the cellar. She did not think we should remain in the room; I could go down wrapped in a feather bed. The cellar would not be colder than the room without windowpanes.

It was like the cellar in Warsaw, only colder and even wetter. A naphtha lamp lit the s.p.a.ce and the people inside it, some sitting on crates, some on chairs they brought from their apartments. They all seemed to talk in whispers. The explosions were very near now. There was also the noise of rifles and machine guns. Some of the men went out to look. They said there were soldiers running and shooting at one another in the street; a tank was stopped at the corner, its cannon firing sh.e.l.l after sh.e.l.l. Was it German or Russian? Tania had a bottle of water. She gave me little sips from it. I fell asleep in her lap. An enormous explosion awakened me. The cellar was now full of dust, a part of the ceiling had collapsed, someone was s.h.i.+ning a flashlight at the cracks spreading from the hole. The house had been hit. Then there was another, stronger bang and cries for help. The door to the cellar had disappeared in a torrent of crumbling bricks. We were buried. The old woman who had cried out was being helped out from under the stones. Her head and legs were bleeding. Tania stood up and said loud enough to be heard over the din that everybody should try to keep calm, she knew how to clean and bandage wounds. When she finished, and the old woman was just whimpering quietly, somebody asked, Why doesn't this Pani lead us in prayer? So Tania began to sing. She sang the most holy of Polish hymns to the Virgin. We all sang with her, begging the Mother of G.o.d to bring us a time of goodness.

Late the next day, the guns fell silent. There were some shovels in the cellar. The men dug a pa.s.sage to the outside. We climbed out into a street where other figures like us were moving about: gray human-sized insects. It was snowing. We learned we were in a no-man's-land. The Russians had overrun Kielce, then the Germans had pushed them back, and now the Germans were gone or were lying low, but the Russians had not returned. It would all begin again. Tania and I followed some others from our cellar. They were looking for shelter in a building two or three stories high that had not been hit and where they would know somebody. Finally, they found such a place. After much beating on the gate, it was opened. Those inside recognized the people we were with and agreed to let us come into their cellar. They said that the entrance was barricaded against the Russians; when Russians attacked, drunk Tartar battalions were always in the first wave, sent on purpose to kill, torture and rape. We would regret the Germans.

I still had my quilt with me. We settled down on it near a wall. Tania asked for some water. We were handed a bucket; she filled her bottle and began to wash my face. Then, in this dimly lit place, a familiar, kind voice was speaking to us, insistently, calling Tania and me by name. I recognized before us the portly figure of Pani Dumont, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a little disheveled, but otherwise unmistakably herself. The cellar was in her family's building; her Belgian pa.s.sport had saved her in Warsaw from the deportation train; she had managed to get to Kielce. When she had finished kissing Tania and me and we had hugged her to her heart's content, the necessary introductions were performed. Then she fed us, and I finally went to sleep. Hours of bombardment and gunfire followed, the cellar trembled, and once again outside there was silence. Some men went out to reconnoiter: the Russians were everywhere in Kielce; they seemed to be ordinary troops; there were no Asiatic faces in sight.

Pani Dumont, Tania and I came out of the cellar into a blinding January morning. It was no longer snowing. In the street, there were Russian army trucks and armored cars. Soldiers in felt boots lounging near them waved at us cheerfully, offering bread and big lumps of sugar. Pani Dumont was weeping, she said from happiness. All that time in Warsaw she had prayed for us and for Pan Wadek, and with G.o.d's help, now she knew that at least Tania and I were saved.

VIII.

Raz dwa, raz dwa, one two, one two, turn right, turn left, cross hands with your partner, head high, all wheel, Maciek is dancing the krakowiak krakowiak. He is wearing brown tweed knickers and brown argyle socks, his matching tweed coat has a little belt on the back, in the best postwar fas.h.i.+on. It's all a bit too new and uncomfortable. The tummy has grown bigger and rounder again: with the oranges and the chocolates came sardines and goose-liver sausage and babka babka, the tastiest of Polish cakes-for one pound of flour, one pound of b.u.t.ter. His hands are crossed in the most correct position. They hold the deliciously moist hands of a pink-faced doll with flaxen pigtails, straight from the Cracow gimnazjum gimnazjum for girls. The beat is steady, the dancing teacher easy to follow, the accordion first-cla.s.s. for girls. The beat is steady, the dancing teacher easy to follow, the accordion first-cla.s.s.

