by Jane Yolen
Then the Nazis, laughing drunkenly, moved on.
Mama gathered Sophie and Bruno to her, mother-henning them as if they were distraught chicks. Gittel put her arms around them as well.
“Gone?” whispered Sophie.
“If she is gone,” Mama said, “then she’s with God.”
But carefully, so that neither Bruno nor Sophie could overhear him, Chaim drew Papa aside and whispered, “Hero or crazy lady?”
“Sometimes,” Papa said slowly, quietly, “I think any true heroes have to be crazy to do what they do.” He hesitated.
“To do what?” Chaim asked.
“Willingly give up their lives for their children, their friends, their country, their religion. While the rest of us fight to stay alive till our very last breath. Who is the crazy one then, my son? Who is the crazy one then?” He gave three rough coughs, as if clearing his throat, and was still.
* * *
• • •
They waited until it was well past midnight, so that even the dreaded Nazis had to have been asleep.
First they ate the little bit of food that Mama had left in her knapsack—stale bread, the last of the jar of preserves, which they cleaned out with their fingers, sucking on them long after the taste of the berries had gone. They’d hoped to get some food at the safe house; however Papa said there was probably nothing left in the building but ash.
Mama redistributed some of Mrs. Norenberg’s possessions to Bruno and Sophie. Sophie took two scarves and a blue sweater. Bruno took the jewels.
After that, Mama and Papa decided the rest would be left behind.
“What do we do now, Papa?” asked Gittel.
“Plan C,” he said.
Mama made a noise through her nose, a kind of snort. “And what is this Plan C?”
“Fajner said that we were to meet at number thirteen, and Samson would take us into Łagiewniki. There’s a crossing where the wire can be removed safely, then put back so no one knows it’s been disturbed.”
“Did Fajner tell you where this place and this wire in the fence was?” Mama was not doing a very good job of disguising her fear.
The sucking candy in Papa’s mouth clicked against his teeth. “I have a pretty good idea where,” he said, working hard to lighten his tone. “And even if we don’t find it, I have a very sharp knife!”
“A knife against barbed wire!” Mama said. She spat between two fingers.
“Don’t curse my knife, woman,” Papa said, but he didn’t say it angrily.
Chaim was considering the knife. If they cut the barbed wire, they could be tracked come morning. He was about to try and put all that into five words when Bruno suddenly spoke out.
“And then, Papa? What next?”
Again, calling him Papa, Chaim thought. But quickly he understood. Bruno’s lost both his mother and father. I suppose I have to like him now.
“And then we find a lady with a cart,” Papa told them.
Mama said, “A lady with a cart? What kind of description is that?”
“I’m only telling you what Fajner said. The less I knew about it, the better it would be for everyone, which is why Samson was to take us.”
“And this is better?” Mama asked. “Risking the children’s lives on fairy tales?”
“Staying in the apartment was a risk. Sheltering in a the cellar of a burnt-out building is a risk. Going off to find a barbed-wire fence in the dark is a risk. Finding a mysterious lady with a cart is a risk. But without the risk, the children’s lives—and ours—would be forfeit just the same,” Papa said. “So, who will go looking for the fence and the lady with me?”
“I will,” whispered Gittel.
“I will,” Sophie and Bruno said at the same time.
“And I,” Chaim said.
Mama took the longest to respond, then finally answered. “Whither thou goest, I will go.” She sighed. “Where thou lodgest, I will lodge.”
It sounds like a quote, Chaim thought.
Knowing his confusion simply by the sound of his breathing, Gittel leaned closer and whispered, “The Book of Ruth.”
“Oh,” he said softly. “Torah.”
Papa added quietly, but so they all could hear, “Sometimes, even with the greatest care taken, you have to make your own luck.”
Mama’s smile was not broad. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
“God has very good ears,” Sophie added.
“I hope so.” Mama’s voice was a shadow of itself. But she spoke for them all.
Gittel Remembers
We were not really observant Jews. Didn’t know any prayers, though I’d read and reread the stories from the Hebrew Bible. We had a book with the stories translated into Polish, and I liked them. Especially the ones about the strong women—Ruth, Deborah, Esther, Judith, Jael.
We had the occasional Shabbat dinners and Passover seders when Great-Aunt Aviva was alive. And Chaim and I slept outside in our hut on Sukkot. If we got scared, we held hands. I would draw a six-pointed star in his palm, which calmed us both. We didn’t make it into anything religious. Mama said it was a harvest holiday at the core, and that’s how we treated it.
As things got more and more difficult in the ghetto, Papa sometimes went downstairs to daven with a pair of old brothers who lived in the apartment house. He thought it was a secret, but Mama told me.
“Why?” I asked. “He doesn’t even believe in God.”
“For the family,” she said. “And maybe it doesn’t matter if he believes in God as long as God believes in him.”
“But we aren’t . . .” I began. Stopped. Took a deep breath. “Observant.”
She nodded. “Papa says, ‘Couldn’t hurt . . .’ That man would do anything for the family.”
