government facility. They won’t really trust me unless I am in the party. As a party member, I can get what the clinic needs. I owe it to my patients.”
“Urs. Think. Once you are in the party, you’re subject to the whim of anyone above you. And you’ll be their scapegoat whenever a conspiracy is needed to explain away failure.”
“What do you mean?” The question was sincere. Could it be that Urs had not been reading newspapers or listening to the radio for the last five years? Of course, Rita suddenly realized, this wasn’t hyperbole. Medicine had been the only thing that had absorbed him all that time.
“Do you remember the little terror of ’37 and the great terror of ’38? Do you know what I am talking about? Stalin’s show trials in Moscow?”
“Those were Trotskyite wreckers and German agents.”
“They were loyal old Bolsheviks. Urs, this is the government that sealed a pact with Hitler to divide and conquer. You can’t get their blood on your hands.” That was the end of the matter. Rita was relieved. There was one more reason Rita could give, though it would cause Urs pain—something she had learned only the day before.
Pushing her son in his pram a few streets beyond the market square, they had found themselves before what had been Jastrob’s Bookshop. She had scrupulously avoided it since the day she and Urs had returned from Lvov sixteen months before. The urge to ask about Gil would have been too great. The temptation to tell them about Gil would have been overwhelming. She had no idea whether, living only one hundred kilometers away, their son had ever divulged his whereabouts. She missed browsing the shelves, changing a library book, scanning the glossy magazines, but she would not be tempted to visit. She told herself the baby gave her no time for reading anyway.
Now she was standing before the shop for the first time in almost a year. The sign above the door was gone, and the two front windows were both broken. The door hung askew, held by a single hinge. Peering inside she saw the shelves not just empty, but akimbo, and not a stick of furniture left unbroken. Then she heard something stir in the rear. Pushing the baby carriage down the side of the house, she saw an urchin breaking wood off what had been a coal shed behind the house. He stopped, expecting to be reproved by the posh lady with the pram. Rita remained silent, so he spoke. “Family’s cold. Can’t afford coal even when there is any.”
Rita nodded as if to say, Go on. She looked at the back door of the house. “Where did they go? Do you know?”
“Week ago, some Russian police came. I was watching from my window that morning.” His eyes indicated a small house just visible across the street. “Big black car, not Polish. Would’ve recognized the mark. Took them both away. Then they started in on the store. Burned the newspapers in the back. Hauled off all the books.” He stopped, then remembered something. “My dad said they were . . .” He searched for the word and found it. “ Chekists .” Now Rita understood. The NKVD, the people’s commissariat for internal affairs, the security police. Probably not smart even to hang around this place either, unless you were doing something innocent, like stealing firewood.
But she wasn’t going to tell Urs anything that might remind him of Tadeusz Sommermann. Not even to warn him against joining the party.
Things changed gradually. Polish staples disappeared. Soviet ones replaced them, cruder but cheaper. People learned the etiquette of queuing. The farmers’ market persisted, and even Rita’s mother-in-law surrendered her qualms about making use of it. Very soon Karpatyn was crowded with refugees from the Nazi occupation. Demand pushed up prices. The Polish zloty was for the moment still in use. It didn’t matter to Rita. Urs was paid in rubles.
None of this was important to Rita. Only her child mattered. She had not expected to find herself
“Urs. Think. Once you are in the party, you’re subject to the whim of anyone above you. And you’ll be their scapegoat whenever a conspiracy is needed to explain away failure.”
“What do you mean?” The question was sincere. Could it be that Urs had not been reading newspapers or listening to the radio for the last five years? Of course, Rita suddenly realized, this wasn’t hyperbole. Medicine had been the only thing that had absorbed him all that time.
“Do you remember the little terror of ’37 and the great terror of ’38? Do you know what I am talking about? Stalin’s show trials in Moscow?”
“Those were Trotskyite wreckers and German agents.”
“They were loyal old Bolsheviks. Urs, this is the government that sealed a pact with Hitler to divide and conquer. You can’t get their blood on your hands.” That was the end of the matter. Rita was relieved. There was one more reason Rita could give, though it would cause Urs pain—something she had learned only the day before.
Pushing her son in his pram a few streets beyond the market square, they had found themselves before what had been Jastrob’s Bookshop. She had scrupulously avoided it since the day she and Urs had returned from Lvov sixteen months before. The urge to ask about Gil would have been too great. The temptation to tell them about Gil would have been overwhelming. She had no idea whether, living only one hundred kilometers away, their son had ever divulged his whereabouts. She missed browsing the shelves, changing a library book, scanning the glossy magazines, but she would not be tempted to visit. She told herself the baby gave her no time for reading anyway.
Now she was standing before the shop for the first time in almost a year. The sign above the door was gone, and the two front windows were both broken. The door hung askew, held by a single hinge. Peering inside she saw the shelves not just empty, but akimbo, and not a stick of furniture left unbroken. Then she heard something stir in the rear. Pushing the baby carriage down the side of the house, she saw an urchin breaking wood off what had been a coal shed behind the house. He stopped, expecting to be reproved by the posh lady with the pram. Rita remained silent, so he spoke. “Family’s cold. Can’t afford coal even when there is any.”
Rita nodded as if to say, Go on. She looked at the back door of the house. “Where did they go? Do you know?”
“Week ago, some Russian police came. I was watching from my window that morning.” His eyes indicated a small house just visible across the street. “Big black car, not Polish. Would’ve recognized the mark. Took them both away. Then they started in on the store. Burned the newspapers in the back. Hauled off all the books.” He stopped, then remembered something. “My dad said they were . . .” He searched for the word and found it. “ Chekists .” Now Rita understood. The NKVD, the people’s commissariat for internal affairs, the security police. Probably not smart even to hang around this place either, unless you were doing something innocent, like stealing firewood.
But she wasn’t going to tell Urs anything that might remind him of Tadeusz Sommermann. Not even to warn him against joining the party.
Things changed gradually. Polish staples disappeared. Soviet ones replaced them, cruder but cheaper. People learned the etiquette of queuing. The farmers’ market persisted, and even Rita’s mother-in-law surrendered her qualms about making use of it. Very soon Karpatyn was crowded with refugees from the Nazi occupation. Demand pushed up prices. The Polish zloty was for the moment still in use. It didn’t matter to Rita. Urs was paid in rubles.
None of this was important to Rita. Only her child mattered. She had not expected to find herself
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