And is Maciek's name again Maciek? Has the unmentionable Jewish family name been resumed? Certainly not; the visor was not lifted in Kielce; it will not be lifted in Cracow. Maciek has new Aryan papers and a new Polish surname with not a whiff of the Jew in it. Believe me, it is just as well. Tania and he had barely arrived in Cracow, with the plaster of Kielce cellars still in their lungs, the war just ended, when their new neighbors set about holding a pogrom, the first in liberated Poland. Not the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind, to be sure, with aged Jews in black caftans and round hats running around on all fours, youngsters astride their backs, giddy-up horse; you can't find Hasidic Jews anymore. The behavior of our police was first-cla.s.s: absolutely neutral, hands-off, yet how their fingers must have itched on the truncheon handles! Later in that week some Jews in Polish army uniforms, you wouldn't call them soldiers, pushed and pummeled our boys-pure provocation-on the pretext our Polish boys had beat up Jews rocking and praying at their synagogue. Naturally there was a scuffle, and one or two Jews were sent to rest with Abraham still wearing their shawls. The next day every ydak ydak, every yid in Cracow was in the street parading with a huge sign; utterly shameless. Just like before the war-what do they care if they embarra.s.s the Nation at a time when it needs all the help it can get from the West? Hitler didn't teach them a thing. As for extermination, the Germans could no more get that job done than win the war. They had to leave it to us Poles to clean out the country, as though we had not suffered enough. For instance in Kielce, when the good people there, right behind Pani Dumont's back, finally organized a pogrom-one year after the war ended-they still found more than forty Jews to kill! Can you imagine it?

Tania and Maciek have learned their lesson and do not march to protest pogroms. They have their new names and new lies, except that Tania has gone back to being a maiden aunt. Are these lies still useful? Is anyone taken in? You would not think so. After all, it's true, there are Jews all over Cracow, crawling out from every hole. The worst are the ones just back from Russia, arrived with Russian troops, like lice on their uniforms, only they are again Pan Doctor this and Pan Engineer that, living in the same fancy apartments as before. Other Jews spent the war in comfort too, right among us, eating our food, usurping good Polish names, putting their neighbors in danger, because, of course, we all knew; one could tell those Jews at a glance even if they called themselves Sobieski. And please, how many of them did we keep in a back room for just a pittance, with them always complaining they had nothing left, as if money mattered when you turn into black smoke going up the chimney?

Yes, there are Jews in Cracow again, besides the ones who have returned from Russia: a few like Tania and Maciek who bought their life with a lie and a few who paid to be hidden and were not sold. Some of them have gone back to being called Rosenduft and Rozensztajn and think no one cares. But Tania and Maciek know better: Pan Twardowski and Pani Babiska care very much. These half-forgotten ghosts, with odious names and a look about them that's not quite right, the time will come again and again to put them in their place, even if some people never seem to get it in their heads that they are not wanted. So, the wise Jew's name still ends in "ski" or something like it, even if he isn't fooling anyone who is truly sensitive. Perhaps the ladies with whom Tania has coffee and napoleon pastries in the afternoon are not precisely of Sarmatian stock, but the way they live and their names present a better appearance. They try not to offend.

Maciek's father has returned. He too has a new name, one that fits Maciek's, and lies to go with it; he is learning fast. He has brought home a mistress: this buxom obstetrician, deported from od by the Russians, beguiled his cares in Siberia. He will marry her soon; Maciek is lucky: he will have two mothers. Pani Doctor Olga has a man's sincere grip when she takes one's hand to shake it up and down. According to Tania, it's just as well: Can you imagine her hand being kissed?

The grandparents' apartment has been requisitioned by the new political police; Tania says it's like the refrain of a song; in T. the Gestapo, in Cracow the Bezpieka. A different large apartment with no memories is offered in compensation: the police know who is who. Maciek has his own bedroom again and so does Tania. Pan Doctor and Pani Doctor share the third. Maciek's father attempts an embarra.s.sed explanation; he is offended by Maciek's response. He tells Maciek stories about the Urals and Siberia; Maciek cannot answer questions about the war, however gently his father probes.

Maciek is attending a gimnazjum gimnazjum. He has his first real friend. The friend's name is amusing: Kocielny, which in Polish means "sacristan." Together, they serve at Ma.s.s, for Maciek is at the head of the religion cla.s.s and Kocielny is the boy the priest likes the most. Ma.s.s is at seven in the morning. Kocielny wants to look after Maciek; he waits for Maciek in front of Maciek's apartment building, since Tania doesn't want him to come upstairs so early and Tania still rules over the household. They walk to church very fast in the morning mist, swinging their leather schoolbags. Picking Maciek up, Kocielny says, is the only way to make sure Maciek will be on time. He doesn't know that Maciek has a will of steel and is always on time and that it just suits him to make Kocielny run halfway across Cracow and stand in the street in the cold. They dress the priest, help him with the holy vessels, swing the censer, ring the bell at the elevation, and wash up afterward. Kocielny's heart yearns for the sacrament; they take Communion. Maciek knows he is again behaving despicably-it is always like the first time in Warsaw-but what is he to do? He cares for Kocielny and needs him and he cannot and will not reveal himself. If Kocielny learns that Maciek is a Jew, he will despise him, especially after the sacrilege, although Maciek is always first in every subject. Yes, Maciek's p.e.n.i.s is still his old p.e.n.i.s, different from the others, but he has learned that one can avoid urinating in public places or otherwise displaying that telltale member.