That we were actual Jews was never an issue. Not to the Nasties—and not to us. We just weren’t particularly religious. The mezuzah on the door, the old Bible full of stories, the occasional prayer, the Passover wine—all gifts or things inherited or leftovers, as familiar as our eye color, our hair color, our last name.
But nothing to do with belief.
On the council, Papa had been called the Socialist, though many Jews were socialists then.
Funny how things work out.
15
Papa let everyone sleep a few hours before waking them. He warned, “We have to be quick, alert, and stay together. Not like before.”
“But still quiet?” Gittel asked.
“Like mice,” Papa said, “only quieter.”
“Like mice,” Mama echoed. “And pray that the cats are not still around.”
“Cats,” Chaim said carefully, “are always around.”
“Mama, Papa, we aren’t little children to be frightened of cat and mouse stories.” Gittel sounded insulted.
“Nevertheless . . .” Mama said, “quiet.”
“I’ll go up first and then, in this order, you follow,” Papa told them. “Chaim after me, Bruno next, Sophie, Gittel, and then Mama. Are we all set? On my whistle.”
They whispered their yesses, and Papa was gone.
* * *
• • •
In moments they heard his soft whistle, and Chaim climbed the stairs, pack on his back, carefully making his way outside. The sliver of moon was still jousting with the clouds, which made any light unpredictable. There was a soft wind, which brought the smell of the burnt house with it.
A line about the smell came to him: not a kosher smell, but tempting. Though he couldn’t think what that meant, since there was nothing tempting in that thick, ashy stink. Never mind, I’ll think about it later, he thought, hoping that there would be a later.
When he found Papa, Chaim pointed to the moon. “Hard to see.”
“But the soldiers aren’t expecting us. We’re expecting them. So harder for them to see us,�
� Papa whispered back.
Chaim hoped that was true. He hoped a lot of things were true—that God cared for them, that the best stories had happy endings, that good children would be rewarded for leading good lives. But he knew better than to mistake a hope for a certainty. The ghetto had taught him that.
Papa went back to the stairs and brought each of the children up one at a time with a whistle, cautioning with whispers and hand gestures that they had to be still.
After that, he called up Mama, who was now struggling with a larger pack than before, for she’d added in Mrs. Norenberg’s heavy sweaters and her other pair of trousers.
“Will we look for Mutti?” Sophie asked quietly, her voice breaking on the final word.
“She would want us to run toward freedom,” Mama said. “She died to give us that chance.”
Sophie shuddered at her words, but nodded.
Papa added, “The soldiers think Mutti’s children are dead. Don’t show them otherwise, or her heroism will have been in vain.”
Sophie nodded again, a small movement that could barely be seen.
* * *
• • •
They went single file in the same order on the smaller streets behind the burnt-out building, hiding in doorways whenever they found them, to reassess when and where they should go next.
Papa’s compass could be read only when the crescent moon came out. But when it shone, they huddled against walls, waiting until it was eclipsed again by the dark race of clouds. They didn’t dare cross to the next street with the moon lighting the way.
Yet, step by careful mouse step, they managed to get to a fenced-off part of the forest where the streets ended. By Papa’s estimate, it had been three miles.
“Not bad,” he said. “But shorter as the crow flies,” he whispered, with a smile.
“If only we’d been crows.” Mama added.
“If only we had wings,” Bruno said, which was almost funny.
And so they all laughed, needing that release from grief and fear, if only for a moment. Their hands carefully covering their mouths to keep the sound down.
* * *
• • •
Well before dawn, they fanned out along the fence, each one taking a section from post to post, trying to find the one part of the wire that might already be open. But it was dark, the children kept ripping their fingers on the barbs, and they never found the one section that had been promised by Fajner, by Samson.
That opening might, Chaim thought, be all the way on the far side of the town. The forest was huge. Maybe fifteen hundred hectares, maybe more. He’d known the exact figure once, years ago, from a quiz at school. Łagiewniki had many winding paths and woodlands, a lake and a number of streams. How could they possibly find what they sought here?
A way in, he thought. A lady with a cart. Impossible.
He must have said the last word out loud.
Papa heard him, rubbed Chaim’s head, and whispered, “The impossible will just take a little longer.”
* * *
• • •
Finally they settled near a great oak that reached strong arms over the fence. Papa said the bulk of it would hide them for now.
“But not after dawn,” Mama warned.
“By dawn,” said Papa, “we will be inside and hidden in the trees.”
“It’ll just take a little longer,” Chaim said, daring an extra word and relieved he hadn’t stuttered.
“Papa!” Gittel’s voice rose alarmingly. “We needn’t cut the fence at all. No one will know we got into Łagiewniki. Lift us up one at a time.”
Mama shushed her.
Fearfully, they stood still, listening, but the silence remained absolute.
Chaim started counting in his mind as he had back at the slatted fence in the alley. He’d gotten to a minute and thirteen seconds when Papa put a hand on his shoulder.
“Gittel has made a fine suggestion, if a bit too loudly. You first,” Papa whispered.
