03 - Warsaw, Poland: 1931

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“I feel,” she said, “there are too many of you who are waiting for me to feed you and too few of you helping me to do the chores.
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From head-to-toe, the old woman wore blue. Her dress was a single piece of stretch wool fabric that extended from her neck to the tops of her ankles. It was plain and simple and it did the job perfectly. Her little white shawl had little blue and white beaded ornaments that dangled just above the ridge of her coal black eyebrows and quaintly framed her little square face.
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“Alright, alright, I’ll get to you in a second! Just let me sweep the walkway. You’ve made such messes of your beds last night.”

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Her morning routine was just that – methodical and exact. She came out to the landing just as the sun rose and grabbed the broom that leaned against the rooftop door and began clearing the poop and straw that had amassed under the pigeon coops during the overnight. After she gathered it into a large singular pile, she traded out the floor broom for the small broom and dust pan and scooped up every last bit, disposing of everything in the trash bin next to the door.

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“Mrs. Yablonowicz! Mrs. Yablonowicz!” called a boy up the stairwell.

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“Yes, yes, Teodoro!” she hissed loudly, “I’m here, I’m here. It is much too early to be yelling up the stairs! People are trying to sleep!”

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“Yes, I’m sorry, Mrs. Yablonowicz, but I want to know, do you have any errands you need me to run?”

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“In fact, I do.”

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The young boy trundled up the stairs as the old woman dug into her pockets and counted out a number of coins.

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“I need you to get me a loaf of bread and a knuckle of kielbasa. I will fix us some warmed chocolate milk and we will have pocket sandwiches for breakfast.”

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“Yes, ma’am!” spouted Teo as he deposited the coins in his hip pocket and made his way to the corner store. Meanwhile, Mrs. Yablonowicz returned to the pigeons who waited patiently for her attention.

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In a previous life, my name was Gretl Yablonowicz and I was an elderly Jewish woman living in a five-story tenement house in downtown Treblinka in northwestern Poland.  I was part-time tenement manager, part-time keeper of Carrier Pigeons, and sometime friend to little Teodoro and the rest of the Weitz family.

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 After little Teodoro left, Gretl Yablonowicz returned to her work on the roof. She had eight tiny chits of paper, each one ready for delivery. She laid the first chit on the workbench and placed a tiny wooden dowel across the top edge. Then, she carefully tucked a pointer finger under the corners and pulled them tightly against the dowel. With a steady rolling motion, she created a tiny scroll. This morning, she performed the task seven more times, but more often than not, she’d spend the whole morning rolling chits into scrolls.

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After the scrolls were prepared, she tucked them into tiny metal tubes. Those tubes were tied to the pigeons’ left legs, one-by-one.

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“There you go, Herschel. There you go Hevva. There you go, Isaac. There you go, Marta. There you go, Moshe. There you go, Naya. There you go, Raquel. There you go, Shel.”

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When every scroll had a pigeon and every pigeon had a scroll, they were set for their journeys. Each pigeon only went to one place, so every pigeon had his own scroll.

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It was a labor of love – one of many labors of love that occupied every day, one performed directly after the other until all tasks were complete. In no way tedious, because how could one ever become tired of love?

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“Hello, Mrs. Yablonowicz! I’m back!” called Teo from the top of the stairs.

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“Shhhh! It is still too early for all that racket.”

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“It is after 9,” Teo replied.

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“It doesn’t matter if it’s after-noon, many of my tenants are still sleeping.”

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“That’s too late!” said Teo.

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“That is how old people do it, late or not. Are you ready to send off the pigeons?”

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“Yes I am,” said Teo, “who goes first?”

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“Alphabetical order, right to left,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz.

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“Yes, of course, I should know that by now.”

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Teo headed to the far end of the pigeon coops and opened each one, removed the pigeon inside, and carefully folded his hands around the pigeon’s legs and scroll tube. With a sudden pitch upwards, he loosed the pigeon into the air.

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“On your way, Herschel! Be safe and don’t get lost!”

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“On your way, Hevva! May your trip be fast!”

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“On your way, Isaac! Don’t let the hunters find you!”

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On your way, Marta! Here’s to clear skies ahead!”

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Each greeting was singular, just the way Mrs. Yablonowicz had taught him, “Treat every living thing, whether the lowest beast or most royal of men, as if they are a singular entity. No matter who they are, you owe every one of them that much.”

