Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust

I: Warsaw, July 1987

Lisa Brookes used her long nail to tear open the envelope from ‘Volunteers for Peace’. Standing in the corridor, she scanned the contents.

‘Powazki cemetery, Warsaw’.

From the first of July, she was invited for a summer camp in Poland. Outside Britain, Lisa had only been to France and Germany. Communist countries she had always felt curious about. In the form, she had filled ‘Eastern Europe’ as the first preference. She was pleased it was Warsaw.

‘‘Cemetery, did you say?’’ Lisa’s mother asked. ‘‘Are you sure you want to work in a cemetery?’’

‘‘The letter says restoring coffins. Seems all right.’’ Lisa was 19, a big girl. She would cope with anything. 

‘‘It’s rather unusual, I must say. Do you know anyone there?’’

‘‘You mean those lying in the ground?’’ Lisa chuckled.

The remark helped her shut the discussion.

The brochure described ‘Powazki’ as the most famous and oldest cemetery in Poland. In one place, they called it a most beautiful cemetery. Lisa thought that adjective inappropriate, given the context. Well, foreigners have their own way of expressing in English. Well known aristocrats, Nobel laureates, actors, poets rested there. The letter offered a long list of names. Lisa could not even pronounce them. She put the brochure back in the envelope. She was excited at the prospect of her first trip to a mysterious part of Europe.

It took Lisa only three days to get her bearings in the Powazki. Each morning, until their bus arrived at Okopowa str.; they could feel the heat. Once the group entered Powazki, cool breeze greeted them. When the volunteers talked, the sound their conversation produced was theatrical. On the second day, they began whispering.  Various shades of green covered the expanse of Powazki. Red and yellow flowers lay beneath the headstones. Late in the evenings, candles and lamps burnt near tombs. Rarely did anyone see who had brought them. A special mausoleum - ‘Avenue of the Meritorious’ - contained graves of those who had fought during the Warsaw uprising against the Nazis.

In July 1987, Poland was still in a propaganda phase. The Polish organisations were keen to invite foreigners and keep them happy. The voluntary work at the cemetery was nominal, the hours limited. The job involved doing cosmetic repairs to specified coffins. By end of the first week, Lisa was enjoying the work. The surroundings inspired her. While the fainthearted strolled, admiring the sculptures built above the graves; the curious lot did not mind opening a coffin and looking at its contents.

‘‘Look what happens in ten years from death.’’ A French volunteer was standing with an open coffin cover.

Ocean brown

Ocean blue

Leave me dry

Alone

On this shore

-Bronislaw Laskowski: 1914-1977; the gravestone said.

‘‘You are disgusting.’’ Lisa told the young French boy. ‘‘This coffin is not on our list.’’ She pushed him aside. She tried to close the coffin inside the burial vault. The coffin cover made a sound normally made by rusty hinges in forsaken houses. Two colleagues put fingers in ears. She tried again.

‘‘What’s this?’’ Lisa held a small box that her hands had discovered in the cavity between the coffin and vault. She opened it to find a set of golden dentures.

‘‘Looks like false teeth to me.’’ Said the camp-leader.

‘‘But it is gold. Can you have a whole set of golden false teeth?’’ A volunteer asked.

‘‘This man obviously did.’’ Lisa said.

‘‘Maybe that was his emergency preparation to run away with wealth.’’ A Polish boy said.

Others imagined a stout man named Bronislaw Laskowski giving a full-fledged golden smile. There was no way to know if he ever did. He was dead for ten years. The top of the grave was empty. No flowers and no candles.

Lisa, the honest girl that she was, handed over the box to the camp-leader.

‘‘What’ll I do with it?’’ The camp-leader asked.

‘‘I don’t know. Don’t you need to return it to the authorities?’’

‘‘Which authorities?’’

Two other people, who were jealous about someone else finding gold, said the box should be returned to the coffin. After all, it was the property of the dead man. Further discussion took place on whether the gold was real. Volunteers cited superstitions from their countries about teeth of the dead. Why were the teeth not in his mouth, someone asked.