Meanwhile, Kocielny cares for him too. Kocielny is tall and very strong. He has tiny ears, deep-set eyes and a small, straight nose with paper-thin nostrils. His father is an a.s.sistant railroad station chief, just like Zosia's. Tania teases Maciek about that. Maciek doesn't know how to play games during recreation, but Kocielny excels at them all and picks Maciek for his team. Then it does not matter that Maciek cannot catch the ball or throw it hard or gets winded when he runs. Kocielny is always there and makes it all right. But Maciek declines nouns and conjugates verbs from memory and by instinct, because he knows how they must change, and pa.r.s.es sentences at a glance; these things must be taught to Kocielny with infinite patience, and Maciek teaches him. They take long walks in the park. Kocielny is as chaste as he is strong; when they talk about their bodies, Maciek lies. Kocielny wouldn't understand the truth.

Maciek has a dog. It's a German shepherd that his father obtained from the police school. The dog is barely an adult, perhaps a year old. Maciek thinks they sold the dog to his father because the dog is too stupid for police work. Maciek names him Bari, for one of the stations their new radio is supposed to catch but cannot, because Italy is too far away. Does the dog know that Maciek is afraid of him? They go to the park every afternoon when Maciek returns from the gimnazjum gimnazjum. It's late November; the park is empty. Maciek lets the dog run; if he gets enough exercise, he will not be bad tempered. The dog knows how to come to heel when Maciek whistles. One afternoon, the dog heels, but instead of wagging his tail and jumping to put his paws on Maciek's chest to be petted, he is coiled like a spring and growling. His ears are laid back; he bares his teeth. Maciek thinks that when the dog leaps he will go for his throat. Fortunately, the leash he is holding in his hand is very heavy. When the dog does leap, Maciek hits him hard, in the face. They continue, leap and parry, for what seems a long time. The dog becomes calmer. Maciek turns his back on the dog and slowly walks away. The dog follows; Maciek hears him in the rustling of dry leaves. He whistles. The dog obeys, and Maciek forces himself to put him on the leash.

Some months later, the dog is. .h.i.t by a car, directly in front of Maciek's apartment building. An august personage of the new regime lives in the building and there is always an armed guard inside the entrance gate. Maciek is chatting with the guard, who is his friend. They see that the dog is dead. Maciek pleads with the guard to shoot the driver. Tania will later tell her friends at the cafe the story of Maciek's grief and broken heart, that if he could have taken the rifle from the guard anything might have happened. The truth is Maciek is glad the animal is dead. He tells Kocielny that truth. He takes the risk that they will stop being friends.

It doesn't matter. One day soon, Tania will leave. Then Maciek and his father and Pani Doctor Olga will also go away. He will never see Kocielny again or have news from him, because Kocielny will not know Maciek's name or what he has become. And where is Maciek now? He became an embarra.s.sment and slowly died. A man who bears one of the names Maciek used has replaced him. Is there much of Maciek in that man? No: Maciek was a child, and our man has no childhood that he can bear to remember; he has had to invent one. And the old song is a lie. No matter how long or gaily the music plays, Maciek will not rise to dance again. Nomen et cineres una c.u.m vanitate sepulta Nomen et cineres una c.u.m vanitate sepulta.

Afterword.

by Louis Begley IN order to prepare this Afterword, I reread order to prepare this Afterword, I reread Wartime Lies Wartime Lies last month, for the first time since 1995, the year in which it appeared in Polish translation. Such a long absence from one of my texts is by no means unusual: I pore over them strenuously when I correct galleys, I read from the finished books when I am on reading tours that follow their initial appearances, and I review and correct translations into languages that I know. I remember vividly that reading the Polish translation, which was excellent, moved me to tears. This is what my book would have been like, I said to myself, if I had not left Poland just before my thirteenth birthday, if I were a Polish writer. When I came to my senses I told myself, more reasonably, that in truth I could not have written last month, for the first time since 1995, the year in which it appeared in Polish translation. Such a long absence from one of my texts is by no means unusual: I pore over them strenuously when I correct galleys, I read from the finished books when I am on reading tours that follow their initial appearances, and I review and correct translations into languages that I know. I remember vividly that reading the Polish translation, which was excellent, moved me to tears. This is what my book would have been like, I said to myself, if I had not left Poland just before my thirteenth birthday, if I were a Polish writer. When I came to my senses I told myself, more reasonably, that in truth I could not have written Wartime Lies Wartime Lies in Polish or any other language if I had not become an exile, someone not unlike the "man with a nice face and sad eyes" who, on the opening page of my novel, broods over the in Polish or any other language if I had not become an exile, someone not unlike the "man with a nice face and sad eyes" who, on the opening page of my novel, broods over the Aeneid Aeneid and his native town in far distant eastern Poland. and his native town in far distant eastern Poland.

I realize that I have just concurred in the general a.s.sumption that I am not unlike that man, and I will go further and acknowledge the truth of what has seemed obvious to many readers and critics: little Maciek's life in T. in the years before World War II was not very different from my own life during that time in a town called Stryj. T. and Stryj are located in the same part of pre-World War II Poland, and the subsequent adventures of Tania and Maciek resemble, in broad outline, my mother's and my experiences when, using Aryan papers in Lwow, Warsaw, and the Mazowsze, we disguised our Jewish ident.i.ty and so escaped capture by Germans and a.s.sa.s.sination. Nor is my own impression of Poland directly after the war dissimilar from what I portrayed as Maciek's perception of it in Chapter VIII Chapter VIII of of Wartime Lies Wartime Lies. At the same time, upon rereading my book, it is clearer to me than ever, that it is quintessentially a work of fiction and not an autobiography or memoir, and that I had to write the story of Maciek and Tania in the form of a novel. The form was no less necessary than the emotional distance from the events I was going to evoke conferred by exile and the pa.s.sage of time.

