Max and I are left standing inside a circle of eager people, and even Helena sits to watch, shoulders hunched in anticipation. Other than the daily danger of being found by Ernst the SS man, this is probably the most interesting thing that’s happened since two of the chickens got chased by a dog.
Helena may be hoping for some pointers for the Krajewska boys.
I feel silly. And tired. And jumpy with adrenaline. It’s an unpleasant combination. Then I imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t had a bag of coal and decide this might not be such a waste of time after all. It might actually feel good to hit something. I raise my fists.
“The first thing to remember,” Max whispers, so the neighbors can’t hear, “is to be on the defensive before you are on the offensive.”
“Where did you learn to box?” I ask.
“Gymnasium,” he says. “You might have missed all my black eyes. Now be light on your feet, ready to dodge …”
“You can’t hit if you’ve already been hit, girl!” says Old Hirsch. He’s enjoying himself.
“Go on, Fusia,” says Max. “Bounce.”
I bounce. Just a little. I’m back to feeling silly.
“No, get on this part of your feet. Like this. Ready to move.”
I get balanced on the correct part of my feet, and Max makes me practice dodging his blows. I’m pretty good at that. Helena claps. I think Janek would prefer it if Max hit me, but I don’t think Max is really trying. Then he shows me how to punch.
“Thumb here”—he adjusts my fist—“and bring your body into it. Keep your mouth closed. Use your weight …”
I know what he means. Like I did with the coal sack. I pull back, use my weight, and hit Max hard in the nose.
I hadn’t meant to do that. I was thinking of the coal sack.
I see the shock on his face. I feel the shock on mine. Helena has her hands over her mouth. Then Mrs. Bessermann says, “Good for you!” Janek claps, and Old Hirsch bursts out laughing without a thought for noise while Max bleeds all over his shirt.
* * *
I stand behind Max, one hand on his tilted neck while the other holds a wet cloth to his nose. I’m waiting for the bleeding to stop. And for Siunek to show mercy and stop teasing Max. Max takes it with good humor. Mostly. When Siunek has had his fill, I finish cleaning up Max’s face and sit beside him at the table. He pokes gingerly at his nose. It’s a little swollen. His eyebrow quirks.
“I think I’ve decided you don’t need lessons.”
“I’m sorry. I lost my head.”
“It’s my punishment for eavesdropping. I accept it.”
The mention of Lubek stops the conversation.
“Do you like him, Fusia?”
“I do.”
Max frowns.
“As a friend,” I add.
“You didn’t tell him that when he was asking you to marry him.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what he was—”
“Yes, that’s what he was doing.”
I don’t want to admit that.
“If you’re serious, you’ll have to make a choice. If he keeps coming, you’ll have to trust him with our secret. Do you think you can trust him?”
I don’t know.
“What do you want, Max?”
“Oh, Fusia,” he says, feeling his nose. “This is not a good time to ask me what I want. I don’t think you’d like it. Just … remember what’s at stake.”
I don’t need Max to remind me what’s at stake. But I lie awake in the bed next to Helena, thinking about it anyway. And I’m still awake when Schillinger takes over for Mrs. Bessermann at the window.
And the next morning, on the way to work, I see a man hanged. In the market square, with a guard of SS and German soldiers, and half of Przemyśl there to watch him die.
He was hanged for hiding Jews.
I run to the factory. And there is Januka, coming across the iron bridge to hug me. They shot at her, and she ran so fast she slammed right into the back wall of the building instead of through the door. But she got away.
She says she doesn’t know what we’ll do if we ever see those soldiers again.
I keep seeing the dead man’s legs swinging in the breeze.
And I know I can never share my secret with Lubek.
I can barely concentrate. I let the water pump go dry on one of my machines. I miss my quota almost every day that week.
Lubek takes his breaks with me on the iron bridge, and nothing seems to have changed. Except that he watches me even more closely. On Friday, when Januka goes inside, he says, “Have you thought about what you want to do after the war?”