Finally, it was agreed Lisa and the camp-leader should go to the head of the Powazki cemetery, and hand them over to him. Let him decide what to do with the dead man’s property.

‘‘Where did you find it?’’ The elderly man in the small room, set in the corner of the cemetery, was intrigued.

‘‘In a coffin. We are restoring coffins.’’ Said the camp-leader. ‘‘We want to deposit the teeth with you.’’

‘‘We can’t take them. There is no procedure for depositing items found inside a coffin.’’

‘‘What do you suggest we do with them?’’

‘‘One who found it can take it.’’

The camp-leader translated it to Lisa. Lisa put the box in her small backpack. Her only worry was the Custom officers at the border. She could not possibly declare: I was given the teeth by a man called Bronislaw Laskowski.

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II: Krakow, 1935

Bronislaw Laskowski wrote poems as a child. By the time he finished school in Krakow, he had scribbled hundreds of romantic poems on cheap notebooks. Romantic poets fall in love early. Bronislaw met Beata in the central market square, when he was 17, and she was 13.  She was haggling in a high-pitched voice with a fruit-seller. Her voice attracted Bronislaw to the stall. He kept staring at her long black silken hair. The nose was as straight as a nose can be. Colour had rushed to her cheeks as she argued. Her neck was as smooth as an infant’s skin. None of this triggered love at first sight. What did the trick were her eyes. Her eyes were the expression of her face. As he later learnt, the eyes expressed her whole personality.

One eye was blue. The other was brown.

Bronislaw forgot manners. He interrupted the conversation. Looking in her eyes, he recited an inspired poem. An average thirteen year old would have run away, or called for help. Beata Borgman stopped her talk with the fruit-seller. She looked at the poet intensely and listened to the beautiful words that flowed out of his lips.

They met the same evening. And the following evening. By the first snowfall, Bronislaw had written reams of poems on her. One life was not enough to write verses dedicated to his love. Beata had become the poetry of his life.

The following summer he left to serve in the army. With a blazing sun in the sky, they sat under a tree and kissed passionately. Don’t close your eyes when you kiss me, he pleaded. I want to look at them every moment. Beata laughed. When they kissed again, both had their eyes closed. Two years was a long period. Two years, away from Beata, was a lifetime. He was posted to Warsaw. He would see what excuses he could invent to return to her. He would use his creative talent in finding ways to unite with his love. Even for an evening. She promised she would wait for him. Two years they would countdown together. He in Warsaw, she in Krakow.

The Polish army was far stricter than Bronislaw had imagined. With great effort he managed to exchange two letters in the first six months. In army, sending a letter was an offence. It took eighteen months before he gained the confidence of his commander. He lied he had received a family letter saying his mother was ill. They believed him, and allowed him to visit Krakow for one day. Morning till evening.

From the Krakow railway station, he speeded to Beata’s house. He was willing not to meet his own family. He had ten hours left. He would spend each minute with her. He prayed she was at home, when he knocked on the door. A tall, middle-aged man he did not recognise opened the door.

‘‘Is Beata at home?’’

‘‘Beata- who is Beata?’’

‘‘Beata – the girl with one eye blue and the other eye brown.’’ When Bronislaw did not see any reaction, he added. ‘‘Beata Borgman.’’

‘‘Oh, Borgmans. Yes. They are gone.’’

‘‘Gone? Where? How can they go?’’

‘‘They sold the apartment to us. They have left. The Borgmans have left.’’

‘‘Can you please give me their new address? Is it far from this house?’’

‘‘New address? They have left the country.’’

‘‘Country? But that’s not possible. Beata... the girl from the family wrote to me some months ago.’’

‘‘That’s right. We are here only for two months.’’ The man then lowered his voice. ‘‘They were Jews, you know. It was wise they decided to disappear.’’

