Lumen by Ben Pastor Page A

‘shoemaker’, Bora.”
    Through narrow alleys, leprous with peeling plaster and dampness, they had reached a small enclosed square, where used clothing for sale hung from the wrought-iron fence of the synagogue. Odds and ends were piled up on blankets along the synagogue’s wall, and the unevenness of the cobblestone sidewalk made some of the objects stand askew or totter at the touch.
    Retz glanced at the glassware, brass and trinkets.
    “‘ Shevtz ’? Is that how you pronounce szewc ?”
    Bora looked up from his small dictionary. “That’s how you pronounce it, Major.”
    “Well, all I want is a nice pair of shoes, with buckles on them.”
    Their coming had made an impression among the vendors up and down the irregular shape of the square. Right and left, haggard men moved away from the officers’ path as they walked towards Szeroka Street. Retz said, in the manner of a carefree tourist guide, “There’s a nice old pharmacy just down the block.”
    Bora watched the people move away, seeking the walls with faces downturned. “Has the major been here before?”
    “Some twenty-plus years ago, sure. The Yids weren’t nearly as skittish then.”

    A few steps ahead, the next storefront was no more than a deep doorway with a glassed-in shelf occupying one half of it. The shop sign was written in Hebrew characters, but the goods on the shelf spoke for themselves. Retz pored over the choice of shoes for some time, during which Bora kept a resigned eye on the dilapidated state of the houses around.
    “Those are nice, what do you think?” Retz pointed at a pair of yellow leather pumps.
    “They’re not easy to match. That is, if the lady wishes to match them with her outfit.”
    “Does it make a difference?”
    “I suppose not.”
    “Well, I like them.” Retz indicated the cost in zlotys. “How much is that in real money?”
    “It’s two Polish zlotys per mark, Major.”
    “Well, then it’s not a bad price, is it?”
    Retz bought the yellow pumps. Outside the store, a small boy in clogs asked if he could carry the package for him, and Retz said he could. When they turned the corner at Józefa Street, Retz told Bora, “They’re going to start making army boots pretty soon, did you know that? They’ve already begun turning out decent ghetto-made Air Force insignia and shoulder straps.” When they passed a window that displayed boxed soap, cologne and cosmetic jars, Retz stopped to look. “I ought to buy something else. Maybe perfume or stockings - what do you say?”
    “The major would know best.”
    “Why? I do not know best, Bora. If I knew best I wouldn’t have taken you along for advice.”
    They entered the store followed by the boy. Stiff behind the counter like a cut-out image of herself, the shopkeeper nodded a nervous salute. She had a morbid pallor, where the darkness of her eyes made them seem like holes drilled
in her face. She spoke a little German, so Retz did his own bargaining over a paunchy flask of essence, decorated at the neck with a sprig of cloth violets.
    He uncorked it and held it to Bora’s face. “Smell. It goes well with a young woman, wouldn’t you say?”
    It was the first clue Bora received that the recipient of the gifts was not Ewa Kowalska.
    “Make it two,” Retz was now telling the shopkeeper. “One for my wife.” He grinned at Bora.
    Clattering on the cobblestones with his wooden clogs, the boy behind them sounded like a small donkey. Bora continued to watch the people seek open doorways or stop against the house walls, eyes averted, faces averted. SD vehicles were stationed at every other street corner.
    Retz caught Bora’s attention. “I don’t know how we’re going to fit all the Jews in Cracow into this place. It’s true you can cram them tighter than sardines, though.” He put his gloves on, bending his head towards his colleague a little. “I’ll tell you a secret, Bora, though you probably guessed it already. I’m in love.”
    Bora pretended