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After the all pigeons were away, it was time for an early lunch – “our little snack break”, Mrs. Yablonowicz always liked to say.

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Where is the food?”

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“Oh! I left it in the kitchen.”

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“Perfect! Let’s go downstairs and have a bite, shall we?”

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“We shall.”

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Mrs. Yablonowicz placed one hand in Teodoro’s hand and took the other in the narrow groove of his tiny shoulder.

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“You got it?”

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“Mm-hmm,” she grunted.

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Slowly, the two worked their way down the small flight of eight steps to the landing outside Mrs. Yablonowicz’ kitchen. It was always a grueling time for her and as she aged, her arthritic body gave her fits on a regular basis. Still, she wasn’t going to give up her pigeons. She’d had them as long as she had the building – almost twenty years.

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“Oh,” she sighed, “those stairs. Maybe I should build a house on the rooftop one of these days.”

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“Mrs. Yablonowicz, you’re bineg funny.”

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“Maybe a little. Then again, maybe not. Are you ready for a foldover and some milk?”

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“I sure am!”

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“Where’s the bag?”

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“Right here.”

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“While I cook, you spread some butter and jam on the bread.”

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“Right away!”

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Mrs. Yablonowicz started a saucepan of milk to simmer and put a skillet on the stove. Then, she fished the kielbasa and potato out of the bag and cut them into razor-thin slices before frying everything in the skillet. After they cooked to a crisp, Mrs. Yablonowicz poured the finished goods onto the bread and folded it together with her hands.

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“Here you go, good sir. Take our plates and have a seat at the table. I will get our drinks.”

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 Before their meal could even get underway, a knock came to the door.

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“Hello? Mrs. Yablonowicz? Teo?”

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“Hello, mom!”

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“Teo! Why must you always bother Mrs. Yablonowicz every day?”

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“You know he is no bother,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz.

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“Oh, Gretl. You are a good and gracious host.”

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“Teo is the best helper I could ask for.”

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“Maybe, but…”

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“Mom…I help with the pigeons. We cook meals together, we…”

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Yes, yes, you play games together and sing songs and tell stories. I have heard this story a hundred times before.”

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“But it’s true.”

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“I know, I know. You could play with your friends from school.”

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“But they are boring. They don’t know how these games.”

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“Come now, Teodoro,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz, “your mother is right. I am just an old piece of bread. Go outside, get fresh air.”

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Teodoro slumped off and his mother picked up after the meal.

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“Do you want a foldover?”

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“No, but do you mind if I pour myself a cup of milk?”

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“You go right ahead and help yourself, dearie.”

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Mrs. Weitz refilled Teo’s cup and sat across from Mrs. Yablonowicz.

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“You know, Gretl, my son never gets to see his own grandmother, so I suppose you are the surrogate.”

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“Surrogate…I like the sound of that.”

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“It’s true. The whole family feels that way. You know, we hardly ever leave the city.”

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“Mmm…Mmmmh,” nodded Gretl, “I barely leave this old hotel.”

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“My husband or I would be happy to take you wherever you need to go.”

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“I am an old woman, long on memories and short on desires. I have all the things I need right here, right now.”

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“Well, if you ever..”

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“I know, dearie. I know.”

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Mrs. Yablonowicz grabbed the edges of her headscarf and adjusted them slightly. Wisps of hair poked out from the beaded edges. They, too, were as black as coal. She then fidgeted with the beads lining the front edge. They were blue and white, each one emblazoned with tiny Stars o f David, four per bead. She stared at Mrs. Weitz for a second, then let loose a long, wistful sigh.

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“What’s wrong?”

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“Oh, I just miss the old days.”

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“You miss your husband, don’t you?”

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“I do, but I mean the time before the war.

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“You miss the Russians and the Commonwealth?”

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“I do.”

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“I’ve never heard anyone say that before.” Don’t you enjoy the wealth of things we have now with the Russians?”

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“I like that, yes, but those days...those days were simple. I miss the simple.”

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Mrs Weitz sat in the silence with Mrs. Yablonowicz, quietly sipping the hot chocolate milk and refreshing it when the cups were near empty.

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After the silence, however, came the noise. First it was Teodoro and his friend Josef, returned from a morning full of adventure.

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“Oh, you’re all dirty and sweaty!” exclaimed Mrs. Weitz, “what have you boys been doing?”

