The Light in Hidden Places

by Sharon Cameron

  “Are you in trouble?” asks Januka. She looks concerned.

  “A problem with my papers. I can fix it. But I can’t miss the appointment.”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “We can do it,” says the blond boy. “As long as Herr Braun is gone. The inspector won’t care. He knows you worked two shifts.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Do you think so?”

  He shrugs, and my stomach uncramps just a little. I drain the coffee.

  “Thanks. I’ll do you a favor back, when I can.”

  “It’s Lubek, by the way,” the blond boy says. “That’s the name, if you were wondering.”

  “I know!” I say. Though I had forgotten.

  Januka laughs again. She always laughs. And then she kisses Lubek on the mouth and goes back in to her bolt cutter.

  I didn’t know Lubek is her boyfriend.

  Lubek throws the stub of his cigarette over the bridge and holds out an arm, inviting me to go through the door first. His hair isn’t bright like Officer Berdecki’s, more like dried wheat instead of gold. And that smile he’s giving me is friendlier than I want it to be.

  I’m feeling cautious about smiles.

  I go back to the drone of my machinery. If I leave at five, and if I run, maybe I can get to the footbridge before Dziusia does.

  But I cannot go at five. Because Herr Braun is walking the floor. And at fifteen minutes after five, he’s still doing it.

  I think I hate him.

  He doesn’t leave until twenty minutes after. Lubek takes over my machines, and I run like German dogs are snapping at my heels.

  I get to the bridge at five thirty, and there are German dogs. With SS men, at both ends of the bridge. The bridge is guarded now. They’re not letting anyone cross into or out of the ghetto.

  Oh no.

  No. No. No.

  I lean on the post of a streetlight, like I’m waiting for a bus, and watch the bridge. Ten minutes later, there comes Dziusia Schillinger. I can see her hair. They’ve dressed her like a Ukrainian, and she’s kicking a can down the street.

  She stops when she sees the guards, picks up her can, and goes the other way.

  I wait, chest squeezing the air from my lungs.

  She comes back.

  And goes away again.

  She comes back. And this time, slowly, reluctantly, she climbs up the steps to the bridge.

  And there’s nothing I can do to help her.

  She kicks the can past the first guard. I think the dog turns his head. But the guard doesn’t. She kicks the can all the way to the second guard, and a train passes underneath her in a billow of steam. When I can see her again, she’s left her can behind and is coming down the stairs, looking this way and that in the roaring noise of the train. I step out toward the bridge and walk past it, hoping she’ll follow.

  She doesn’t recognize me.

  She wanders toward the little market close to the tracks, the Fish Place, and I try to follow without looking like I’m following. Pretending to shop while I keep an eye on her. But she’s always surrounded by people. There’s the lady I buy used clothes from. And one of the village women passing through, the one who gives me a good price on milk. I see Dziusia tug on a stranger’s sleeve and ask a question. They ignore her. She looks like she’s going to cry. But I can’t catch her eye. I can’t get her attention.

  Careful, Dziusia. Careful.

  Now she’s in front of the cathedral, the one I usually pray in, near Na Bramie. There’s a pair of women with scarves tied around their heads coming up the steps from the sunken front doors. She shuffles up to them.

  Yes, Dziusia. That’s a better choice.

  I watch her stop them, and I can almost see her mouth say the word “Tatarska.” One of the women bends down. She points in the right direction, and I follow Dziusia through the booths and stalls of the big market square. Up the hill. The higher we get, the fewer people there are, and when the street is empty, I speed up and pass her.

  “Dziusia,” I whisper. “Follow me.”

  I hear her give a little sob.

  The sun is getting low, but not so low that Mrs. Krajewska won’t be looking out her window. I hope she’ll think this is a friend of Helena’s, come to play. When we get through the courtyard and around the back, the door jerks open. I push Dziusia in, and Max locks it behind us.

  “What happened?” Max says. “We thought you were shot!”

  “They made me work a double shift.”

  “Twenty-four hours?”

