“I was in advertising,” I said.
“Like to make the television commercials?”
“Yes. But I did more magazine ads and product design.”
“Have you made commercials I would know?”
“Probably not. My clients were mostly confined to Washington.”
“The capital Washington, D.C.?”
“No. Washington state.”
He nodded. “Of course. Of course. Seattle.” He took a bite of bread. “Were you good at your advertising?”
“Some people thought so. They gave me awards.”
“Is that what makes you good? The awards?”
“No. They are only symptoms of the disease. Not the disease itself.”
Leszek laughed. “See, you are clever. But you have not yet answered my question. Why does an advertising man, one with many awards, walk from Seattle to Key West? Plenty of time? Or, maybe, as they say in Poland, you stuck your head above the other poppies, so they chopped you off at the advertising business?”
“No,” I said. “I lost my wife.”
His smile disappeared. “Oh. I am very sorry. You have divorce?”
I shook my head. “No. She passed away.”
He looked distraught. “I am very, very sorry to hear. She was sick?”
“She was in a horse riding accident and broke her back. She died a few months later of infection.”
“That is very bad. And now I understand that is why you walk away from your job.”
“Mostly. The advertising agency I worked for was mine. While I was taking care of my wife, my partner stole all my clients and forced me into bankruptcy.”
“That is bad,” Leszek said. “Poor man.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by this. “Me?”
“Your partner. He is a poor man. I feel most sorry for him.” He stood up. “Let me get you some more soup.” He reached across the table and ladled more soup into my bowl. “There you are. Eat plenty.”
“Thank you,” I said, waiting for him to sit down. After he did I said, “You feel most sorry for him?”
“Yes. He has made for himself a world of no trust. Now he must spend his days afraid for when someone will steal his business. The things we do to others become our world. To the thief, everyone in the world is a thief. To the cheater, everyone is thinking to cheat him.”
“That is an interesting way to look at it,” I said.
“So what of you?” Leszek said. “Are you free yourself from this man?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you forgiven your partner?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
He looked at me sadly. “Then I must feel much sorrow for you too.”
“Sorrow because I won’t forgive a thief? Actually, he’s worse than a thief, he’s a betrayer. Dante said the devil reserved the deepest level of hell for men like him.” I sat back. “No, I don’t think I will be forgiving him.”
He looked very distressed. “How can you live your life when you have given it to a betrayer and thief?”
“Some people don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
“No,” Leszek said. “You must forgive everyone.”
I gazed at the old man intensely. “You can’t be serious. You’re telling me that Holocaust survivors should forgive Hitler?”
The man looked at me with a peculiar expression. He clasped his hands in front of him then said softly, “I am.”
“You believe even Hitler deserves to be forgiven?”
The man looked at me without flinching. “That is not the question.”
“What do you mean?”
“To forgive Hitler, or his wspólnicy . . . ” He held up a finger. “ . . . people who helped him, has nothing to do with Hitler. Hitler is a dead man. Do you believe forgiving him will help him?”
I didn’t answer. Of course it wouldn’t.
“My friend,” Leszek continued, “we chain ourselves to what we do not forgive. So let me say again your question. Should a Holocaust survivor chain himself forever to Hitler and his crimes? Or should he forgive and be free?”
“That’s easier said than done,” I said.
“Yes, everything is easier said than done.”
I looked down at the table.
“But you did not answer my question. Should we forgive and be free?”
His question angered me. “Look, I appreciate all you’ve done for me. You’re a better man than I am. But when you know what it’s like to have everything taken away from you, then you can preach to me about forgiveness and moving on.”
He nodded slowly. “I am sorry to upset you. No, I have not had everything taken away from me.” He looked into my eyes with an expression of the deepest gravity. “ . . . But only because I was not willing to give up my humanity.” He put his arm on the table, then slowly rolled up his left sleeve. At first I didn’t see what he meant to show me. His skin was sun-spotted and wrinkled, but then I saw the number tattooed in blue ink on his forearm. I looked up into his eyes.
“I was fourteen years old when German soldiers came for my family and we were put on a train to Sobibor.” He looked into my eyes. “You have perhaps heard of Sobibor?”
I shook my head, still a little stunned.
“No,” he said, “I think not. For much time no one knew of the Sobibor camps. Even some Holocaust survivors denied it was. But those of us who were there know the truth. A quarter million people died there. Only a few of us survived. I was one of them.”
“Where is Sobibor?” I asked.
“Sobibor is in eastern Poland. It was the second camp built by the SS. It was a death camp. They kept only a few of us alive to help kill.
“The SS was very clever how they ran the camp. They would calm the people by telling them that they were being sent to a work camp. They did this so we would not resist. They did much to make the people believe this trick. They had prisoners in blue outfits waiting at the train station to greet the passengers. When we came out of the trains we were met by smiling bag porters.
“My father believed their trick. He even gave a tip to one of the porters, asking him to have our bags taken to our room.
