Andrzej Czajkowski, born in 1935

Saint Monika’s wardrobe

We are publishing Chapter One of Andrzej Czajkowski’s manuscript “Autobiografia”. We have entitled this chapter “Saint Monika’s Wardrobe” (in the English original, this chapter is entitled: “1942”). Andrzej Czajkowski’s “Autobiografia” was written in English and translated into Polish by Paweł Szczawiński – trans. note.

How long was I sitting in this wardrobe? Seven weeks? Two years? I was going to count the days but I forgot. In any case, there were no days or hours in the wardrobe, only complete darkness. I would find the potty in the corner by groping around. I had to learn it, that is, to find it quietly. At first, it was difficult. Once I inadvertently knocked it over and some of its content spilled on the floor. Monika got angry.

Can’t I watch it?! she’d scream. It was one thing that she had to clean filth after me, but what would have happened if a neighbor or a stranger had been in the room? Did I want the Gestapo to off us all? Maybe I’d rather sit in the basement, where rats would eat me alive? No? So maybe I could watch it and be quiet. “For God’s sake, is that too much to ask? Just simply, don’t move!” she’d scream. “Don’t make noise—that’s all. And shit where you’re told! A dog would have learned it faster than you, Wonder Child!”

After what happened I would sit quietly, repentant. Over time, it wasn’t only my body but also my mind that went numb, thankfully. Aside from the potty, there was nothing else in the wardrobe. Only darkness and me. Kola told me that Eskimos don’t see daylight for six months. Had I been there for six months already? Would darkness turn me into an Eskimo? Did the Eskimos also bite their nails? Probably not. They had their own important chores: fishing, building igloos, training seals for the circus… At times, they would see the Northern Lights, but this only happened twice a year when they were especially good and God wanted to reward them. But the lights would go out again when they sinned. I finally understood why I never saw the halo over the head of Saint Monika. Only those who deserved it could see it.

But even without the halo, the evidence of Monika’s sainthood was sufficiently clear to me! An undeniable miracle had taken place in our modest interior. Soon, St. Monika was going to be blessed with a child and she wasn’t married. Only recently was the mystery of the Immaculate Conception explained to me. I needed a little time to understand that this privilege was a gift of God yet again and that this time, His chosen one was the daughter of my hostess. In great awe of this revelation, I dropped to my knees and prayed quietly to the new Holy Mary. I also thanked God that he would make me a witness of another Savior’s arrival into this world. I considered this miracle incontestable because the signs of this miracle were becoming more visible every day. Word became Flesh—the flesh of Monika.

That evening, when she opened the door of the wardrobe, I sang to her a part of the prayer which seemed to me the most appropriate for this very solemn occasion:

“Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…” I sang, standing in front of St. Monika with my eyes turned towards heaven. Hence a sudden slap on my face was a surprise. St. Monika started hitting me left and right but I—wanting to profess my faith—wouldn’t stop singing. The response to this was another litany, addressed directly to me. A litany that was much louder than mine, and much more violent:

“Are you making fun of me, you dumb little shit?!” Monika shouted. “They should have trimmed your long clapper instead of your weenie, you Jewish skunk! I’ll teach you to poke your crooked nose into other people’s business! I’ll teach you to spy and eavesdrop on people whose toenail is worth more than your stupid noggin!”

Here Monika hesitated for a second and added with a sudden smile: “Who knows? Maybe your stupid noggin is worth something but in ready money and it will actually come in handy?” The next moment, to my confusion, she started crying: “Oh, God, God,” she wept, “what did I do? What did I do to deserve this? Even this little rat is making fun of me… Rat. Rat,” she repeated, crying.

I finally understood what St. Monika was going through. She couldn’t believe that God chose her and made her the Vessel of Grace. She couldn’t believethatshedeservedwhathadcometopass. Fullof Christiansubmission, as only saints can be, she felt overwhelmed by God’s Will. I understood that she needed my help and reassurance.

“Dry your tears, O Star of the Sea,” I chanted. “If you hadn’t deserved it, it wouldn’t have happened. You know it as well as I do… Ouch!”

