The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die

by Randall Platt

  “Make that a quarter of a million people. Raked in a small fortune picking pockets while they were being ‘unified.’”

  “You’ve got to love a distracted crowd,” Lizard says, sipping his beer.

  “Until you get caught,” I say, frowning. “Got a little too careless.”

  “The great Arab of Warsaw? Thought you said you grew wise. Tsk, tsk.”

  “As good as any other reason to come back to Warsaw. Except timing has never been my strong suit. Does the expression ‘from the frying pan into the fire’ mean anything to you?” I say, catching his eye.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen this.” I tap the table for emphasis. “I know what’s coming. Take a deep breath, Lizard. What you smell is war. Right over there.” I point west.

  “Well, we have an army. Air force. Cavalry.”

  “Hell, there’s an image! A horse and a rider up against a German tank,” I say, recalling the panzer tanks rolling into Austria by the dozen. “Best you could hope for is a horse crapping on one.”

  He lets out a long sigh. “You’re right. I just don’t know what’s going to happen to me, mine, my boys. Everything.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Lizard. Where there’s war, there’s opportunity. And I intend on surviving just fine.”

  “Easy for you to say. You can kiss your father’s ring, beg forgiveness, and live back home.”

  “Hell no.”

  “Then what? I’ll tell you, Arab, there are no jobs here in Warsaw. No legitimate jobs, that is. Military is asking for sign-ups, but I don’t think you’ll pass the physical, even dressed like that.”

  I feel a sneeze coming on and reach for the scented hankie in my pack. As I tug it out, my beat-up notebook comes with it. Lizard spots it and pulls it out. I reach for it, but he holds it beyond my reach.

  “Well, I remember this,” he says, leafing through it. “Your, what, diary? Journal, for your little poems?”

  I snatch it back and put it away.

  “I thought maybe you’d become a writer or something in Vienna. It’s perfect for starving poets, they say.”

  I scoot my chair back a bit. “I actually learned a lot in Vienna. And it has nothing to do with poetry,” I say, leading him away from the subject of my weak and weary scribblings.

  “Such as?”

  “Learned some new cons. Some counterfeiting. And I don’t care how deep a pocket is—I can get in and out of it before the mark even breaks wind.”

  He laughs. “Same old Arab. Cocky as the Queen of Hearts!”

  “So, I’m thinking … my skills, your skills, your boys … your shining personality, my dazzling good looks …”

  “Gang up together?”

  “Well, I prefer to think of it as a club. Called mine the Meet Me in Hell Club. Who doesn’t like to join a club? Bet we can find some fine young men, like I had in Vienna.”

  “Fine young men? How many ‘fine young men’ did you ‘have’?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

  A bit of a silence. I’m leaving it at that. “So, I hear you and Sniper have a bit of a turf war going on.”

  He laughs. “Ha! I got a feeling our little turf war is going to be child’s play if what you say is true, and the Krauts do set up housekeeping here. How’s your German?”

  “Excellent, actually. Another thing I picked up in Vienna. So, it’s settled?” I say, raising my second glass of beer to Lizard. “Team?”

  “Jawohl,” he answers. “That and nein are all I know. Think it’ll be enough?”

  “It will be if you stick with me. Only, let’s get one thing settled, right here and now.”

  “Oh great, already the female is calling the shots,” he says, giving my arm a shove.

  I sit up straighter and look him in the eye. “I’m serious, Lizard. We’re fifty-fifty on this. But I warn you, I’ve changed. A lot. I won’t be pushed or bullied or made a fool. Like before.”

  He cocks his head. “I think you’re confusing me with Sniper.”

  “Just so you know. No one takes advantage of me. Not anymore.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, running his tongue through the hole where his gold tooth used to be—a habit I see he’s formed when thinking. “Well, okay then. Shake?”

  “Shake.”

  “I got to get back to my boys. How about we meet up here in, what, say a week? That give you enough time to get settled?”

  “Deal. One week. That makes it …” I mentally count off the days.

  “September first,” he says. “Right here.”

  SEPTEMBER, 1939

  I.

  What the hell was that? I sit up straight in bed. All sounds seem louder in this cheap, rooftop garret. Thunder?

  Another huge boom! The whole building rocks! That’s not thunder! I grab my pants, haul them on as I trip toward the window. The air is cut by the whine of the air raid siren. Another drill? At what, six in the morning?

  The siren clashes with a new sound from the skies and becomes an ear-piercing, steady drone. I look up. The planes appear.

  “Messerschmitts,” I whisper. God, they look almost otherworldly! Like dozens of flying black crosses in formation. For a second, I’m mesmerized by them.

  I look around. Quick! What do I need? My coat, my cash, my journal—stuff it all into my satchel and sling it over my shoulder. What else? I grab my shoes, not bothering with the laces. Already the hallway is filling with confused, half-awake people. I weave my way through them, down the stairs, no eye contact, no nothing. Get out, fast!

  Outside, half-clothed people are running in every direction, mumbling, crying, shouting.

  Where do I go?

  What shelter is closest?

  What the hell is happening?