Perhaps I should briefly explain what I mean when I refer to the form of the novel. I understand the convention of the realist novel-a tradition in which I place myself-to require the novelist to write avowedly invented stories that so engage the reader's interest and sympathy that, while the spell lasts, he believes they are true or, at least, suspends disbelief. Novelistic invention does not, of course, preclude use of the novelist's own experiences and observations-of himself and others-in addition to material whose connection to his actual experience may be tenuous or indiscernible as he puts words down on paper. That is because the act of writing has the power to release thoughts and images of which one has had no premonition; one did not know they were within one's ability to summon up. Of course, when the novel has at last been finished, none of the material included in it has conserved its nature, whether it be personal experience, make believe, or serendipitous discovery; all of it has been transformed, as though the writer were a silkworm, and the bits and pieces of memory, a.s.sociations, and knowledge leaves of a mulberry bush. These characteristics of the novel as form have an importance for me that I cannot overstate. They give the freedom to invent, consistent with the profound moral and psychological truth of the story being told, that I treasure as my essential prerogative, and, like the pa.s.sage of time and exile, they provide a psychic screen that has permitted me to approach matters, including the annihilation of Jews in Poland, that would otherwise seem intractable, even forbidden.

It should by now be clear that my insistence on the fictional nature of Wartime Lies Wartime Lies is not a form of coquetry, and has nothing to do with some bizarre need on my part to avoid embarra.s.sment to my mother or me. Neither of us has any more cause to apologize for or be ashamed of our lies or degradation during those war years than did Tania or Maciek-if I exclude the profound shame and disgrace of belonging to the same animal species as the men and women whose cruel and vile deeds I describe. is not a form of coquetry, and has nothing to do with some bizarre need on my part to avoid embarra.s.sment to my mother or me. Neither of us has any more cause to apologize for or be ashamed of our lies or degradation during those war years than did Tania or Maciek-if I exclude the profound shame and disgrace of belonging to the same animal species as the men and women whose cruel and vile deeds I describe.

There are simpler reasons, too, why Wartime Lies Wartime Lies had to be a work of fiction: As I have said in the course of many interviews, even if I had been interested in writing some sort of historical and autobiographical account, the memories of the first years of my life and of the war that I had at my disposal were too skimpy. They had to be built upon by the faculty of imagination to permit me to fas.h.i.+on the story I had in mind. Moreover, I had no intention to write about my mother while she was alive. I wanted a different heroine for a time of unprecedented upheaval and horror: a desire no different in nature from Stendhal's, when he created the d.u.c.h.ess of Sanseverina, or Pasternak's, when he created Lara. As for my vision of myself as a little boy, I thought that the figure I remembered would come through as too indistinct for my purposes; its contours had to be sharpened and its hue heightened. Only the grandfather in had to be a work of fiction: As I have said in the course of many interviews, even if I had been interested in writing some sort of historical and autobiographical account, the memories of the first years of my life and of the war that I had at my disposal were too skimpy. They had to be built upon by the faculty of imagination to permit me to fas.h.i.+on the story I had in mind. Moreover, I had no intention to write about my mother while she was alive. I wanted a different heroine for a time of unprecedented upheaval and horror: a desire no different in nature from Stendhal's, when he created the d.u.c.h.ess of Sanseverina, or Pasternak's, when he created Lara. As for my vision of myself as a little boy, I thought that the figure I remembered would come through as too indistinct for my purposes; its contours had to be sharpened and its hue heightened. Only the grandfather in Wartime Lies Wartime Lies is as true to my memories as I could make him. That was an act of love and piety for the dead, which I succeeded in repeating only partially when it came to the portrait of the father, because the story required that my recollection of my father and of myself be somewhat altered, and that certain elements be added. is as true to my memories as I could make him. That was an act of love and piety for the dead, which I succeeded in repeating only partially when it came to the portrait of the father, because the story required that my recollection of my father and of myself be somewhat altered, and that certain elements be added.