  Dziusia has run to Siunek and put her arms around him. Her eyes are dry. But her breath comes in gasps like she’s crying. Siunek pats her hair.

  “She’s wet,” he whispers, pointing. I look down, and it’s true. Dziusia’s shoes and skirt are soaked.

  “There were dogs,” she whispers.

  “The bridge is guarded now,” I say. “SS with dogs. Both ends.” Then I see Helena in the corner, watching. “Hela. This is Dziusia.”

  Did anyone even tell Helena another child was coming? I hope Max did.

  “Could you show her where the washing water is and let her borrow your other dress while I get her clothes clean?”

  Helena nods, unsure. Dziusia is two, maybe three years older. But Helena takes her hand and leads her to the bedroom.

  “I’ll get some wash water,” I start to say, but Max shakes his head. “I’ll wash. You’ve got to go back to the ghetto. Please. Her father. Dr. Schillinger will be waiting.”

  I look at his big, brown eyes. His pale face. Then I pull my coat on and go right back out the door again.

  He was so worried.

  And I am so tired.

  There’s no good way across the train tracks now other than to get out of sight of the SS and choose your moment well. I do that, then circle the entire ghetto, walking toward the gate like I’m coming from the other direction, from the Minerwa building. On the other side of the fence, at the corner of an apartment block, a man is standing in the shadows. Where the guard can’t see him. Rigid. Upright.

  I think it’s Dr. Schillinger. If it is, he’s much thinner. Probably from the typhus. Or because since Max and Siunek came, I haven’t brought food.

  I walk a little closer to the gate and look up suddenly, like I’ve lost my way. The guard gives me a sidelong glare. I turn to go the other way, back toward Dr. Schillinger, and ten feet away from me, standing as stiff and still as an Egyptian mummy, is Officer Berdecki.

  We stare at each other. I am frazzled. Exhausted. I haven’t slept since I saw him last. I’ve also scrubbed the laundry and the house, been to the market, worked two shifts, and helped extract a little girl from the ghetto. And if he doesn’t get out of my way right now, I’m going to walk up and kick him.

  He seems to know it. He turns and does exactly what I said in his living room. He disappears. I give myself exactly two seconds to feel satisfied. Then I bend down and sneeze. Loudly.

  And the shadow of a man behind the ghetto fence sits down in the doorway and cries.

  It takes a week to get my sleeping and waking straight so that I’m not struggling through the day shift. And when I come home on Saturday evening, looking forward to a day off, I discover a house full of chickens.

  Max looks guilty.

  I turn on him, and he explains that Mrs. Krajewska asked Helena if we had a cat, because she could hear noise in the apartment while Helena was out. Helena told her we did have a cat, all smiles, but Max decided it was going to be impossible to be quiet enough. That the walls were just too thin. Then, at this opportune moment, Helena mentioned a farmer’s wife who was selling off her entire lot of chickens in the market, and Siunek still had a little money, and so, following the natural order of things, I now live with chickens.

  Again.

  I go to sleep to the sound of cluck, cluck, clucking. When I wake, the chickens are still cluck, cluck, clucking. It’s annoying and makes me irritable. At least Helena had the sense to buy only hens.

 
The chickens are distracting me from the fact that we all might die today. It’s Sunday again, and we are waiting for Old Hirsch and Dr. Schillinger to come.

  I bought a sofa after all. And an armoire. Traded earlier in the week for the blue silk blouse. It’s a terrible sofa. I’m afraid of whatever substance is on it, even more so after a night of chickens. The armoire looks like a military shell went through it. But Max screws the hinges back on tight, and the shattered hole is in the back, against the wall, where it doesn’t show when the doors are shut.

  We have to keep the doors shut so the chickens won’t roost.

  I put Helena and Dziusia to work, laying down hay and making a nesting place in the little hallway with the ladder, which will also help cover up the height of the floor. Max and I take apart the sofa, stripping off its upholstery, washing the dark green cloth in three soapings of hot water. It comes out the color of an artificial lime. It also shrinks, and we laugh while Max and I hold one end, Dziusia and Helena pulling as hard as they can on the other, all of us staggering as we try to stretch it back out. Max even stands on a chair and hangs Helena over one end while she squeals, a technique that works better than I would have thought.