‘‘Which country did they go to?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘How can I reach them?’’

‘‘You can’t. In fact Mr Borgman told me when leaving that he does not want anyone to reach them. Now or ever. That was the whole point in leaving. They wanted to be safe. They are gone. You can’t reach them.’’

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III: New York, October 1987

Lisa checked in along with her brother, Steve. Their hotel was next to the Times Square. She did not believe in astrology, but something was clearly happening to her stars. Poland in July and New York in October. She could now boast to her friends about her being a widely-travelled girl. Her brother was invited to take part in a Manhattan jewellery exhibition. Steve Brookes possibly did not rank with the leading names in London, but his shop in Nottingham was the most frequented jewellery outlet in East Midlands. He was well-known for his innovative designs. Lisa was delighted when he asked her if she wanted to attend his exhibition in New York to assist him at the stall.

Lisa turned the golden ring on her finger. This was a new habit acquired over the past weeks. When she had carried the golden teeth, her heart was thumping, but the Customs at both airports had ignored her and her luggage. Steve had measured the purity of the golden teeth, and was surprised to see it was 22 carat, much higher than the normal gold sold in Eastern Europe. He had melted the teeth, and used the gold to make a fine glittering ring.

‘‘Only be careful, Lisa.’’ Steve warned his sister. ‘‘It’s expensive, you know.’’

‘‘Not really, considering how much I paid for it.’’

Lisa wore the ring at the exhibition and a couple of clients actually asked her its price. No, this is not for sale, she said.

The exhibition was a success as defined by art jewellers. It is more about spreading your name. Few people actually buy at such exhibitions. When Steve and Lisa were in the airport lounge waiting for their flight to be announced, Lisa once again had an urge to turn the ring. Ugh! Her body trembled as if she had put a finger inside an electric socket. Her finger was naked.

‘‘Where is my ring?’’ She asked Steve in a tone suggesting every jeweller should know the whereabouts of each small item he produced. They searched around them. Lisa went upto the airport x-ray and returned.

‘‘Where did you lose it?’’ Steve asked a question that irritates a person who has lost something.

‘‘I don’t know. It could be the taxi. Maybe at the exhibition. Restaurant. Or the hotel room. I remember having it last night. I was reading a book in bed. I remember toying with it. It must have happened sometime today.’’

An announcement was heard asking all passengers to board the British Airways flight New York-London.

‘‘Forget it, Lisa. If you don’t remember where you lost it, I don’t think we can get it back. It was a lovely piece. If someone finds it, they are not going to return it.’’ They began walking to the plane. ‘‘Well, you didn’t pay for it anyway. So you haven’t really lost anything.’’

Lisa agreed with the logic, but accepting it was not easy.

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IV: New York, October 1987

After the third lovemaking session of the day, the young couple lay exhausted on their hotel bed. The brunette had her eyes closed. Her hands held the bed’s wooden back in a posture of surrender. It was one of those moments, when the world ceased to exist. Her fingers moved aimlessly behind the pillow.

‘‘Oh, my goodness!’’ She screamed with her remaining energy. ‘‘Look at this.’’

‘‘Where did you find it?’’ Asked her lover.

‘‘Here. Behind the mattress. I felt something cold when I touched it. Looks like gold.’’

The lover’s response she could not hear. She was wearing the ring in her middle finger.

‘‘It’s my size. Exact. It’s made for me.’’

She got up and went to the mirror.

‘‘They’ll come for it. You don’t want to steal somebody else’s, do you?’’ He said.

‘‘We are in this room for six days now. If somebody wanted to come, they would have come by now.’’

The brunette stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself. The only thing she had on her body was the golden ring.

‘‘How does it look? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’’

Her lover raised his head from the bed. He caught a glimpse of her image in the mirror. He looked at her face before looking at the ring. The first thing he always noticed in her was her eyes. One blue and one brown. The eyes that she said she had inherited from her grandmother.

Ravi