I must have screamed because St. Monika pulled at my hair as if she wanted to tear it out along with my head, but I understood her anger. After a while, she let me go and ran out of the room. She came back holding a soda siphon. A powerful jet of water hit my face. I fell to my side in the corner of the wardrobe. Luckily, I didn’t jostle the potty. St. Monika slammed the door and locked the wardrobe. At that point, I was already used to sleeping in the wardrobe. Monika used to let me out in the late evening when there wouldn’t be any more visitors. She’d make me a bed in the front room on the sofa. While the sofa was too short for an adult to sleep on, it was so comfortable that everyone wanted to sit on it.

Monika and her invalid mother would often say that my sleeping in the room might end badly. One evening, their neighbor popped by unannounced. There was barely enough time for me to hide under the pillows and for Monika to drape a bedspread over me. At first, it didn’t occur to me what was going on in the room. The neighbor must have refused to sit in the armchair because I felt her collapse onto the sofa right by my feet. Unable to move and almost breathe, I focused on the conversation. The two terrified women did everything to make it sound casual.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the rocking chair? Oh, no, thanks. You know how I like your sofa…”

At some point, I fainted. After this incident, my caretakers decided that it was too risky to let me out into the room, except for my grandma’s weekly visits. On those days, Monika kept watch by the window while her mother listened for footsteps by the entrance door. On her signal, I was to jump back into the wardrobe while any traces of my presence would be covered up. Already at the doorway, a visitor wiping their feet could hear Monika’s piercing voice reciting French irregular verbs and my grandma’s voice correcting her so it would sound credible. The neighbors were impressed by the linguistic fluency displayed by the French teacher visiting Monika.

My grandma was supposed to appear the next day after my revelation. It never occurred to me to ask where she was staying, how often she had to change hiding places, or how often she had to find them for me. I also didn’t ask where she got the money to support herself and pay for me. I took it for granted that she’d come on the specified day, and she did. My hostesses looked forward to her visits as much as I did. She brought them money, and she brought me love.

Invariably, she’d also bring a ball of cotton wool and a vial of hydrogen peroxide. She bleached my hair in case the Gestapo found me in the closet, because at that point I shouldn’t look like a Jew (the absurdity of a situation where an Aryan child should live in a wardrobe didn’t occur to her). There was an upside to the cosmetic treatments applied to my person. They allowed my grandma to retain her skills, because she wanted to open a modern beauty parlor right after the war was over. At that point, however, she was clearly losing her touch; sometimes she’d use too much peroxide and turn me into an albino. Once she burned my hair and left me with a bald spot on the top of my head. As Monika noted, this made me look like a saint, which in my humble opinion, I really was.

What I hated most was getting my eyebrows and eyelashes dyed. I’d shut my eyes tightly but the burning liquid would get through my eyelids and turn me blind. The world would become a wardrobe.

After the cosmetic treatments, my grandma would question me. She had me recite the Our Father and Hail Mary. She’d also pepper me with questions about the rules of the Roman Catholic faith. It was easier for me than for her, because she clearly didn’t know these rules all that well and could rarely detect my mistakes.

Later I had to list all the details of my most recent identity: last name, date of birth, my parents’ names, and where I was raised. This test was much more difficult because my grandma felt that it was safer to periodically change documents. As a result, I often had to memorize, digest, and absorb a set of the newest data from my biography. I usually did a pretty good job, but I typically knew much more about Jesus’ life than my own. Besides, Jesus’ life always seemed more real. At times, learning the catechism was combined with at attempt to trip me up, for instance:

“Where was Jesus Christ born?” my Grandma asked. “In Bethlehem.”

“And you?” “In Pińsk.”

“Idiot! That was last time. Can’t you read?” “In Białystok.”

“That’s better. What’s your father’s name?” “Adam Jaworski.”

“And Holy Mary’s husband?” “Saint Joseph.”

“Who’s responsible for the Massacre of the Innocents?” “Herod.”

“And who’s doing it now?”

“Jews. They’re crucifying Polish children and drinking their blood.” That last response always brought a smile to the faces of my hostesses.

The night before my grandma’s memorable visit, I had a harder time than usual reviewing the memorized answers. The inevitability of the Savior’s second coming made my entire knowledge related to the first Savior look dull and kind of passé. And as far as the details about myself, the miracle that was about to happen made my person insignificant and unworthy of attention. Besides, I was hungry: Monika forgot about my lunch. Or was I supposed to fast to prepare for the second Advent?

