THE URN
Chapter 14
Warsaw
Marin, Rachel, and Maurice
April 29, 2000
They arrived in Warsaw too late to do anything but grab a quick bite in the hotel dining room before falling into bed. Maurice, who had been to Warsaw before, had arranged for a charming hotel, just a block from Old Town.
Their suite had two bedrooms with a central parlor, very Art Nouveau and lovely. There were potted topiary trees on the spacious balcony. Marin and Rachel awoke to the aroma of freshly brewed espresso. Rachel entered the parlor first. She noted that the door to Maurice’s bedroom was open, though she saw no signs of him.
Marin came in. “I'm famished, aren't you?” she said sitting down next to Rachel.
“Would you look at that?”
“Do you mean the breakfast tray?” Marin asked.
“No, no. Step outside. It's lovely. The street, the area,” she exclaimed. “It’s so colorful! The buildings especially. Some have painted facades.”
“It's quaint.” Marin said. “That is not what I was expecting at all.” She was about to pour coffee when Maurice burst into the room. His arm was laden with a lovely array of blooms. “Let's eat. I'm starved,” he said, handing the flowers to Marin.
“These are beautiful,” Marin said, enjoying their fragrance, as she put them in a vase. “Thank you,” she whispered, brushing past him. “How did you know daffodils are my favorite?”
“I knew,” he said. There was mystery in his voice.
They took their time over breakfast, savoring the espresso, thickly sliced ham and cheeses, all topped off with freshly baked bread, jam, and luscious butter. Very European. Delicious.
“Ladies,” Maurice looked into Marin’s eyes, “Do you prefer a little sightseeing, or would you like to get right to the research?”
“Clearly,Warsaw is a beautiful city. Perhaps a short historical tour is in order, just to lay the groundwork for our research,” Marin suggested. “Can you lead the way, Maurice?” It was nice to have someone to lean on a little. She was so used to being in charge.
“Then I suggest a walking tour of Old Town. Did you know following the Ghetto uprising in 1944, Heinrich Himmler ordered the total destruction of the city? What we see today is a new city, risen from the ashes of the old.” He paused. His words took effect.
As they strolled solemnly along the cobblestone streets, they could almost hear the sound of pushcarts and the flow of commerce of the ghetto. The ghetto walls came into view, or what remained of the original ten-foot brick walls. Could they hear the half million prisoners squeezed into the 1.3 square miles of ghetto? It was such a small slice of the city, yet it had held thirty percent of the population.
They stopped at the wall where modern apartment buildings loomed, encroaching on all sides, as if trying to hide the city’s dark past from the light of day.
Rachel pressed her ear to the wall and ran her hand over the worn red bricks, as though listening for her parents, her grandparents. Then she sobbed, her shoulders heaving. “Were they murdered on this spot?” she croaked. Maurice wrapped his arms around her, soothing utterances escaping his lips. He whispered,” Rachel, it's possible they escaped …”
Rachel’s nose was watering as fast as her eyes. Marin took her hand and put tissues in it. Rachel lifted her head from Maurice’s shoulder and blew noisily, breaking the intense emotional moment. “Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her tears. “I had no idea I’d react to the wall this way.”
After a few moments, Maurice made a suggestion. “Are you ready to move on? Perhaps we need a break from Old Town. How about tea or lunch? There are bistros along the river and wonderful food carts, and lovely views.”
Over strong black tea, they rested from the weighty history of the city. Rachel was still a bit wobbly. They sat in silence for a bit. “You have really spurred my interest in learning about my heritage, too. I did a cursory search of my surname, but it turns out Rabineau is an uncommon French name. In fact, I can't find any Rabineaus in Paris, not a single one. Does that seem odd to you?” Maurice looked at the boats on the river. Its earthy smell permeated the air. The scents of moss and damp soil combined to make a pungent yet pleasant smell.
Marin spoke, her interest piqued. “Your parents told you nothing about their past?”
“I never thought about it growing up, but I now realize they were very secretive. About everything. The house we lived in. Your house. Your father’s presence in our lives. They never even told me about my grandparents, except that they died before I was born. I should have asked for more information.” He paused. “Why didn't I? Was I that busy?” He stared at his shoes.
“Nothing at all, Maurice? Well, now you can join our club!” She placed her hand on his. He entwined his fingers in hers and smiled.
Rachel escaped her reverie. “Do you think your parents were French?”
“I'm not sure,” he repled. “But I do think they may have been Polish.”
“What makes you think that?” Rachel asked.
“I remember my mother singing a chilfren’s song to me. I couldn't have been more than three years old, but I didnt understand the words.” He paused, as if listening for his mother’s voice, trying to understand the words. After a moment, he continued. “Then there’s the box.”
“The box?” Rachel looked at Maurice curiously.
“It was small and very decorative. I found it in my mother’s things after she died. It’s called a puzderka, a kind of Polish folk art. Very lovely. In it were my mother’s emerald earrings... But.” He stopped.
“But what? Don't stop there. Please Go on, Maurice.” Marin squeezed his hand.
“There were clippings from Combat, which was an underground newspaper of the Resistance. Why would those bits be in my mother’s jewelry box?”
Marin pulled Maurice to his feet, still holding his hand. Not letting go, she exclaimed. “Wow, we have even more work cut out for us!”
“So, where to next, boss?” Rachel asked, jumping up. She looked to Maurice to lead the way.
If you are enjoying the novel, please write to me. I'm listening! I'd love to hear your opinions!
etlainie92@gmail.com
www.elainestories.com