  A shell hits nearby. Chunks of brick, wood, glass, and concrete blast up and then rain down and I plaster myself against a building. Back alleys! Come on, Arab. Move! You know where you are! This is my territory. I know every deserted cellar, every vacant building, and every back alley in this district. Knowing is easy, but getting there in this chaos, fire raining down, everything exploding all around me, is another.

  Billows of dust and smoke choke the streets. Cars speed about, honking. People scream; a runaway horse nearly levels me. Some people are paralyzed, frozen in horror.

  Then, two smaller planes come screeching down, barely missing the building tops. Who knew an airplane could fly so low, so fast, and rain machine gun fire at targets—people targets? Some people—targets—stop to look up, dumbfounded, and they’re shot before my eyes.

  I feel a tug on my pants cuff. “Help. Help,” a woman calls up. She’s covered in blood. Her child is in her arms. “Take her. For the love of God, take her!” the woman pleads. “Get her to safety.”

  The sky grows even darker as the planes circle back around.

  “Please! Save my daughter!” the woman cries out, spitting blood. Her daughter is barely moving. What do I do? I can’t take her! I can’t … God, this little girl could just as easily be my Ruthie. The plane is coming in for another pass and I snatch the child up, hold her to my chest, her tiny legs bobbing against me as I run.

  I duck in the nearest alley and try to get my bearings. The child moans softly. “Mama, Mama.”

  I cradle her head to my shoulder. “Sh,” I say. I look around and spot a door. I gently set the child down and use a garbage can lid to break the door window. I reach around, unlatch the door, grab the child again, and stop. The cool air brings the scents of fresh cut pine, paint, and varnish. I feel for the first step down, but it’s not a step, it’s a ramp.

  Another crash comes from above. The child whimpers. I feel her warm blood soaking through my shirt. I slowly feel my way down the ramp and shuffle over to the wall. I sit down and place the child on my lap. She’s not heavy. Maybe three? Four? I remember Ruthie, sobbing in my arms before I was sent away.

  I reach for my pack and feel around for my lighter.

  It works on the thir
d click. My eyes sting, but I can see around me. Good God. I’m surrounded by coffins. Well, this place should be busy tomorrow. I damn myself for thinking it. The child’s groan brings me back to the here and the now. I hold the lighter over her head, but I have to look away. What can I do? The gash along her shoulder is deep. Too deep. I didn’t know blood could be this dark. I take my jacket off and wrap it around her, tying the sleeves together to apply pressure. I hold her to me and rock her back and forth. Her crying has all but stopped.

  I light a cigarette and watch the smoke drift off into the warehouse. A long silence. Is it over? Then I hear the loudest boom yet! I protect the girl’s head. There is a gust of smoke and dust from the alley above.

  Finally, silence, for what seems like an hour. The sirens blast. It’s the all-clear signal. All clear, I think to myself. Nothing’s all clear out there. I get to my feet, carry the little girl up the ramp, and look through the alley before going out. The crates, cans, boxes are now scattered and smashed up against the walls. I can barely make my way through the rubble. A chalky haze rises like fog in the morning sun.

  I stop, looking into the street, unable to take this all in. I lean back against the wall and pull in deep, steady breaths. I look down at the child, now limp and heavy in my arms. Her death rattle came just after the all-clear.

  People start milling about, crying, calling, cursing.

  I find the child’s mother, right where I last saw her, only now a tree branch has fallen across her legs. I kneel and carefully place the child next to her mother—face to face. This is where the child should have died—here, in her mother’s arms. I empty the pockets of my jacket, pull out a wad of bloodstained money and the scented hankie, also soaked with blood. I place the jacket over their faces.

  I turn my back. Unsteady, I have to lean against the side of a building. I put my head back and look at the now empty sky. Blue, serene, none the worse for wear. Looking up means the tears flow back into my ears and can’t wash down my face, cleanse away the splatters of blood, and tell the world how very, very scared I am.

  I go back to the rubble in the street. People are milling about, crying, screaming out names, moving debris, dousing fires. Are they moving in slow motion or am I just seeing them that way?

  I wipe my face with my sleeve and walk away.

  I slip into the safe, dark comfort of the nearest sewer.

  II.

  “Arab!”

  I turn and look around. I know the voice, but here in all this chaos and rubble … “Lizard!”

  We’re in each other’s arms, holding, soothing, holding tighter. “You’re all right?” he asks.

  “Yes, yes. You?”

  “Two of my boys.” He shakes his head as though to knock the image out of it. “A shell came through our hideout.” His face is contorted, his eyes bloodshot. “Got some glass in my leg and side. God, the whole city … Your family? How about them?”

  “I got a call through to a neighbor. The whole district was spared. Knowing my damn father, he probably stood outside and dared them to hit him. I can just see him—shaking his fist and warning the Messerschmitts, ‘That’s far enough!’”

  “But this is war, Arab. Maybe it’s time to swallow your pride and go back there. Your family has money and connections. Get out of Poland while you can.” I remember the passes I stole when I entered Poland—what—a lifetime ago?

  “You don’t know my father. I’m dead and buried to him. Complete with gravestone. He’s not going to let a little thing like a German invasion get in the way of his hate for me. Somehow, he’ll come up with a way I caused all this.”