I have dwelt on the inadequacy of recollection, the alteration of what had been in fact remembered, and the freedom to invent in order to tell the story. Do I mean to suggest that Wartime Lies Wartime Lies is to be distrusted? Certainly not. As I reread my novel, with that question among others in mind, I recognized once more the fundamental psychological honesty of what I had written, as well as its historical truth in all essential aspects. It so happens-but I consider this circ.u.mstance largely irrelevant-that the significant incidents in is to be distrusted? Certainly not. As I reread my novel, with that question among others in mind, I recognized once more the fundamental psychological honesty of what I had written, as well as its historical truth in all essential aspects. It so happens-but I consider this circ.u.mstance largely irrelevant-that the significant incidents in Wartime Lies Wartime Lies, even those that are the most extreme, contain few elements of fancy; the invention has consisted in the collation of images and actions, the compression of scenes, and the addition of occasional details for aesthetic purposes (typical examples that come to mind are the parrot in an open cage being carried on the shoulder of a man and the tweed of which the suit worn by the young mother was made, both in the description of the march to the Central Station almost at the end of the Warsaw uprising). The same can be fairly said of the thrust of the conversations. If that is so, a reader may ask, why do you not admit that you wrote a memoir, after all? Why do you instead insist on your book's being a novel? The answer lies in the description I have given of the composition of Wartime Lies Wartime Lies. The quant.i.ty of material in it that does correspond to specific observations is not related to an ambition to write a history, or to any failure of my imagination; it has, however, much to do with my desire to treat a period of despair with total tenderness and respect. A skeptical reader may also wonder how I can be certain that I recognized, fifteen years after writing it, the truth or error of my portrayal of events that took place more than sixty years ago. The answer is that one may forget distant events and yet have no doubt that a representation of them is false, if that is the case. And, the skeptical reader should remember that I lay claim to psychological honesty and historical truth in essentials, and not to the factual truth of an on-the-scene reportage.

That I have striven for fundamental honesty in Wartime Lies Wartime Lies is not unique: That has been my goal also in my other novels, for aesthetic if not moral reasons. I believe that no effort to create a work of art can succeed otherwise, the adherence to a standard of verisimilitude being a separate matter, dependent on other ambitions. In the case of is not unique: That has been my goal also in my other novels, for aesthetic if not moral reasons. I believe that no effort to create a work of art can succeed otherwise, the adherence to a standard of verisimilitude being a separate matter, dependent on other ambitions. In the case of Wartime Lies Wartime Lies, after I had completed the text and had gained a modic.u.m of a.s.surance as to its artistic merit, I was nevertheless deeply troubled about the rightness of publis.h.i.+ng a work on the subject I had chosen unless it was purely scientific, in other words unless it was as accurate a historical account of what had transpired in Poland during World War II as scholarly effort could achieve. But, I had a story to tell that was not a lie, and at a certain point I came to see that I had told it as well as I could, in the only way I knew how to tell it. The conclusion followed that the taboo I feared did not apply. I did not lock the ma.n.u.script in a drawer of my desk. Instead, I sent it to its original publisher. I do not regret my decision.

MARCH 2004 2004.

WARTIME L LIES.

A Reader's Guide

LOUIS BEGLEY.

A CONVERSATION WITH L LOUIS B BEGLEY.

Jack Miles, former book editor of the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times and past president of the National Book Critics Circle, won a Pulitzer Prize for his book and past president of the National Book Critics Circle, won a Pulitzer Prize for his book G.o.d: A Biography G.o.d: A Biography (Vintage). After the publication of (Vintage). After the publication of Christ: A Crisis in the Life of G.o.d Christ: A Crisis in the Life of G.o.d in 2001, he was named a MacArthur Fellow. A former Jesuit, widely published on cultural, religious, and literary topics, Miles serves as senior advisor to the president of the J. Paul Getty Trust and as senior fellow with the Pacific Council on International Policy in 2001, he was named a MacArthur Fellow. A former Jesuit, widely published on cultural, religious, and literary topics, Miles serves as senior advisor to the president of the J. Paul Getty Trust and as senior fellow with the Pacific Council on International Policy.

Jack Miles: The body of this novel is written in the first person, but it opens and closes in the third person, and the voice we hear then intrudes twice along the way-I think, especially, of the end of The body of this novel is written in the first person, but it opens and closes in the third person, and the voice we hear then intrudes twice along the way-I think, especially, of the end of Chapter IV Chapter IV. What were you aiming at by this s.h.i.+ft? What should readers be watching for in their own reaction at these points?

Louis Begley: There are several reasons for the change that occurs at the very end of There are several reasons for the change that occurs at the very end of Chapter IV Chapter IV from first-person narration-the speaker until then having been ostensibly little Maciek-to narration in the third person by an authorial voice. from first-person narration-the speaker until then having been ostensibly little Maciek-to narration in the third person by an authorial voice.

The first one involved my personal, very intimate feelings. During those years of catastrophe and horror, the conduct that hurt and humiliated me most was that of my fellow Poles: their hatred of Jews, their utter callousness in the face of the unspeakable suffering and extinction of their former friends and neighbors, their contemptible duplicity. It was a breach of fundamental good faith and betrayal that scarred me more than anything I saw done by Germans or Ukrainians. I know perfectly well-and you and my readers should not doubt-that there were Poles who showed extraordinary decency and courage in their dealings with Polish Jews, risking death and torture at the hands of Germans. Alas, they were invisible to me in the vast grey ma.s.s of the others. The ultimate injury and betrayal was, of course, the virulence of Polish anti-Semitism in evidence immediately after the Soviet army drove the Germans out of Polish territory, as demonstrated for instance by the pogroms and killings in Kielce and Cracow, events that cause little Maciek, his aunt, and his father to continue the lie of Aryan ident.i.ty. I found myself overwhelmed, unable to control my voice, when I tried to describe the continued humiliation in words spoken by Maciek, and to show through him the depth of his disillusionment and despair. It occurred to me that this was a job for a grownup. So I let the author or perhaps-the ambiguity is intentional-the same "man with a nice face and sad eyes" who in the first pages of the book remembers his childhood in Poland express Maciek's anger and scorn. And, of course, announce the "death" of the little boy.

