OTHER SKY PONY PRESS BOOKS BY RANDALL PLATT:
Incommunicado
Also by Randall Platt:
The Cornerstone
Hellie Jondoe
Honor Bright
Liberty’s Christmas
The Likes of Me
Copyright © 2017 by Randall Platt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Sammy Yuen
Cover image credit Thinkstock
Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-0809-9
E-book ISBN: 978-1-5107-0810-5
Printed in the United States of America
Interior design by Joshua L. Barnaby
Dedicated
to the memory of the real cigarette sellers
of Three Crosses Square
AUGUST, 1939
I.
“Identification?”
I hand it to him and watch his face carefully. He’s not my first Nazi.
The young soldier looks at the photo on my forged Austrian student pass, then back at me. “Your reason for entering Poland?”
“My aunt is dying,” I say, hoping he can’t detect the accent in my German. I might be fluent in four languages—five if I count the street slang my gang uses—but I know my accent shines a Polish light on every word.
“Where does your aunt live?”
“Warsaw.”
“When will you return to Vienna?”
“I have final exams in two weeks. I have to be back …” I frown at him and add, “That is, providing I can get back. I’d like to finish my second year before …” I stop.
“Before what?”
A little smile won’t hurt. “I’ve been in Vienna for two years, sir. I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming.” I adjust my skirt.
“Yes, well,” he says, “these are dangerous times, especially for young women traveling alone.”
Don’t I know it! These days, a girl needs to know how to defend herself. In five languages. I keep my valise close to my leg and hope he doesn’t notice the padding in my skirt hem. Money, more forged papers, a knife.
A soldier pokes his head into the room and says, “There’s about fifty more out here, Claus. Quit flirting!”
This Claus looks at me and his face reddens. He knows I understand. I don’t smile. I watched these Krauts overrun Vienna and I’ve had more dealings with them than I’d like to admit. I know I have an edge here. My very gentile-looking smile, this new shade of lipstick I lifted from a woman on the train, these new silk stockings all help. Not to mention my ability to conjure up tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling out a crinkled hankie. “Aunt Bożena is very dear to me. I hope I get there in time.”
He hands me back the pass.
There’s some sort of scuffle in the hall. I hear a woman cry out and a man make a threat in Yiddish. Others shout in Polish, German soldiers shouting back.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, tilting my head toward the door.
“Yes, yes. Very well, Fräulein, you may go.” He pulls a paper off a pad, fills in my name and dates, signs it. Then—ka-chunk!—he pushes down a numbering stamp. I watch over his shoulder. It’s a pass in and out of Poland good for two months. Street value? Big.
I rise, and he hands me my valise. If he finds out what’s in it, I’ll be detained. Or worse. I’m still wanted on two warrants in Vienna. “Please, be careful,” Claus says. “And a little bit of advice, if I may.”
“Yes?”
“Try to leave Warsaw. In fact, leave Poland altogether. As soon as you can.”
I give him a quick look, but then smile sweetly. “Really? Why?”
He smiles back and opens the door for me. “Well, you don’t want to miss those exams, do you?” And he winks at me.
“Oops, forgot my hankie,” I say, as he follows me out the door and starts to talk to someone in the hall. I rush back in the office and tear off several more passes from the pad and the numbering stamp, pocketing them just as he steps back into the room.
“Find it?”
“Yes, thank you.” I dab my eyes, smile, and leave. I walk down the hall against the line of people yet to be processed, and step into the large waiting room. I’m almost there. This train station in Ostrana, Czechoslovakia, is the last checkpoint. Poland is within spitting distance. Then hitch a ride to Warsaw and I’m home free.
But not looking like this.
I find the ladies’ room, slip into a toilet stall, and make my change. The prim, innocent school girl goes in, the street ruffian comes out. Thick cotton pants, boots, a baggy sweater over two shirts and my chest wrap. The blonde wig, the cloche hat, the pleated skirt—everything for the schoolgirl set—gets crammed deep into the trash can after I rip my valuables out of the hem. On second thought, I pull the silk stockings back out. Always a street value. I dunk my head in the sink and wash my face, then grab a towel and hold it over my head.
“Come on, you coward. Look,” I mutter, daring myself. The towel slowly comes down.
My hacked-short blonde hair is thick from months of neglect. My skin is ruddy and rough and intensifies my blue eyes. I’m sixteen—aren’t I supposed to be blossoming by now? I stand sideways and look at my profile. Flat-chested, scrawny, too tall. My periods still show up unannounced, like an unwelcome maiden aunt.
“So, tell me. Just who are you?” I ask my reflection. “No. What are you?”
The scream of a train whistle reminds me to move out fast. I pull my cap down low, hike up these stolen pants, pull down the moth-eaten sweater, and take one last look. This is the real me—not the Abra Goldstein my filthy-rich Jewish parents tried to forge. No, on the streets they call me the Arab, and I’m ready to reclaim my territory on the shady side of Warsaw. Start up a Warsaw Chapter of the Meet Me in Hell Club and fill it with street kids.
I back out of the swinging restroom door and nearly knock over a well-dressed woman coming in.