I bite my lip. “It’s not a good time for me to be making plans.”
“There’s never a bad time for making plans. Unless you don’t want to.”
“Lubek,” I say. “I don’t want to. Not right now. Not with you.”
He nods and lights a cigarette. “Take your time,” he says. “I’ve made up my mind. And I won’t change it.”
And then we hear a volley of shots in the distance. It’s coming from the ghetto. We stare in that direction. There’s screaming, rising up and echoing between the buildings, between the chugging trains. And three minutes later there’s another volley. And then another.
“You were right,” says Lubek. He makes the stub of his cigarette glow. “They’re shooting them.”
We listen to volley after volley, about three minutes apart.
Oh, Henek, I think. I don’t care if you’re a Dummkopf or a yutz. I don’t want you to be dead. Danuta, why did you let him wait so long? Why didn’t you make him come? Why didn’t you come?
The shots are still going, volley after volley, when our break is over and we go back inside the factory. The noise of the machines drowns out the dying.
And I don’t let Lubek see my tears.
For two days after the shootings, smoke blacks the sky. The Germans are burning bodies. Heaps of them. The smell is horrible. And it leaves a film of greasy soot all over the train station. But there’s still a guard at the gate of the ghetto, so someone must be alive. I check the spot at the fence, just in case, but there’s nothing under the rock.
Max is dark. Silent. His eyes are red.
He’s the only Diamant left.
Lubek comes to the house two nights in a row. I try not letting him in. I try to tell him I have to go to the market. But he just turns and falls into step beside me, and then I can’t buy what I need, because he notices the amounts. The third day I ask the inspector to come to my station first and get my count of screws, and then I slip out the door quick, before Lubek and Januka are done. I tie a scarf around my head against a chilly rain and run through the damp streets until I see the door I want. I hesitate, take a deep breath, and go inside the photography shop.
Emilika is at the counter, helping a man in a wet hat. Her eyes widen when she sees me, but she goes on with the man’s order. I wait. Feeling nervous. Dirty and dowdy among all the smiling portraits and canisters of film. The man turns up his collar against the rain, the door shuts, and Emilika leans her elbows on the counter.
“Well. Stefania Podgórska. I thought you’d run off to Russia or something.”
I shake my head. “Just a new apartment. It was … an opportunity.”
“You didn’t say goodbye.”
I was going to give her an excuse, an apology I worked on all afternoon at the machines, but I tell her the truth instead. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. It’s just … I thought you were mad at me, because of our … conversation.”
“What conversation?” she says lightly. “I don’t remember.”
I smile.
“How’s Hela?” she asks. “How’s your new apartment? Where is it?”
“Hela’s fine.” I avoid the question about the apartment. “But I do have a little problem.”
“Oh?”
“I have a boy.”
“Really?” She’s all interest. I knew she would
be.
“I have a boy … that I don’t want. And he is very … umm …”
“Persistent?”
“Unrelenting.”
“Hints don’t work?”
I shake my head.
“How about saying no?”
“Not so far.”
“So how can I help?”
“I was wondering if maybe you could give me an extra print. Of an SS man.”
Mischief blooms all over her face. Despite all her faults, I’ve still missed Emilika.
“I have the perfect thing!” She slips behind the curtain covering the back of the shop. “I just finished these this morning,” she calls. “He’s such a dream! And you’re so lucky, because Mr. Markowski isn’t here today …”
Her voice gets louder again on my side of the curtain.
“… and I have a batch with a spot. Bad paper. It’s hard to get good paper now. Everyone thinks bullets are more necessary. But I think this might do the job! What do you think?” She lays a photograph on the counter and spins it in my direction.
This is a beautiful man. With light hair and light eyes and a profile that any Norseman would be proud of. Even his teeth are perfect. He doesn’t have his cap on, but there are two lightning bolts on his collar. I pick up the photograph.
“Oh, yes,” I tell Emilika. “That will do.”