Second, I thought that as a matter of aesthetic choice it would be right to balance the first pages of the book, which give the point of view of a grownup-the man who we are led to think was the child he chooses to call Maciek-with a return on the closing pages to a grownup's vision and tone of voice.

Finally-I return here to deeply personal feelings-there were moments during the composition of Wartime Lies Wartime Lies when I literally needed to pause for breath. The italicized pa.s.sages drawing on Dante's when I literally needed to pause for breath. The italicized pa.s.sages drawing on Dante's Inferno Inferno are such stops on my are such stops on my via dolorosa via dolorosa. They represent attempts by "the man with a nice face," or perhaps by the author, to call to his aid the greatest connoisseur of evil in Western literature, one who was equipped with a remarkable grid of values through which to a.s.sess it. They allowed me to have someone other than Maciek speak. That was an urgent necessity. Curiously, I thought of those pa.s.sages at the time as a window letting in fresh air just as I was close to suffocating. Something of the same nature was at work in the intrusion that closes Chapter IV Chapter IV.

It is a task for the reader's sympathy and imagination to search for further links between these disclosures and Maciek's story.

JM: Is your ideal reader one who will forget the adult Maciek-actually, as you point out, an unnamed, sad-eyed adult-most of the time and simply relive the harrowing, suspenseful experiences of the boy? Or do you instead dream of a reader who will, at each step of the journey, think not so much of the boy as of the adult remembering him? Is your ideal reader one who will forget the adult Maciek-actually, as you point out, an unnamed, sad-eyed adult-most of the time and simply relive the harrowing, suspenseful experiences of the boy? Or do you instead dream of a reader who will, at each step of the journey, think not so much of the boy as of the adult remembering him?

LB: My ideal reader is attentive and blessed by the gifts of sympathy and imagination. You will note that I am going back in this reply to what I said in answer to your first question. Provided the reader has those qualities, all I want to do is to withdraw, to get out of the way and let the reader make of my work what he or she wishes. My ideal reader is attentive and blessed by the gifts of sympathy and imagination. You will note that I am going back in this reply to what I said in answer to your first question. Provided the reader has those qualities, all I want to do is to withdraw, to get out of the way and let the reader make of my work what he or she wishes.

That being said, I believe that if I were the reader I would think of myself as Maciek; I would crawl into his skin. I also believe that I would not be able to keep out of my mind the questions raised by the pa.s.sage in which the adult man remembers what may have been his own childhood: What is such a man like? How does one grow up after a childhood that has been similarly blasted?

It may interest you that my working t.i.tle for Wartime Lies Wartime Lies, which I abandoned with some reluctance, was The Education of a Monster The Education of a Monster.

JM: That t.i.tle strikes the ear as a slap strikes the face. I wince at it. But even That t.i.tle strikes the ear as a slap strikes the face. I wince at it. But even Wartime Lies Wartime Lies, as a less confrontational alternative, has something hard and unflinching about it. "Lies?" the reader thinks; "Don't you mean disguises? disguises? Or maybe Or maybe ruses?" ruses?" But what were objectively disguises or ruses were subjectively lies. To give the matter a very innocuous formulation, Maciek acquired some bad habits, thanks to n.a.z.ism and Polish anti-Semitism. When wartime Poland was behind him and he could finally drop the ruse and shed the disguise, those bad habits may have lingered. But what were objectively disguises or ruses were subjectively lies. To give the matter a very innocuous formulation, Maciek acquired some bad habits, thanks to n.a.z.ism and Polish anti-Semitism. When wartime Poland was behind him and he could finally drop the ruse and shed the disguise, those bad habits may have lingered.

Something in the reader, as this theft of childhood takes place, wants you to go a little easier on Maciek-one might even want you to like him a little better. But during the war, Maciek dared not go easy on himself or, so to speak, sweet on himself. A single moment of self-indulgence, and all would have been lost. This may be the wartime att.i.tude-I do not call it a lie-that lingers most powerfully into this book about his experiences.

Perhaps Maciek's "education," in the dark sense of your abandoned tide, when just after a Jewish visitor, Bern, has left the house, Maciek's grandmother gives a bitter little speech, repudiating her daughter and her husband at a stroke and linking them by emotional a.s.sociation to, of all things, a pogrom she witnessed as a girl. This is shocking enough, but then she says that as bad as that was, what Bern has said is worse: ... never, in all that time, or anytime until now, had she heard anyone talk as shamelessly as Bern." What is so utterly shameless about what Bern has said? How could it possibly be worse than a pogrom?

