THE CHAUFFER

When the air raid alarm went off on that gray September dawn of 1939, Rachel like many others believed that this was just another drill. But the large radio in the dining room was blaring out:

      "The German Army has invaded Danzig. All citizens follow instructions. This is not a drill. This is not a drill."  Sofie, who was living with Rachel and Aleks in Warsaw at that time, appeared in the corridor outside Rilka’s room, and pushed the still sleeping child into the corridor.. "The gas masks, the gas masks!" she was shouting. Then they were all running down the corridor to the back door, holding the monstrous looking gas masks. Down the stairs they ran amidst the throng of people from the floors above and floors below, till they reached the archway inn the courtyard of the building  that had been designated as the shelter, No one spoke. Only the drone of the planes broke the silence.

      Overhead, the planes screeched as they dove down to drop their bombs upon the city. There was a rumbling, as of thunder, off in the distance at the outer edges of the city. After a while the all‑clear signal sounded and they moved silently out of the shelter, back up to the apartment. The radio was still booming in the dining room.

      "German troops have invaded Poland. Stay calm. Follow instructions. When the alarm sounds, take your gas masks and proceed to shelter. If you are on the street when the alarm sounds, proceed to the nearest building. Stay in the doorway till the all‑clear sounds. Do not panic. German bombers have hit Krakow, Radom, Czestochowa..."

      All day, the news was interspersed with instructions, and with the Polish National Anthem, "Jeszcze Polska nie zginewa..” Poland is not yet lost, while still we live...

      The alarm sounded twice more that day. Each time they all ran down to the shelter, silently waiting, listening to the terrifying whistle of the falling bombs, the screech of diving planes. The incendiary bombs lit the sky and flashes of light burst in the distance. At night the city was completely dark. All the windows were covered with black paper, all the lights were out.        

      Two days later, on Sunday, Stefcia, the cook, left tearfully to go to her family in the country. "How will you get there?" Rachel asked. "There is no gasoline. Are the trains running?"

      "I'll walk," Stefcia said stolidly.

      "German tanks are approaching Warsaw," the announcer intoned. The National Chorus sang "Jeszcze Polska nie zginewa puki my zyjemy..  marcz, marcz Dombroswski.”

      Aleks read the Polish Jewish paper Nasz Przeglad. "We are ready," the editorial proclaimed, "ready is our heroic army and ready is the civilian population...Nothing will weaken our will to victory." On the opposite page an advertisement announced the premiere of "The World is Beautiful,” starring Claudette Colbert and James Stewart. On the radio, turned full volume, the National Anthem alternated with the defiance of Chopin’s Polonaise in A Major.

      On Monday England declared war on Germany. The radio played “God Save the King.” The sirens sounded, the antiaircraft guns sputtered, the city was in smoke, but people rejoiced at the news. "It will soon be over now. The British will finish them off, Hitler is finished.”

      The editorial in Nasz Przeglad said "Polish Jews! At this moment in history it must be understood that we fight for a holy cause, for our fatherland, for Honor, for our future, for freedom for all peoples and for the re‑birth of humanity. Jews! Quietly and decisively, let us hurry to the ranks of the Polish Army and let us carry out with courage and sacrifice, our soldierly duty.”

      Aleks, at age 49, considered himself too old to heed the call, and believed the proud and highly anti-Semitic, Polish Army would not welcome Jews his age, or any age, into its ranks. He had served in Pilsudski’s Legions in the First World War, a post which eventually earned him a position in Pilsudski’s Ministry of Interior, and he knew the rigors of army life even in those golden days for Jews in Polish life under Pilsudski, who gave favored status to the Jewish minority. He decided to stay in Warsaw.

      On Wednesday evening, a friend of his, a minor official in the current Polish government, came to the apartment, agitated, and urged him to leave immediately. The Germans were closing in on Warsaw.  The President, Moscicki, the Ministers, the whole Government had fled to Nalechow, the summer resort near Lublin. It was clear the Germans would occupy Warsaw before the British finished them off, but of course women and children would be safe. After all, even in war this was still civilized Europe. Aleks however, must leave. The men would be shot or drafted into slave labor and Aleks in particular was in danger of arrest for his known anti-Nazi opinions. Aleks must leave immediately, his friend urged.

      “Leave how?" Rachel asked. "There is no petrol, there are no cars."

      There were no sirens the next morning, and in the early afternoon, Rachel went to the train station to see if Aleks could get a train out. On the streets families were walking with bundles of their possessions, some in carts, most on foot, towards the outskirts of town. At the railroad station the trains were packed. People pushed to get on as the train to Vilno pulled away. Buying a ticket was impossible. She turned back toward the center of town.

      She was crossing Marshalkowska Ulica when the siren wailed. She ran into a doorway of the nearest building. "The shelter is in the basement," someone pulled her along, down steps, inside a dark place. It was crowded, with a sweaty, pungent odor. The noise of the planes, the whine of the bombs, the brutal thunder as they hit, all seemed worse than in any previous raid. At last the all‑clear sounded, but the drone of airplane motors still hung on the air when she emerged from the shelter.

      Outside, fires were blazing against the twilight sky. She passed a huge crater in the earth, the building beside it a crumbled heap. "My husband is gone, gone..." a woman sat on the rubble holding her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. The streets were deep in glass. It crunched under Rachel’s feet as she ran, making her way around men and women and children running from the devastation. Fires flared in buildings around and the smell of smoke was heavy in the air. A man sat on the sidewalk, weeping, stroking the head of his horse lying before him in the street, a large hole in the horse's neck bleeding. Stretcher-bearers and nurses carried the wounded to makeshift first aid stations.