I tilt my head at the picture. I think I might prefer dark hair.
And Lubek is going to hate me. So much.
I’ve still got the picture in my hand when the door of the shop opens. I don’t see Emilika’s expression. Not until it’s too late.
“Guten Abend, Fräulein,” says a voice.
And when I look back, it’s the handsome SS man. The one in the photograph. And he sees me. Holding his photograph.
His mouth falls open.
He may be handsome, but in person, he looks a little stupid.
There are two more officers behind him, crowding into the shop. They chuckle and point when they see what I’m holding, elbowing their friend in the ribs. He frowns and turns to Emilika, says something in German, then switches to a very broken Polish.
“You are … selling the … Fotografieren?”
“Oh no!” says Emilika. “Just looking.” She smiles brightly at him. “Handsome.” She sneaks a hand across the counter to my arm and pinches.
“Handsome,” I say.
“Gut aussehend,” one of the others translates, elbowing him again, and the officer’s face lights up.
“You … like?” he asks.
I nod, because I don’t know what else to do.
Some things are the same everywhere, I suppose, because even in German, it’s easy to see that the handsome SS man is now being teased by his friends. They’re laughing and looking at me and jostling each other. Emilika pinches my arm again. Her lips barely move. “Run,” she mouths. “Run away!”
I set the photograph on the counter. “Good day,” I say, and start to move, but the SS man holds out an arm.
“Nein, nein, Fräulein!” Then he thinks about the word and says, “Wait,” holding up a finger. There’s a lot of talk from his friends. Then he gets shoved forward a little. He picks up the photograph, pushes it to my chest, and sticks out his cheek.
A kiss. I can keep the photograph for a kiss.
I kiss his cheek, because I need the photograph.
I wonder if he shot Henek. Or Danuta.
And then I kiss the other cheek he presents, because what would happen if I didn’t? And while I do, I wonder if this man is responsible for the horrible smoke.
The other two SS men cheer and clap, slapping their friend on the back. Emilika reaches under the counter.
“Here,” she says, handing me a large yellow envelope. I tuck the photograph inside it and under my coat.
“Thanks,” I tell her quietly.
“Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein!” calls the handsome one, waving.
I shut the shop door and stand between the display windows, catching my breath before I step out into the rain. That’s the second time I’ve had to kiss a German soldier. I liked it even less than the first.
And I don’t think I’ll be telling Max about this.
* * *
When I come up the hill to Tatarska Street in the wet and soggy dark, I feel the familiar little flutter of fear. Like a bird has taken flight in my chest. I’m going to find the door kicked open. I’m going to find the house and bunkers empty. I’m going to see everyone shot. And tonight, when I turn the knob, the door is unlocked.
I think I’m going to be shot as soon as I open it.
I stand in the rain, the photograph safe under my coat.
The flutter becomes a painful squeeze.
I push open the door, slowly, and see Helena sitting in a chair, kicking her heels. Her eyes are big. And on the sofa sits a straight-backed woman with a fur hat and a dark brown coat. A woman I’ve never seen. I’m so glad she isn’t Gestapo, I step inside and shut the door. It’s silent but for my dripping.
Everyone must be in the attic.
I hope they’re in the attic.
The woman stands up. “Miss Podgórska?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Mrs. Krawiecka.”
I take out the envelope with the photograph, set it safely on the sugar tin, and hang my sopping coat beside the door. “Can I help you with something, Mrs. Krawiecka?”
“Yes, you can. I want you to hide a Jew for me.”
I stare at the woman, scarf half off my head.
“What did you say?”
“I want you to hide a Jew for me. I can’t be more frank than that.”
I hang the scarf, pull up a kitchen chair, and sit on it. The woman settles back down on the sofa. Helena looks back and forth between the two of us.
“Why would you ask me something like that?” I say.
“Please. I am being honest with you. Have the courtesy to be honest with me. I have a Jew, Jan Dorlich, who would like to be hidden here.”