  This is also distracting us from the fact that we all might die today.

  We haven’t told Dziusia her father is coming. In case he doesn’t. And I haven’t told Helena, either, in case she tells Dziusia. But Siunek is beside himself with worry and won’t leave the window, biting his nails until they bleed. The plan before Max left was made by Dr. Schillinger and involves paying off the mailman, a man Dr. Schillinger knew before the war. Old Hirsch will shave his beard, and they will both dress as workers, like Max did. Then they will ride out of the ghetto with the mailbags and get dropped off during the route, somewhere close to the market, then make their way to Tatarska Street from there.

  Max assures me that the mailman does not know my name or my address. That he’s just being paid to let two Jews ride out on his cart. I tell Max the mail doesn’t run on Sunday. He says it does from the ghetto, when all the mail has to go to the Nazis for inspection. I tell him the factories aren’t open on Sunday, so dressing as workers doesn’t make sense. He says the men who work in the German cafeterias and hotels and boarding houses work every day, and that’s what Hirsch and Schillinger will look like.

  I don’t like the plan. There have been too many loose tongues as it is.

  There’s nothing I can do about it.

  They should be here sometime after three o’clock. At twenty minutes after two, Siunek comes running into the kitchen.

  “Police!” he whispers. We stare at him. “The police are here!”

  Max drops his hammer and nails. I’m still holding the upholstery he was tacking down. “Get in the bunker,” Max says. “Quick!”

  We scramble, but we do it in silence. Max moves the floorboards to one side, slides on his stomach beneath the bed and into the hole, Siunek going after, though it takes him longer. I hand him Dziusia, whom I’ve snatched straight out of a game of hopscotch she and Helena have chalked on the second bedroom floor. I hand Max the floorboards to set back in place, and look around. There’s a man’s shaving brush and razor on the windowsill. I stuff them beneath my pillow. Helena hands me Siunek’s shoes without a word, and I set them in the armoire and close the door.

  “Wash the dishes,” I whisper to her. She nods. There are too many cups lying about. Then I go to the window and peek beyond the edge of the curtain.

  My heart slides straight down to my heels. There are two policemen standing in front of Tatarska 3, clubs in hand, looking the street up and down while they rock on their heels. Why come here? Now? Of all times?

  Because they know.

  Because someone has been talking. Someone has been talking this whole time.

  And any minute now, Schillinger and Hirsch will come walking up the hill.

  We really are going to die today.

  And I’ve remembered just how much I don’t want this to be true. I want so much for this not to be true it’s making me mad.

  Someone should find out what those policemen want.

  I sit on the bed to tie up my shoes.

  “What’s happening?” Max whispers from underneath.

  “Nothing right now.”

  He must be able to see my shoes. “Stay inside, Fusia.”

  “No,” I reply. And then I call, “Be right back, Hela!” as I grab the water bucket and walk out the door.

  Okay, God, I think. Here’s where I know if you’re on my side or not.

  Maybe I should have brought my rosary.

  Maybe I should stop challenging God.

  I stop beside the well.

  “Hello!” I call. The policemen turn around. “We’re not about to be kidnapped by the Russians, are we?”

  They both laugh, and my smile is as bright and false as yellow paint.

  “The Americans, then?”

  “We can take care of them,” says one.

  “Okay, then who’s been robbed? Murdered?” I come closer with my bucket. “Come on, I’m all out of guesses. What are you doing here?”

  They glance at each other. They’re both young but not that young. Polish.

  At least they’re not Officer Berdecki.

  “Do you live here, miss?” asks one.

  “Yes. Around back. Why?”

  “Because we have information that someone is hiding Jews.”

  I leave open curiosity on my face. Inside I am mad at God.

  “Jews? Where?”

  “Tatarska Street, somewhere between 1 and 5.”

  And so they’re standing in front of 3. Hitting the nail on the head.