Hermits ate locusts in the desert. There were no locusts in the wardrobe, only lots of lice. My grandma made sure they didn’t spread to my hair but they were in my clothes. I didn’t feel like eating lice, though. Not yet.

In the morning, silent and stern Monika opened the door and pointed to the room. The smell of food was of more importance for me than my grandma’s visit. While I was eating, Monika’s mother gave her usual, exhaustive, comment about the disturbance and the risk that my presence there constantly caused. My grandma listened calmly with signs of sympathy drenched in remorse. She waited patiently until St. Monika’s mother would get to the point. She knew that, among other issues, the cost of my upkeep had to be mentioned, and it was her job to offer a new increment. This time, the transition between complaint and negotiations was dragging on. My grandma finally decided that she had to take the initiative:

“Will a 20 percent increase be enough?” she asked Monika’s mother. She was about to reply when Monika suddenly stopped her with a dramatic gesture.

“Listen!” she said vehemently, “We were going to do something about your brat. Take him out of here, will you? He stinks.”

It was true. I did stink.

“Why? What did  he  do?!”  my  grandma  cried  out.  She  turned to me, frowned and in her harshest tone, she immediately asked me the same question. I opened my mouth to reply but Monika hurriedly stopped me short:

“It doesn’t matter what he did! His behavior is vile, disgusting, and we’ve had enough! There’s no point discussing it! Take him out of here and go. Can you hear me? Pack up your things and go!”

“Now? In the middle of the day? Where am I supposed to take him?” “What do I care? We’ve done our part. Now it’s your turn. You can do whatever you want. You can take him to the Gestapo. You can demand a reward…”

“Miss Monika…”

“To the Gestapo! That’s where he belongs. We should have done it a long time ago and we will if you don’t hurry up…”

“Monika!” her mother said, “Are you crazy? The whole house will hear you!”

“So what?” Monika yelled. “Let them all come here! Let them see this maggot with their own eyes. I’ll get them!”

She took a step towards the door.

But Grandma was already standing there with her legs apart, her arms crossed. She looked Monika right in the eye and she said calmly:

“Very well, Miss Monika. The Gestapo is two streets down. But they will ask us some questions, won’t they? Won’t they wonder where the boy’s been staying? Who was hiding him? Who took care of him and fed him? It’s unfair for all this kindness to go unacknowledged.”

“Are you blackmailing us?!”

Monika’s voice betrayed more surprise than anger. She and her mother, who was nervously fidgeting in her wheelchair, stared at Grandma. “This changes things, doesn’t it? Think about it. Maybe now

you’ll consider holding on to the ‘maggot’, as you call him, rather than hand him over? The punishment for hiding Jews is the same as for being a Jew. And you know what that is, don’t you? Even Aryans aren’t immortal. You can see them hanging from lampposts all over the city. Sometimes they’re hanged head down, which takes much longer… You wouldn’t look good in that position.”

Grandma’s voice was calm and patient as if she were correcting yet another conjugation. She looked right at silent Monika and left pauses between her sentences:

“Whatever may happen to the boy will happen to you too, Miss Monika. I’ll make sure it does. Don’t worry, he won’t abuse your noble, selfless, hospitality a second longer than is necessary. I also want to take him out of here for his own safety. It’s just a matter of finding a new hiding place. It may take an hour or a month – I can’t say how long. Until then, I’m afraid that you’ll have to tolerate him. It seems to me that you are experts on unwanted children after all.”

Surprisingly, the last enigmatic comment angered Monika more than anything else. She darted towards my grandma who grabbed her by the hands.

“You Jewish scum! How dare you? Do you know the risk?” Monika shouted.

“Shhh… .” her mother was silencing her.

“If I didn’t take the risk, Miss Monika,” my grandma said, still holding Monika’s hands, “neither my boy nor I would be here. All I do is risk, every minute of every day. It’ll take more than your threats to scare me. Remember: the boy knows your last name and your address. He’s been here for two months now, and he even knows that it’s not the first time you took money for lying to the German authorities. If they catch him and he doesn’t say anything, I will!”

She let go of Monika and leaned over the wheelchair where her mother was sitting. This time there was no haggling: grandma simply took some money out of her purse and shoved it in her hand. I don’t know if the amount was higher.