“Pardon me,” I say, backing away. “Wrong door.”
She responds with a bit of a huff as I start toward the waiting room.
Damn! It’s that Claus coming toward the men’s room, walking with another soldier. I look around. Nowhere to duck into. Quick, think! He’ll recognize my valise, if not me! I rush back in the ladies’ room, hold my valise against my chest, and lean against the door. The woman looks at me in surprise. She looks Jewish, but then again, I don’t. Still, it’s my only card. I put my finger to my lips and whisper in Yiddish, “Please …” We can hear the soldiers walking outside the door. She dries her hands and looks at me, then at the trash can where the blonde wig is just barely showing. An uneven smile comes to her face.
I listen outside the door. It’s quiet. “Thank you,” I say to her. I pull out the silk
stockings and press them into her hands. Already I’ve redeemed their value.
“May God go with you,” she says, her Yiddish well marked with a German accent.
I peer around the door. The way is clear. If God wants to go with me, fine. Not stopping him, as long as he keeps his advice to himself. God’s one of the reasons I’m in this situation in the first place. No, it’s more likely I’m on my own.
Just the way I like it.
II.
After two days of walking and hitchhiking through Poland, I’m here. Welcome home, Arab. I hop on the back of a passing lorry and take a deep breath. The scents of the Vistula River off in the distance mix with industrial smoke and it’s as though I never left. My gaze wanders north to where my parents’ extravagant home anchors an entire city block. The lorry passes a roadside flower stand and the scent of rose blossoms reminds me of the bushes my mother planted when Ruth was born. Ruthie. That little brat fell into my heart the minute she was placed into my arms. Perfect in every way but one: that tiny, sweet, clubbed foot. But oh, Ruthie’s smile, her eyes, her everything. Despite myself, I adore that little imp.
I wonder if she’d even remember me after two years. After all, she was barely three when I left. Probably doesn’t even have a photograph to remember me by, such was my father’s wrath. But if I’ve learned anything in the last two years, it’s that yesterday means nothing. Tomorrow means nothing. Today is everything.
And today, I have an old score to settle. If he’s still in Warsaw—if he’s still alive—I’ll find him. I’ve been planning our reunion for two years.
I follow all the regular routes, look in our old haunts, hideouts, and meet-up joints. I stroll through Praga Park on the Vistula River and pass familiar places: where Sniper and I first met, our first flirtations, our first confidence game together, our first holdup.
I thought Sniper was the sun and the moon and the stars in between. Back then, I would have walked through hell for him. And I damn near have. I was thirteen, and a stupid little shit—a gawky, clumsy, stupid-in-love Jew-girl. Eager and willing to run with his gang—to prove myself to him. I know what I saw in him: something different, exciting, even dangerous. But what did he see in me? A dupe. Plain and simple. A lamb to throw to the wolves. And I let him.
I look down each street in this district, our old turf, thinking every thin, tall, dark man I see might be Sniper. I can feel my heart pound. Anticipation of—what, Arab? Revenge or—No! Stop thinking that! Revenge can get a girl killed.
I walk past a café and remember I haven’t eaten a real sit-down meal in days. I have some money, but wonder why I should use it when I can see a purse limply hanging off a woman’s chair, begging to be lifted.
I bump my valise into her chair, upsetting her.
“Young man!” her escort says. I scramble to set things straight. Kneeling down, I easily slip her purse off the back of her chair. Into my valise it drops and—snap!—it’s closed.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, backing away.
I walk to the next street over, hop a streetcar, take a seat in back, and paw through the purse. I smell the scented hankie—not bad—so I stuff it in my pocket. Hmm, this lipstick is so red! When did that come into style? Not my color—as though I have a style! I open the compact. This stays with me. It’s as good as eyes in the back of my head! And oh, lovely, lovely cash. Enough for me to live on for days, or longer. I find the woman’s identification and pocket that, too. The rest—photos, a comb, tweezers—useless. I leave them and the purse on the floor of the car and get off at the next stop.
I head for one of my old haunts, the Crystal Café. I take a table close to the sidewalk, an old habit—I get an up-close view of the passersby before they get an up-close view of me, and it’s a quick escape if I need it.
“Arab?” the waiter asks. “Is that you? It’s me, Albin!”
I look at him carefully. Not everyone in Warsaw is an old friend.
“Remember? Spades?” He looks around and whispers, “You know, from Sniper’s gang?”
My heart takes a leap at the sound of Sniper’s name. I offer him a slight smile. “Sure. I remember you. Good pickpocket.”
“Where’ve you been hiding out?” He hands me a menu.
“Oh, here and there.”
“Gosh, I felt bad when you got caught. Never trusted Sniper after that.”
I glance casually at the menu. “So Spades the pickpocket is now Albin the waiter. What a world.” I grin up at Spades. “Remember when we used to steal tips off these very tables?”
“Got caught, got lucky, got wise,” Spades—Albin—says. He nods toward the inside of the restaurant. “Owner gave me a break.”
“Well, good.”