LB: Here's why. Bern, after musing about how in the town of T. the Germans have already imposed on Jews the obligation to wear the armband and the yellow Star of David, goes on to say that "If the Jewish community offices acted responsibly, and our dear cafe intellectuals for once avoided provoking the Poles, perhaps we could remain as we were." Of course, this is nonsense and goes to prove-if additional proof is needed-that Bern is a fool. The disasters befalling Polish Jews have nothing to do with whether they "act responsibly" by collaborating with the Germans or with whether Jewish intellectuals "avoid provoking" the Catholic Poles. They are instead irreversible steps being taken by the German occupying forces on the road to the final solution. Here's why. Bern, after musing about how in the town of T. the Germans have already imposed on Jews the obligation to wear the armband and the yellow Star of David, goes on to say that "If the Jewish community offices acted responsibly, and our dear cafe intellectuals for once avoided provoking the Poles, perhaps we could remain as we were." Of course, this is nonsense and goes to prove-if additional proof is needed-that Bern is a fool. The disasters befalling Polish Jews have nothing to do with whether they "act responsibly" by collaborating with the Germans or with whether Jewish intellectuals "avoid provoking" the Catholic Poles. They are instead irreversible steps being taken by the German occupying forces on the road to the final solution.

The grandmother is not as bright as Tania and does not seem capable of the deep, fearless insights of the grandfather. But she has her common sense which makes her understand the shameful reality that lies behind Bern's chatter: Bern is identifying himself with the enemy, and adopting the enemy's point of view, probably because the German enemy is overwhelmingly strong and the Catholic Poles who abet the enemy are so dangerous. He is deserting his own side, if I may use that metaphor, although he does this for a short while only: Soon afterward he flees to the forest to join a group of partisans. Something rather similar happens to Maciek when he kills bedbugs in the various rooming houses in Warsaw and when, in the games he plays with lead soldiers, he decides that his best troops are the Wehrmacht and the SS because "they looked like winners". Perhaps today one would conclude that Bern and Maciek suffer from Stockholm Syndrome.

Why is what Bern said worse than a pogrom? I suppose because the pogrom that the grandmother remembers did not shatter the solidarity of Jews in the face of their tormentors. Now she perceives the possibility that Jews may be turning against other Jews.

JM: Let's talk about some more complex and costly desertions. Maciek says "Now [Tania] thought she loved [Reinhard, a German soldier who had become her lover and the family's protector], probably as much as she had ever loved anybody." Am I right to link this to, "The day of my first Communion came. Tania offered to give me breakfast on the sly in our room, but I refused. I wanted to be clean inside, just as Father P. had directed?" Let's talk about some more complex and costly desertions. Maciek says "Now [Tania] thought she loved [Reinhard, a German soldier who had become her lover and the family's protector], probably as much as she had ever loved anybody." Am I right to link this to, "The day of my first Communion came. Tania offered to give me breakfast on the sly in our room, but I refused. I wanted to be clean inside, just as Father P. had directed?"

Tania's most extended, elaborate dissimulation involves s.e.x; Maciek's involves religion. She has a German lover; he is about to make his First Communion as a supposed Catholic. Absent all duress, Tania and Reinhard would almost certainly not be a couple, and Maciek would not be taking instruction from Father P. Are they deceiving others or deceiving themselves?

LB: Perhaps I should go back to your question about the grandmother and Bern. At the top of the very next page Maciek relates how Tania responded to the grandmother: "Tania looked very tired and very calm. After a while, she turned to my grandmother and said, You don't know yet what is shameless, you don't know yet what we will do, just wait, you will see before you die." Of course, Tania is right, because worse Perhaps I should go back to your question about the grandmother and Bern. At the top of the very next page Maciek relates how Tania responded to the grandmother: "Tania looked very tired and very calm. After a while, she turned to my grandmother and said, You don't know yet what is shameless, you don't know yet what we will do, just wait, you will see before you die." Of course, Tania is right, because worse is is yet to come, including-although she cannot possibly foresee it specifically-her liaison with the good German, Reinhard. However understandable and justifiable, that is the ultimate disgrace, and a reader who follows carefully Maciek's report of Tania's and his own existence in Lwow will see how that aspect of her condition is present in her mind. This leads me to think that you are right in your a.s.sessment: To love Reinhard-possibly she really thinks she does-makes her case less sordid, even if it doesn't exculpate her. I believe also that she is likely to think that telling the little boy that she loves Reinhard will make it easier for him to accept the searing fact of their menage. yet to come, including-although she cannot possibly foresee it specifically-her liaison with the good German, Reinhard. However understandable and justifiable, that is the ultimate disgrace, and a reader who follows carefully Maciek's report of Tania's and his own existence in Lwow will see how that aspect of her condition is present in her mind. This leads me to think that you are right in your a.s.sessment: To love Reinhard-possibly she really thinks she does-makes her case less sordid, even if it doesn't exculpate her. I believe also that she is likely to think that telling the little boy that she loves Reinhard will make it easier for him to accept the searing fact of their menage.