“You call this gratitude?” the mother said. “We should have known.” “You get the gratitude you deserve,” Grandma replied. “And stop pretending it’s gratitude you want: you want the money. Stop pretending you’re better than you are.”

She kissed me on the forehead and left without even bleaching my hair. It seemed that the silence would never end. I was afraid to move a muscle. I was afraid to draw attention. I felt that the punishment for the sins of my grandma and all my ancestors was going to be imminent and severe.

Monika sat down and started crying. I felt the need to comfort her but I didn’t dare. What kind of apology could make up for Grandma’s blasphemy? What amends would erase the inexplicable fact that, despite Monika’s sainthood, Grandma had managed to get her down? I didn’t understand how God could allow this.

After a while, both of them started to chat about trifles that had nothing to do with Grandma or me. They seemed tired. The mother pushed her wheelchair and took a book off the table. Monika got up and moved some objects in the room around. There was nothing to rearrange, but Monika was acting as if cleaning was necessary. That’s how she bumped into me. She gave me a long, silent look which terrified me. I didn’t have enough courage to tell her that I wholeheartedly supported her assessment of me as a maggot.

Does a louse know that it’s maggot? If yes, it must be unhappy. Inside me, there was nothing but shame, filth, and fear, and Monika could slowly read it from my shrunken face. Still silent, she pointed with her chin to the wardrobe. I climbed inside and sat down in my usual corner.

The lock rattled. I fell asleep. I felt a great relief when the next day she scolded me in her usual intemperate way. I worried that she’d never speak to me again. Why would someone who’d conversed with Archangel Gabriel want to speak to someone like me?

❦

Andrzej Czajkowski (André Tchaikowsky) was a Polish pianist and composer. He was born on November 1, 1935 in Warsaw. During the occupation, he stayed with his family in the Warsaw ghetto. From 1942 until the end of the war, he hid in the capital city on the so-called Aryan side.

Andrzej Czajkowski’s biographical note was written by Anita Janowska (edit.)

After the war, he  studied  piano  in  Łódź  under  the  tutelage of Professor Emma Altberg (1945–47), in Paris under Professor Lévy (1948–50), in Warsaw under Professor Stanisław Szpinalski (1951–56), and in Brussels under Professor Stefan Askenase (after 1956). He studied composition under Professor Kazimierz Sikorski (1951–56), and in the late 1950s for a short while with Professor Nadia Boulanger in Paris.

In 1955 he was the youngest award winner of the Chopin Piano Competition (eighth prize). In 1956 he participated in one of the most difficult competitions in the world—the Queen Elizabeth Music Competition—and won the third prize. Artur Rubinstein, a juror of this Competition, wrote about him in these terms: “Andrzej Czajkowski is one of the best pianists of his generation, and even more—he is a wonderful musician.”

In 1956 Andrzej Czajkowski permanently emigrated from Poland and, although he considered himself a Polish pianist and composer, he never returned to the country. He gave concerts on all the continents with the most famous orchestras of the world and most prominent conductors, among others, Böhm, Giulini, Klecki, Reiner, Mitropoulos, Davis, and Dorati. He recorded twelve albums with such prestigious labels as RCA Victor and Pathé-Marconi.

Nevertheless, Andrzej Czajkowski’s passion was not  the  piano but composing. His major works include: “The Merchant of Venice“ based on Shakespeare, two piano concertos, two string quartets, two cycles of songs to Shakespeare’s Seven Sonnets and Ariel, Sonata for clarinet, and Piano inventions.

Andrzej Czajkowski died on June 26, 1982, in Oxford at the age of 46. More detail of his biography appears in Hanna Krall’s story “Hamlet”, which can be found in a collection of  stories  The  Woman from Hamburg and Other True Stories (trans. Madeline G. Levine, 2005). Further details are in Anita Halina Janowska and André Tchaikowsky, My Guardian Demon: Letters of Andrzej Czajkowski and Halina Janowska, 1956-1982 (2015) and in David Ferré’s biography, The Other Tchaikowsky: A Biographical Sketch of André Tchaikowsky (1991).

The address of Andrzej Czajkowski’s website (prepared by David Ferré—the author of The Other Tchiakowsky): andretchaikowsky.com