“You aren’t going to … you know … eat and then take off. Like in the old days? Because …”
“Of course not. I don’t do those cheap tricks anymore,” I say, reaching into my pocket for the change from the purse I just lifted.
“Well, I thought, because, you know, you’re dressed like that. Like you used to be when we ran together.”
“My wardrobe is being altered,” I say, giving him a smirk. “Lost a lot of weight while I was … here and there.”
“Understood,” he says, nodding. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Coffee, cruller, raspberry jam.” He starts to leave, but I pull him back by his apron. “So, where’s Sniper these days?”
He stands straighter. “Oh, around. I see him every so often.”
“He still have a gang?”
“Yeah. But—”
“Just tell him I’m back, if you see him.”
“Arab, I don’t think that’s wise. I mean, he set you up plain and simple, and then he laughed when you got caught. Said you didn’t have what it takes and … then bragged about you … you know … proving yourself … in other ways.”
I feel my jaw tighten. Maybe there was a time I would have “proven myself” to Sniper if given the chance, but I never did. I’m going to prove myself to him, all right, but the Arab he meets now won’t be the same Arab he remembers.
“And how about Lizard? Ever see him?” I ask, resurrecting another name from my past.
“The Pickpocket Priest?” he asks.
“Some altar boy he made, huh?” We both chuckle over the memories: stealing sacramental wine, smoking in the confessionals, sneaking cash from the donation box for poor children.
Spades smiles and pretends to be swiping away crumbs on the table. “Oh, that Lizard! He’s just about everywhere these days. Him and Sniper broke it off after you left. Big fight. Went out on his own. They’ve tangled a few times, but mostly Sniper stays on his side of town and Lizard hangs out around Three Crosses Square. I think he has about half a dozen little shits in his gang. I see them coming and have to shoo them away, the brats. Sure brings back the old days.”
Someone snaps their fingers for Spades’s attention. “Coming, sir!” Then, looking back down at me, he says, “Arab, listen. Sniper’s far more dangerous now than he ever was. I mean, we were just kids then. He’s changed, and not for the better.”
“I don’t want to gang up with him. Just let him know I’m back. That’s all. Just tell him I’m back in Warsaw. I’d like to see him.”
I take time to savor my coffee. How long has it been since I had a warm cup? And this jam! I think how lovely it is to be back home, here, this café, Warsaw. Why the hell didn’t I come back sooner? I leave Spades a nice tip, compliments of some lady looking everywhere for her purse by now.
I stroll down Sienna Street in the fashion district and take time to gaze into the windows, see what the upper crust ladies of Warsaw are wearing these days. I catch my reflection in the window. I take off my cap and ruffle my short hair. Wonder what my mother would think of me, dressed like this, having been kicked out of school in Vienna, having left with warrants, fines, two arrests, one conviction, no education except the one I earned on the streets. All I really know is the streets. Conning dupes, picking
pockets, thieving. I put my cap back on. I need to get a place to stay. And who knows? Maybe I’ll scoop up a few kids for my club. Maybe give Sniper a run for his money.
I find a cheap room, settle in, and make my plans.
III.
I’d forgotten how beautiful Warsaw is in late summer. Hot, of course, but I’ve missed the glimmer off the Vistula, the green of the parks, the rush of people along the sidewalks, the piano music—Chopin, of course—wafting from some music teacher’s window.
I hear a horse whinny off in the distance. Ruthie, I think with a grin. Even as a toddler she was horse-crazy. Once I borrowed—well, stole—a pony from a fruit seller’s droshky cart. Unhooked the harness from the traces and trotted the pony home. Ruthie on that chubby little pony’s back, her shrieks of joy as I led her around and around our block were worth what it cost me. Finally, the pony’s owner came, gendarmes in tow, hollering, swearing, shaking his fist.
Maybe it won’t hurt to … What? Would knocking on the door, stepping inside, really coming home be … What am I thinking? My mother’s heart was always so weak. I’d just be a thorn in her side—that’s if my father even allowed me on the property. Hell, for all I know, Mother’s already dead and buried. But what about little Ruthie? What if Mother is dead? Who would be Ruthie’s protector then? No, that settles it! I have to see, have to find out. I have to know she’s all right.
I walk a few blocks but run into street construction, backing up traffic and people. Ah, my sweet sewers—sometimes the most direct route anywhere in Warsaw. Sometimes the safest. I know the sewers in this district better than anyone. I slip down a manhole off an alley, wait on the ladder for my eyes to adjust, and assess the sound, the flow of the water, the smell of the industry, life or death—whatever is sloshing through below me.
At first sniff, I feel right at home. Safe. Memories gush back like they’re floating atop the foamy sewer water. I was ten when Lizard dared me down into the sewers. Said no girl had ever done it. No girl had the guts. Well, I never met a dare I didn’t like. Come to think of it, sewers were the reason I first hacked off my long hair. It smelled to high heaven after I emerged. I can still hear my parents’ rage over that! “Proper Jewish girls have long hair.” Too bad. Long hair can be dangerous. Someone can use it as a handle to yank you around, pull you off balance. Long hair can get a girl killed.
The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die Page 1