“I don’t know any Jan Dorlich.”
“Really? You play the naive girl so well. Because he knows you. Mr. Dorlich escaped the ghetto before the trains came yesterday. Did you know the trains came again yesterday? The fences are being taken down. The ghetto is empty.”
No, I hadn’t heard this. My chest squeezes again. Hard.
“Mr. Dorlich got as far as my house, but I cannot let him stay. It isn’t safe. He knows you are hiding Jews. The Hirsches, the Diamants, and the Bessermanns. So I really do think it would be best for everyone if you took one more.”
Best. Best for who? For all of us? So she doesn’t tell? And I suppose she won’t be back, wanting money, either. This woman is nothing more than a blackmailer. Again.
I may kill Old Hirsch.
“Mrs. Krawiecka, I think you’ve come to the wrong house. I don’t know you. I don’t know a Jan Dorlich. And I am not hiding Jews. I work, take care of this house, and feed my little sister. How would I have time for taking care of all those other people? I’ve never even heard of those people.”
“Stop playing games, my girl. You are in no position to refuse me.”
“Or what? You’re going to turn me and my little sister in to the Gestapo and let them torture a confession out of us? Is that what you want?”
Having just kissed a member of the Gestapo, my temper is boiling. This blackmailer has chosen the wrong day.
“You need to be sure of your facts before you come traipsing into someone’s house, accusing them of something like hiding Jews. Why would I hide Jews? I hate Jews!”
I see Helena wince.
“But …” The woman’s hand goes to her throat.
“Maybe I should go to the Gestapo and tell them that you have a Jew.”
“No! I mean, he was so certain …”
“Do you see any Jews around here, Mrs. Krawiecka? Please, inspect the house. Look in every corner!”
She decides to do it. She walks the length of the sittin
g room and kitchen. Looking at everything. She goes into my bedroom and peeks behind the curtains and under the bed. She goes into the second bedroom. And comes right back out again. She comes back into the kitchen, opens the little door, and pokes around at the roosting chickens. She puts her foot on the ladder.
“Yes,” I say loudly. “Look in the attic. Please!”
She climbs up far enough to stick her head through the attic floor and see the junk I have stored there. She climbs gingerly back down, stepping over the chickens, marches to the sugar tin, and picks up my envelope.
And finds a photograph of an SS officer.
Helena is covering her mouth. She seems to think Mrs. Krawiecka’s frustration is funny. Or my temper.
“Well,” the woman says, dropping the photograph on the table. “I have been given false information. I will know what to do. I apologize for taking your time.”
I lock the door behind her and sit at the table. Helena goes to the window, and after a minute or so, calls, “She’s gone!” I reach out without getting up and open the door to the attic.
The chickens get out. And then here come my Jews, one by one down the ladder. They heard most of it. And they are shaken.
“I’m sorry! I am sorry!” says Old Hirsch. His beard is growing back. “A thousand times I say that I am sorry!”
Max drops into the chair next to mine, rubbing his head. “Fusia, you do know Jan Dorlich.”
I look up. I’ve had my face in my hands. “What?”
“He was our mailman. On Mickiewicza.”
Mr. Dorlich. I’d forgotten. I can’t believe I forgot, though I’m not sure I ever knew his first name. And no wonder he knows. He probably knew the other mailman who Schillinger and Hirsch paid to get them out of the ghetto. I look at Max. “What should we do?”
“I don’t know. I hope he’s all right, that’s all.”
Now I have guilt on top of my fright.
Then Max picks up the photograph of the SS man. “Oh,” he says. “Yes, I think that will work. I think that will be very good.”
He knows what it’s for. And he’s happy about it. I’m annoyed.
“Lubek’s coming!” calls Helena.
And eight people have to scramble back up to the attic. Except Max. He looks at the ladder. He meets my eyes. And he goes into the bedroom. To listen. Helena follows and shuts the door. She has the dental textbook hidden beneath our pillow.
The Light in Hidden Places Page 24