      At last, she turned the corner of Hoza Ulica and saw the house was intact. She wept with relief.

      A week later, Aleks, convinced now that the Government had indeed fled the city, decided to leave Warsaw by whatever means possible. He walked into the Police Station across the street and demanded a car. The Police Chief, Ignac Wilgot, was someone he knew from his days in the Ministry.

      In front of the police station the cars  were lined up all the way down the street. Incongruously, some were being polished by uniformed chauffeurs. Outside Chief Wilgot's door, Rachel tucked her silk blouse into her black skirt, the satin sheen of the pale green fabric outlining her breasts. Quickly she applied fresh lipstick, and a spot of kohl to accent her beauty mark. It never hurt to look good.

      As soon as they were ushered in to the Chief's office, Aleks said calmly and very firmly, "Ignac, I want a car and a chauffeur."

      "You must be joking! Out of the question! We have no extra cars. There is no petrol. Everyone wants to leave the city." Wilgot waved his hand toward the window, following Rachel's look. "Those cars were commandeered from private owners. They are at the disposal of the Army. You've been a friend,” he said more kindly. "But I can't do it. It's impossible!" He half rose from behind his large worn desk to signal an end to this.

      "You take it upon your own head to refuse me," Aleks said with a note of anger. "This is by order of the Minister of Interior. The Government is in exile. I am ordered to join them. Call him."

      "You know perfectly well there are no communications lines open to Lublin." He looked at Aleks narrowly. "I'll call the Mayor. He would know."

      He picked up the phone. Aleks stood resolutely in front of the desk, his hand, hanging at his side, trembled slightly. Rachel, who used to claim with pride that she never perspired, felt wet under the armpits, the stain spreading on her silk blouse. A fly flew in through the open window, buzzed around the desk. There was the faint sound of the phone ringing on the other end. At last the Chief put the phone back on the hook and leaned forward.

      "All right," he said. "No answer. I will take your word, bluff or not. Take any car down there. And pick your chauffeur. They're all waiting for assignments."

      "Thank you," Aleks said and walked out of the office, his back straight, Rachel following closely behind him.

      Six or seven chauffeurs were lounging in the hallway outside. "Pick a driver for me,” Aleks said to Rachel.

      Everything was going so fast. Rachel looked at the men. They straightened up as she and Aleks approached. One was short and looked surly. Another was fat with a beer belly and thin red veins on his nose, a drinker. They were peasants who had learned to drive. One was taller than the rest, broad-shouldered and trim, with unruly blond hair and serious blue eyes. His boots were highly polished, his uniform well pressed, his white gloves clean. He was the handsomest.

      "This one," Rachel said to Aleks, and smiled at the man.

      Rachel and Aleks came back from the stationhouse within an hour, and Aleks began to pack a small suitcase. He put 1000 zlotys in his wallet, half the money he had in the little safe in his closet, and gave 1000 to Rachel.

      "Take your fur coat," Rachel said handing him his long sealskin coat.

      "Don't be silly," he said. "I'm going to the forest. What will I do with a fur coat? Besides, I'll be back before it gets really cold. Be good,” he said to his daughter Rilka. "Listen to your mother. I'll be back soon." And then he was gone out the door, Rachel running behind him, holding out a bag of sandwiches she had made, and Rilka following them both down the stairs for a final good-bye. Aleks kissed the top of Rilka’s head and then kissed Rachel again as the chauffeur, Piotr, held the door of the large Mercedes open for him.

      "Let's go," Aleks said.

      "But your wife..." the chauffer said.

      "She's staying."

      "You're running away and leaving your wife here?" he said incredulously. "The minute the bombings started I took my wife and children to her family in the country. I stayed here. Warsaw is getting the worst of the bombs. You must take your wife."

      Aleks stopped in mid‑step, his foot on the running board of the car.

      "Of course! Of course! Rachel, you must come with me. Quick! I must have been crazy to think of leaving you! He has more sense than both of us."

      Within minutes Rachel filled a small bag with some clothes for her and for Rilka. She put a little drawstring purse around Rilka’s neck, tucked into her shirt, with her name and age and address and a hundred zloty bill, in case she got lost.

      "Sofie..."

      "No, I'm not going. All the men are out of the office, digging trenches around the city. I have to run the office. I'll be all right here. I'll take care of the apartment. I’ll get word to Mama and Papa. I’ll go to their village to see them."   

      "You must come, Sofie," Rachel pleaded. "We must stay together."

      "I am not going," Sofie said firmly.

      Rachel hugged her and they clung to each other.

      "Come," Aleks pulled at her arm.

      And then they were inside the large black Mercedes, Aleks in front with the chauffeur, Rachel and Rilka in the soft cushions in the back. The car pulled away. People walking in the street began to block the view of their building, but through the passersby, Rachel’s last glimpse of Sofie was seared into her mind forever, Sofie standing in the doorway of the building, waving, waving.

      How could she have imagined the long and arduous journey ahead of them, the devastation behind them, the inexorable fate of those who stayed?

           After the war, after the decades of history, in her last year of life, Rachel attended the graduation of her grandson from Harvard. In the midst of the celebrations after the ceremony, she fell silent and wondered how did this brilliant, kind, handsome young man with a boundless future get here? It seemed to Rachel it was all chance, escaping, getting caught, life, death, everything hinging on some small, insignificant incident, that leads to one path instead of another, each path equally likely, embarked on because of some random event, a word, a glance. At other times Rachel was convinced that she herself was indeed the instrument of fate. She after all had chosen that particular chauffeur. That chauffer who had said to Aleks, "But your wife... You must take your wife."