He held out his hands for Chaim to set a foot in them, and Chaim was lifted up as if about to mount a horse. Grabbing the nearest sturdy oak branch, he swung a leg over it and inched his way to the trunk of the tree. When he got there, he stripped off his knapsack and dropped it to the foot of the tree before dropping down himself. He wasn’t as quiet as he’d hoped, but he thought he hadn’t made too much noise.
Bruno was next, and he did more or less the same, though on his way down, his windmilling arm hit Chaim in the nose.
Chaim touched his nose. He saw stars, but at least his nose wasn’t bleeding. “Idiot!” he whispered.
If Bruno heard, he didn’t respond.
The girls landed more lightly, one right after the other. Then Mama came over the fence.
Papa flung his knapsack over the fence, and Bruno caught it. “Not an idiot now,” he whispered to Chaim, the triumphant meanness in his voice undisguised.
Papa stood on tiptoes, attempting to catch hold of one branch, and then another. They swung tantalizingly far above his head.
He stripped off his coat and tried swinging that to catch a branch, but in the dark, it was too difficult to judge the height, so he shrugged back into the coat.
“Avram!” Mama called through the fence in a whisper. “Use your knife.” Though she didn’t indicate how.
“Psssssst, Papa.” Chaim climbed back up the tree trunk. By sliding belly-down along the lowest branch, his extra weight helped the branch to droop low enough so Papa could grab hold.
“I’ve got it, son,” Papa whispered, his voice starting to get rough again. He gave three short barking coughs, and they all froze at the sound.
At last Papa said softly, “Slide back and out of the way, Chaim.”
Chaim did as he was told, and Papa hauled himself up onto the branch and across, though as he did so, the top of the barbs caught the edge of his long coat and he had to rip it or leave it in the wire. He chose to rip the coat out of the wire so it wouldn’t be a flag for some passing soldier come morning. But it all took time. Too much time.
Finally, Papa and Chaim both jumped down simultaneously, landing on the soft, damp ground together.
Then Papa turned to Chaim. “Grouse on a vacation,” he said quietly.
Chaim wished he could return the quip, but he was too scared. They were in the forest now. There was no turning back.
But Bruno said pointedly, “Are you all crazy?”
They didn’t answer him.
“Now where?” Mama asked.
Papa held his compass up but obviously couldn’t see it in the dark and didn’t dare light a match to check. But at that moment, a sliver of the moon, like a finger, illuminated the compass. Papa gestured, and they all followed.
“Mice,” Papa warned as they walked north. This time no one argued. They all hoped north meant the freedom for which Mrs. Norenberg had paid so dearly.
* * *
• • •
When it was almost dawn, they found a patch of the forest with lots of dense undergrowth. Several oak and alder trees marked the spot. A separate stand of birch stood tall as guards at the edge.
“We’ll stay here till nightfall,” Papa said. “Get some sleep.”
They crawled into the ground cover as best they could, between two of the oaks, and even though Bruno complained about being hungry and Sophie could be heard crying to herself, they all fell asleep soon enough.
* * *
• • •
Chaim woke first and, by the angle of the sun, figured out it was already late afternoon. He sat up carefully, then counted the lumps under the leaf litter.
Someone was missing. He shook everyone awake, and they found that Papa had gone off, though he’d left his coat with the yellow star behind.
“Exploring?” Gittel asked.
“Looking for th
e lady,” Sophie offered.
“Or the cart,” Bruno added.
“In the daylight?” Mama said. “He’s crazy.”
But just then Papa reappeared, coming from the back end of the birch trees, bending low and trying to use all the trees as cover.
He told them he’d discovered a stream, even brought back fresh water for them, using a wine bottle someone had left there, perhaps after a picnic.
“I hope you washed it well,” Mama said.
“I’m the camping master,” he told her. “The grouse on vacation. Of course I rinsed it first.”
They shared the bottle. Though the water was shockingly cold, it was filling.
“I saw a couple of ducks, and if we were really camping, I might have tried fishing,” Papa said softly. “But we don’t dare start a fire . . .”
“I’d eat a fish raw,” said Bruno.
They all laughed, but behind their hands so as not to make much noise. Silence had already become an old habit for them.
“We are, I believe, several miles from the old monastery,” Papa said. “If I had to put money on it, I’d bet the lady with the cart will be there.”
“No bets,” Mama said.
“No bets,” Papa agreed. “At least there’s a road. For a cart, you need a road . . .”
Where there’s a road, Chaim thought, there could be . . . “Troops go on roads,” he said dully.
“But Fajner said this was the route to take,” Papa told him. “And his word is one we have to trust.”
“You trust,” Mama said. “I’ll wait and see.”
He smiled at her. “Then it’s good we have two of us to head this family,” he said. “That way we can cover each side of the problem without rancor. You and the children stay here waiting to see. Once it’s dark again, I’ll scout. If I find the lady and her cart, I’ll come back with both.”
No one said aloud that he might find the troops instead.