I agree that something similar is at work when it comes to Maciek's catechism cla.s.s and taking Communion. According to Maciek's rules of decency, what he is doing is despicable. He will do it nevertheless, because he has no choice, but he will perform the defiling act as cleanly and respectfully as possible. An absurd notion? Perhaps. But I think that is the psychological truth.

JM: And that subtle psychological truth is, I gather, what you want the reader to understand, whether the reader excuses it or not. Earlier in this conversation, you called Dante a "connoisseur of evil." Perhaps only a connoisseur of evil would see Tania's interaction with the begging Jew, Hertz, as bringing her to a point "so degraded, that she had no trust left and no pity." A coa.r.s.er mind might think that sleeping with a German soldier had degraded her worse. But this is not how she sees the matter, and the aftermath of her encounter with Hertz is evidently one of those moments in the writing of this book that were so intense for you in the writing that you had to, as you say, "pause for breath" in the interlude. Would you care to comment? And that subtle psychological truth is, I gather, what you want the reader to understand, whether the reader excuses it or not. Earlier in this conversation, you called Dante a "connoisseur of evil." Perhaps only a connoisseur of evil would see Tania's interaction with the begging Jew, Hertz, as bringing her to a point "so degraded, that she had no trust left and no pity." A coa.r.s.er mind might think that sleeping with a German soldier had degraded her worse. But this is not how she sees the matter, and the aftermath of her encounter with Hertz is evidently one of those moments in the writing of this book that were so intense for you in the writing that you had to, as you say, "pause for breath" in the interlude. Would you care to comment?

LB: Yes. Once again, I must go back to the grandmother, and her outburst about the shamelessness of Bern's talk. As I have said, I think she has in mind the shattering of solidarity among Jews. Yes. Once again, I must go back to the grandmother, and her outburst about the shamelessness of Bern's talk. As I have said, I think she has in mind the shattering of solidarity among Jews.

In the pa.s.sage you have now referred to, Tania's sees further and more deeply. I believe that she takes her fear and distrust of Hertz to be signs of the shattering of all human solidarity, a vaster, and, for me, an unbearable vision.

JM: "I was chained to the habit of lying, and I no longer believed that weakness or foolishness or mistakes could be forgiven by Tania or me". This seems to be a moment of bleak truth for Maciek corresponding to the one mentioned just above for Tania. The reader is prepared to forgive the two of them almost anything and wants to believe that their integrity will emerge unscathed from their ordeal. They themselves seem not to share this belief. They do not see moral integrity and psychological deformity as mutually exclusive. Innocent though they are, their experience has left them in some sense morally damaged. It must be both emotionally and conceptually difficult to speak of this damage and yet pointless to speak of the experience at all "I was chained to the habit of lying, and I no longer believed that weakness or foolishness or mistakes could be forgiven by Tania or me". This seems to be a moment of bleak truth for Maciek corresponding to the one mentioned just above for Tania. The reader is prepared to forgive the two of them almost anything and wants to believe that their integrity will emerge unscathed from their ordeal. They themselves seem not to share this belief. They do not see moral integrity and psychological deformity as mutually exclusive. Innocent though they are, their experience has left them in some sense morally damaged. It must be both emotionally and conceptually difficult to speak of this damage and yet pointless to speak of the experience at all without without speaking of this aspect of it. Does this explain why "Our man avoids Holocaust books and dinner conversation about Poland in the Second World War"? speaking of this aspect of it. Does this explain why "Our man avoids Holocaust books and dinner conversation about Poland in the Second World War"?

LB: I do not think that the man with "sad eyes" would agree that he has-except for his skin being "intact and virgin of tattoo"-escaped unscathed, and I doubt that he thinks that Tania has had that good fortune. On the contrary, "he believes that he has been changed inside forever, like a beaten dog ...". He expresses no view about Tania but I think that if he were to do so it would turn out to be the same. He avoids "Holocaust books" and conversations about wartime Poland for complex and somewhat contradictory reasons. As for conversations, there is first of all his I do not think that the man with "sad eyes" would agree that he has-except for his skin being "intact and virgin of tattoo"-escaped unscathed, and I doubt that he thinks that Tania has had that good fortune. On the contrary, "he believes that he has been changed inside forever, like a beaten dog ...". He expresses no view about Tania but I think that if he were to do so it would turn out to be the same. He avoids "Holocaust books" and conversations about wartime Poland for complex and somewhat contradictory reasons. As for conversations, there is first of all his pudor pudor, his sense of decency: he does not want to desecrate this subject by loose talk. Books either do not come close enough to the truth as he understands it and, therefore, their effect may also be a form of desecration, or, on the contrary, when by the force of their emotional truth they put him face-to-face with his memories, they are unbearably painful to read.

There must be in all developed religions and in secular ethics permission to lie in self-defense, in order to avoid gruesome death. I doubt that the man with "sad eyes" is concerned about lies told in order to survive or other deceptions or even the devastating need to take Communion. But innocence and moral integrity? I am not religious, but if I were I wonder whether I would think of either Tania or Maciek as "innocent." What do we make of Maciek's s.e.xual longings and his nascent sadism?

I tend to think of the world described in Wartime Lies Wartime Lies as a world where