  “Two rich Jews are supposed to come up here this afternoon, but maybe our information isn’t right. It might just be talk.”

  “I would think so,” I say quickly. “I’ve lived here for a while now, and I’ve never seen any Jews. I go in all my neighbors’ houses. Where would they put them?”

  I’ve never been in any of my neighbors’ houses, but I pack my smile with cheerful innocence, and the policeman grins back.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “If we find them, it’s good for us and nothing to do with you.”

  Or, I think, it might have everything to do with me. Because there is Dr. Schillinger, walking up the road.

  And then Mrs. Krajewska comes out her door. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s the police,” I say. “They’re looking for Jews.”

  “Jews?” says Mrs. Krajewska.

  “Hey!” says a voice behind me. “You! Miss Podgórska!”

  I turn slowly on my heel. It’s Dr. Schillinger, still trudging up the hill.

  I think my heart has stopped.

  “Why weren’t you at work yesterday?” he yells.

  My mouth is open.

  “I said, why weren’t you at work? We had to cover your shift!”

  “Should have gone to work,” mutters one of the policemen. They laugh.

  “Now, you stop that!” says Mrs. Krajewska, coming out to the street to point at Dr. Schillinger. “Miss Podgórska is a good girl!”

  “If she’s so good, she should have come to work!” says Dr. Schillinger. He’s walking fast, red in the face, swinging his arms. He really does look like he could have come from the Minerwa building. I pull myself together.

  “I’m sorry. My sister was sick.”

  “See! She said her sister was sick!” Mrs. Krajewska’s finger waggles. “She can’t leave when her sister is sick!”

  “Then she should have sent a note!” shouts Dr. Schillinger.

  “Now, you be civil …” starts Mrs. Krajewska.

  The other policeman mutters, “Let’s walk up the street.”

  “But I did send a note!” I whine. “I paid the boy in the market. Didn’t you get it?”

  Mrs. Krajewska is gathering her breath to defend me.

  “Come and have some tea,” I say quickly, “and let me explain …”


  Dr. Schillinger stops in front of us as the policemen stroll away up the street. There is no sign of Old Hirsch. “I want to hear what you have to say, of course,” says Schillinger. “I want to be fair. But you’ve caused a problem …”

  I take him by the arm and lead him toward our door, and when I look back and mouth the words “thank you,” at Mrs. Krajewska, she blows me a kiss. We round the corner, Dr. Schillinger still berating me, and then we’re through the front door of Tatarska 3.

  I turn the lock, and Max must have already been out of the bunker, watching from the window, because he comes straight out and kisses my cheek. Then he’s pumping Dr. Schillinger’s hand. He should. Dr. Schillinger just saved us. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, and a chicken comes and stands on my lap. And then Dziusia is squealing in her father’s arms while everyone tries to shush her.

  I thought I was about to die. I really, really thought I was about to die.

  “Be calm, Dziusia,” says Dr. Schillinger, sitting her next to him on the torn-apart sofa. She looks disappointed. He looks like he needs to get over his fright.

  And then Siunek says, “Where is my father?”

  Dr. Schillinger takes off his cap and looks at it, then shakes his head.

  “It was the mailman,” he says. “The cart was searched, and he said we were helping with the mail, that we had permission, and an Ordner who must have been in his pay came and told the Gestapo it was true, and so they let us go. Only after that, he lost his head. He drove the horse and cart all around the city, like he was being chased, and then he put us off at the wrong place. We didn’t know where we were, especially Hirsch …”

  Hirsch isn’t from Przemyśl, I remember. He’s from Dobromil.

  “He was supposed to stay a few paces behind me so it wouldn’t look like we were together,” says Schillinger, crossing his legs, which looks strange with coveralls. Dziusia holds him by the arm. “But when I looked back, he was gone.” He glances up at Siunek. “Would he go back to the ghetto?”

  Siunek shakes his head.

  “Does he know this address?” Max asks.

  Schillinger nods. And Max looks at me. We look at each other. That could be good, because he could find his way safely here. It could be bad, because he could give us away. I see the question on Max’s face.