“Arriving off the train . . . ” He rubbed a thick hand over his face. “You don’t forget a thing like that. The sound of the train brakes. The smell. There was an awful smell in the air—always that smell.
“The Germans and the Ukrainian guards separated us into two groups—men on one side, women and children on the other, with a space between us. They said that those boys fourteen and under should stay with their mother. I was barely fourteen, I could not decide whether I should go with her or my father. My mother made the decision. I do not know if it was because she had my younger brother and sister and did not want my father to be alone, or if she somehow knew what was to happen, but she told me to go with my father.
“The commandant who met us at the station had a speech. We were all so tired and hungry and thirsty, so we did not think right. We were ready to believe anything. The commandant told us that Sobibor was a work camp. That it would not be easy for us and we were to work hard, but because hard work was good for the soul we should thank them.
“They said that Sobibor was a safe place to be and as long as we did as we were told, we would be well off. But if we disobeyed, we would be punished.
“On the way to the camp a rumor had passed through the train that Sobibor was a death camp, so even as bad as things were, we thought this was very good news.”
Tears collected in the corner of Leszek’s eyes, but didn’t fall, as if he was unwilling to allow them.
“The officer who spoke to the arriving prisoners was an SS officer named Hermann Michel. We called him ‘the preacher,’ because he was a clever preacher of lies. It is a lesson I learned well, to never trust people with soft voices and guns.
“After he welcomed us to the camp, he told us that there had been an outbreak of typhus at one of the other camps, and since our health was imp
ortant to him, before we were allowed inside our barracks, we would have to be showered and our clothes to be washed. He told us that was the only reason why men and women had to be separated but we would soon be together and would be able to live together as families. I remember seeing my mother smiling at my father. She believed we would be okay.
“Michel said, ‘Fold your clothes and remember where they are, I shall not be with you to help you find them.’
“Then the soldiers walked through the lines asking if anyone knew any trades. They were especially interested in carpenters, shoemakers, and tailors. My father was a shoemaker and I had worked with him since I was eleven. He told the soldiers we had a trade. They took us out of the line. Then young boys walked up and down the line giving people strings to tie their shoes together.
“The old and sick were taken first. They put them on carts. They were told they would be taken to a hospital for care, but they were taken directly to a pit on the other side of camp where they were shot.
“Everyone else was led off in groups past little pretty homes with gardens and flowers in pots. It looked very nice, but it was all part of the trick. They were taken down a path the Nazis called Himmelstrasse, the road to heaven.
“After the old people were gone, they took the women and children away. I waved good-bye to my mother and little brother and sister. My mother blew my father and me a kiss.”
His eyes welled up again. “I did not know it then, but my mother and brother and sister were dead within an hour. The Nazis were very efficient.”
He looked at me and there was a darkness to his gaze. “I heard the screaming once. I had been in Sobibor for three months and I was assigned to weed near the fence in camp two when they started the engines. Even through the concrete walls, the screams escaped. The sound of it froze my blood. It is a sound you never forget. Then they fell off until there was nothing but silence. When I have nightmares, it is that I hear. The silence.
“Sobibor had one purpose. To kill as many people as quickly as the Germans could. When I arrived there, the Germans had three gas chambers, with big truck engines. They could kill six hundred people at a time. But that was not fast enough for them. So three new chambers were made so they could kill twelve hundred people at a time. Imagine—twelve hundred at a time. They were Russian POWs, homosexuals, and gypsies, but mostly Jews.”
He went silent and I just looked at him, my heart pounding, my stomach feeling sick. After a moment he rubbed his eyes then met my gaze.
“In Sobibor, there were three camps. Camp one and camp two were where they prepared food for the officers and guards. Those prisoners who were there cooked or cleaned cars, or washed or made clothing, shoes, gold jewelry, or whatever the guards asked for.
“Camp three was away from us. It was a mystery. One of the cooks wanted to know what was going on in camp three so he hid a note in a dumpling. A note returned to the bottom of a pot. It said, death.
“Those who remained alive in camp three had one job, to kill and dispose of the dead. At first the Germans buried the bodies in big holes using tractors, but there were too many, so they began burning them. You could see the flames at night. Always burning. Like hell.
“Once, Himmler himself paid a visit to the camp. To celebrate his great coming, hundreds of young girls were killed in his honor.
“No one was safe. Even those helping the guards would be replaced every few weeks. It was frightful to be told to deliver food to camp three, because many times the deliverers would not come back.”
His words trailed off. He had again retreated within himself. My self-pity was swept away by the power of his story. After a few moments I asked, “How did you survive?”
“Hmm,” he said, nodding. “People think that the Jews just went like sheep to their graves—and no one resisted. That is not true. Many tried to escape. Many, many lost their lives because of it. The Germans had a rule. If one person escaped, then a dozen in the camp would be shot.