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“Skipping stones in the stream and playing ‘Go and Look’ in the woods.”

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“Be careful with those muddy shoes! You are making a mess of Mrs. Yablonowicz’ kitchen!”

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“They are boys,” said Gretl, “this is what boys do.”

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“They can do it somewhere else. Boys, go to the stairwell and take off your shoes immediately!”

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The boys did as told, returned the kitchen and seated themselves at the table.

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“What can I do for you fine boys?” asked Mrs. Yablonowicz.

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“Can we have foldovers?” asked Teodoro.

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“I’m afraid I’m out, but I do have stuffed cabbages from last night.”

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“Blech!” said Josef.

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“No,” said Teo, “it’s so tasteful.”

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“I am not sure.”

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“Have one with some warmed chocolate milk,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz, “Don’t worry, I think you’ll like.”

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She shuffled through the kitchen, fetching the cabbages and more milk from the ice box. Then, she heated the cabbage in the skilled and fixed more hot chocolate milk. She brought the plates to the boys and placed them in front of them. Teo dug in right away. Josef picked at the soft green cabbage roll.

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“It looks like…”

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“Eat first,” said Mrs. Weitz sternly.

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Josef sawed the cabbage roll with his knife and picked out the rice and potato and pork filling and shoveled it into his mouth. Quickly, he helped himself to one bite, then another, and then another until only the outer cabbage layer remained in the middle of the plate.

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“You’re  not going to eat the rest?” asked Mrs. Weitz.

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Josef shook his head.

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“I have a solution,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz.

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She shuffled to the ice box again and came out with some tomatoes. She pounded them with some leftover smashed potatoes, added butter and salt, and then added milk. She took the creamy red sauce and poured it onto the rmain cabbage rind.

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“Try it,” she said.

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Josef took a bite of the sauce.

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“With the cabbage,” insisted Mrs. Weitz.

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Josef ate the cabbage with the sauce and soon, he ate everything on his plate.

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“How was it?” asked the old woman.

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“It was very good, Mrs. Yablonowicz. Thank you.”

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“My pleasure.”

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As Mrs. Weitz cleared the table, the sound of a truck’s engine rumbled outside.

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“Must be the pigeon man,” said the old woman.

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“I will let him in!” said Teodoro, “come with me, Josef!”

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The boys ran down the stairs and let the pigeon man inside. All three men returned with small crates, each one containing a purring carrier pigeon.

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“Good, good,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz, “my couriers are back.”

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The men headed to the roof and Mrs. Yablonowicz slowly followed. When everyone was there, they transferred the birds to their proper coops.

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“Are these new birds?” asked Josef.

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“Not at all,” explained the old woman, “they are my one-way birds. They come from Vilnius, in southern Lithuania.”

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“And someone always brings ‘them back?”

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“Every day,” said the pigeon man.

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“Hmmm. Seems like a lot of work.”

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“It’s important work,” said Mrs. Weitz, “these carrier pigeons deliver things much faster than trucks.”

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“And they can go places I can’t,” said the driver.

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“Thanks for your help,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

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“Of course,” said the man.

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They said their farewells and Mrs. Yablonowicz went about the business of feeding and cleaning her returned pigeons. Then, she made the long, grueling trip downstairs.

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“Gretl,” said Mrs. Weitz, “why don’t you give up the carrier pigeons?”

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“Who would do it if not me?”

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“I could do it!” spouted Teo.

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“Me, too!” said Josef.

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“Yes! We’d be the best!”

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“I don’t know, boys. It is more than just feeding birds and…”

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“I know how to do everything.”

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“We will see,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz,” we will see. For now, help me get down these steps.”

Teodoro held one arm and Josef braced the other as the old woman slowly traversed the stairs. She kept her pains to herself, but was relieved when she’d hit the lower landing. She pushed the boys away and made her own way to her chair.

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“Now, let’s play some cards, shall we?”

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“We shall,” said Teo.

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Mrs. Yablonowicz pulled the cards from their holder and began the deal.

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“Alright,” said Mrs. Weitz, “Who wants some hot chocolate milk?”

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All hands stretched high into the air.

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She fixed another pan of hot chocolate milk, adding sprinkles of cardamom and cinnamon and a dose of sugary, sweet love.

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“There is nothing better than a happy tummy.”

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“You are absolutely right, Teo,” said Mrs. Yablonowicz warmly, “absolutely right indeed.”

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