The Author of Himself: The Life of Marcel Reich-Ranicki by Marcel Reich-Ranicki

Author:Marcel Reich-Ranicki
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Princeton University Press
Published: 2020-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

1944–1958

22

MY FIRST SHOT, MY LAST SHOT

We were free. How often had we longed for this moment, how often had we visualized it! Why were we not in a state of euphoria, as we had always imagined we would be? We had no time to reflect on this, we were still afraid. We feared that the Germans might return – for a day or two, certainly for long enough to discover us and murder us. We were free, but we were weak and miserable, filthy and lice-ridden, wrapped in dirty rags, we had no proper shoes. We were free, but very hungry – and there was nothing to eat anywhere. What were we to do, where were we to go? We had to do something so as not to collapse on the busy highway immediately after liberation, and possibly die there.

Soviet and Polish soldiers, trucks and horses, staff cars, handcarts and farm carts, cyclists and people on foot – all these were on the move. Everyone was going somewhere, everyone was hurrying in different directions. The victorious Red Army was in a deplorable state. The soldiers were exhausted and inadequately equipped. Their uniforms often looked pitiful. No soldier understood the English wording on the tins of meat they received, which came from the United States or Canada: it warned that this was intended not for human consumption but only for cattle. Cigarettes were handed out only to the officers; the ordinary soldiers received tobacco and made their smokes themselves from newspaper. Particularly suitable for this purpose was the paper on which Pravda was printed; that, it was said, accounted for the huge print run of this paper.

Fortunately no one was taking any notice of us. We were not conspicuous, because there were plenty of people who looked just as pitiful as we did. Everyone, whether in uniform or in civvies, was concerned only for himself. We had scarcely travelled two or three kilometres from Bolek’s house when a Polish officer approached us. ‘Halt!’ he commanded. Then he asked: ‘Are you Jews?’ As we probably gave a start he said quickly: ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m a Jew myself.’ Had we by any chance been in the Warsaw ghetto – and had we come across an Esther Rosenstein there? Like all Jews who had come back with the Soviet army he was searching for his relations. Unfortunately we were unable to give him any information about his sister.

We should get away from the front as fast as possible and make for Lublin. That, he informed us, was the provisional capital of the liberated part of Poland, there we would find help. But how were we to get there? He stopped an open army truck and ordered the driver to give us a lift. We asked shyly where we might get something to eat. He gave us a thick slice of bread each – with the remark: ‘The great Soviet Union has nothing more to offer you at the moment.’

The truck was carrying all kinds of goods as well as several people in the same condition as ourselves.

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