“It was horrible having death hanging over you at all times, but in one way, it was liberating. Once we knew for sure that it was only a matter of time before they would kill us, we had nothing to lose. We knew we all would die, so risk meant nothing.
“While we were planning our escape there came to Sobibor a Russian soldier with the name Pechersky. We called him Sasha. He planned the escape. Some of the men had axes from cutting trees, some made knives, and at the chosen hour one by one we killed the guards and took their guns. It went good until one of the guards was found. Then all was madness. The guards in the towers started shooting down with their machine guns. Our men fired back. It was every man for himself.
“There were forests just past the fence. We knew if we made it to the forest, it would be difficult for them to find us. There were seven hundred of us in the camp and maybe three hundred of us made it out of the camp. But the fields were planted with land mines and many did not make it to the trees. One land mine blew up near me and a man flew past me in the air.
“The Germans radioed for help and soldiers arrived with dogs to hunt us down. In the end, less than a hundred of us made it to freedom. And many of those were turned in or killed by Polish traitors in town.”
“Then it was a failure,” I said.
“No. It was worth it if even one escaped, because we all would have died—every one of us. I was a lucky one. A good farmer found me. He took me in and hid me until the war was over. I owe my life to him.”
I suddenly understood. “That’s why you stopped to help me.”
“Yes, I made a promise to God that I would never turn away from someone in need.”
“What did you do when the war was over?”
“I had much hate. I was asked to testify at the war criminal trials. I got to look some of the guards in the faces and point at them and condemn them. I do not regret this. Mercy should not rob justice.
“But my soul became dark. I trusted no one. I hated everyone. Even the Polish. Until I met Ania.” His expression softened as he spoke her name. “My dear Ania. She had suffered too. Not in Sobibor, but she saw death too. Her own father and mother were killed in front of her. But she was not like me. She was so beautiful. Not just her face, which I tell you was beautiful, but in her eyes. Somehow she could still smile and laugh.”
When he said this he smiled for the first time since he’d started his story. “Oh, my dear Ania. I could not keep myself from her. But she would not have me. Finally I said, ‘Why, Ania? Why will you not have me?’
“She said, ‘Because you are like them.’ I got very angry. I said, ‘I am not like them.’ She said, ‘Their hate for us—your hate for them, there is no difference. You have such hate in your heart, you might as well have died in Sobibor.’
“She was right. I was just like them. She showed me that the one thing they could not take from me was my choice. So I made a choice to be free of them. To be free of my past, my horrible, horrible past.” He nodded. “That’s when she married me. That’s when I became a free man, even more than when I ran from the camp. In many ways it was the same.”
“What happened to Ania?”
“My Ania died nine years ago. After she died I came to America to be with my son. He now lives in California.”
I looked down for a long time, then said, “I’m sorry. My problems are small by comparison.”
He reached over and put his hand on mine. “No. Your problems are not small. They are horrible too. All the more reason you must let them go.” Then he looked me in the eyes and said something that changed me forever. “What would your beloved have you do?”
My eyes welled up with tears. When I could speak I said, “She would tell me to be free.”
He nodded. “Yes, just like my Ania. Just like my Ania.” He looked me in the eyes. “Honor her wishes and you will honor her.”
I pondered what he’d said. “How do I do this? How do I forgive?”
“I had no one to go to. No one to say ‘I forgive you.’ But you can go
to him, your partner. You can tell him you forgive him. But you must first say it to God. Then you may say it to him.”
“I don’t think he believes he did wrong.”
“He knows he did wrong. He knows. But it does not matter. This is your freedom. He must find his own.” The moment faded off into silence. Finally he said, “I have burdened you too much for your sickness.”
I shook my head. “No. You haven’t burdened me. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
He nodded. “Would you like more soup?”
“No, thanks. I’m full.”
Suddenly his face lit up. “You would then, perhaps, like to listen to me play the piano.”
I smiled. “I would like that.”
He smiled wide. “I would be most pleased to play the piano for you.”
We both stood and walked into the front room. I sat back into the sofa as Leszek sat down at the instrument. For a moment he looked down at the piano, then he lifted his hands, his fingers hovering briefly above the keys, then he started to play.
I don’t know what it was that he played, but I could feel, as well as hear, Lezek’s soul pouring out through his music. He was no longer a gray, feeble old man, but vibrant and strong.
Even the room was changed, glorified by the power and brilliance of the music, and I might as well have been seated amid velvet tapestries and gold-leaf veneers in one of Europe’s finest concert halls. I closed my eyes and was lost in the passion of the moment—somewhere between anguish and hope, despair and triumph, past and future, nowhere and everywhere.
Then the music stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the room quiet, the silence ringing powerfully.
There were tears rolling down my face. Both of our faces. Leszek was an old man again. He was mortal again. Without looking at me he said, “It is late. I think I will go to bed now.” He got up from the bench.
“Thank you,” I said.
He turned to look at me. “It is my pleasure, my friend. It is my pleasure.”
Then the old man shuffled off to his room.