  Lizard offers me a cigarette from his pack. My hands are shaking. As Lizard tries to light our cigarettes, his hand shakes, too. We force a chuckle. “Hold still.”

  “You hold still!” I return, trying to aim my cigarette toward his trembling match. “I haven’t stopped shaking since that first attack.” We smoke and look around. Nothing is recognizable. The nightly shelling, the fighting, and the news of the German army fast approaching the Warsaw borders.

  “Did your flat hold up?”

  “No. Whole building is gone. I got out just in time.” I hold back a shiver.

  “God, what was it, last night or last week? Time is just … Time is—”

  “Two weeks, Lizard. They’ve been pounding us for two weeks!”

  “How have you been surviving? Did you get a food ration card yet?”

  “I’ve been combing through bombed-out rooms, homes, kitchens.” I look down at my bloodied shoes and take a huge breath to hold down the haunting visions. “Bodies. Getting money, anything … off of bodies.”

  Lizard grabs my hand and his eyes fill. “Come on. Let’s just walk. Find a park. Maybe a drink.”

  We walk across the street, step over the legs of a dead horse, head west. The only thing between us is our cigarette smoke.

  There’s a park bench, pretty as you please and welcoming, unharmed between two craters where shells have landed. “Oh look. The Krauts missed something,” I say, indicating the bench. I look up and yell to the sky, “Oh Adolf! You missed this bench! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”

  “Cut that out. Come on, Arab.” He pulls me down and we sit, smoke our cigarettes down to our fingertips, and toss the butts into the crater. I see the remnants of a child’s bicycle sticking out of the dirt.

  “What happens now?” Lizard asks, looking around.

  “Well, they say our air force is gone. Leaders have fled. Reports are the Krauts’ll be in Warsaw any time. You’ve seen the posters looking for recruits. You going to enlist?”

  “What, carry a pop gun and be a front-line target? No thanks.”

  “Well, I have my plan. I’ve got some stashes around town. Going to liberate all the goods I can, find a hole, hunker down, and see what becomes of all this.”

  “Well, I wish you luck ‘liberating’ cigarettes. Already the price has skyrocketed.” He holds up the pack. “Cost me a fortune.”

  “The great Lizard bought cigarettes? What’s this world coming to?”

  He laughs and nods his head in agreement. “I guess I need to step up my game. I just don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. I’ve seen this all before. The Nazis are going to take over Poland. Maybe they don’t get the welcoming committee they got in Austria, but nothing’s stopping Hitler now. What’s that he says—‘one people, one nation, one leader.’ Well, I’m one person in one nation under one leader. Me. And that’s just the way I like it.”

  “Every man for himself, huh?” Lizard says. I can tell by his low voice, his cold stare at his feet, this isn’t sitting well with him. “Whatever happened to safety in numbers? Looking out for each other? Thought maybe you and me would … take care of each other.”

  I look at him. No one has taken better care of me than me the last two years.

  “Look, I agreed to team up. But I don’t need anyone taking care of me. I’m pretty damn good at taking care of myself.”

  “Well, then maybe you can take care of me.” If not for his big grin and batting eyes, I’d think he was serious. “How do you say ‘pretty please’ in German?”

  “Never say that to Germans, whatever you do. They’ll get a big head,” I say, giving him a playful push.

  Our smiles meet and disappear together. “Look, how about you go your way and I go mine, and we meet up at Three Crosses when things settle down? You go take care of your boys.”

  A last embrace. “Take care of yourself,” he whispers in my ear.

  I break away, but stop on the corner and turn with a grin. He’s patting his pockets, looking for the pack of cigarettes I just swiped.

  OCTOBER, 1939

  I.

  Four weeks! Poland is conquered in twenty-eight days. Has to be a new world record. Not just beaten, not just wounded and humiliated, but vanquished.

  I watched those four weeks unfold from my hideout, an abandoned apartment in a
building vacated for demolition—ha!—and it’s one the Germans missed on their bombing raids. No lights or gas, of course, but I have a few candles and my flashlight. I use them only when I have to.

  We get radio broadcasts and one-sheet bulletins almost hourly, handed out on the street and pasted on billboards, light poles, anything. They’ve either bombed, torched, or taken over our government buildings, even the Royal Castle. Then hospitals, bridges, museums, even park statues get theirs. Oh, these clever Krauts! It’s almost like they go looking for our churches, our opera houses, theaters—our entire culture! Then wham! Trucks come through with barkers and loudspeakers, announcing new rules and regulations. Do this, don’t do that. Blah, blah, blah. Damn tiring.

  The Krauts set up food kitchens, bread lines, and first aid centers, but you need identification and ration cards to use those. Not this girl. I have plenty. I’ve loaded this place with food, water, and things to barter and trade. I’ve used these past four weeks to get ready for just this very thing. Any deserted home, any bombed-out or boarded-up business is mine to pillage—sometimes fighting off other pillagers, street ruffians, dogs, and rats.

  It doesn’t take the Germans long to seize all the newspapers and replace them with their own. Who cares? I can steal Kraut papers and sell them just as easily. Just haul a bundle off a delivery wagon, go two blocks over, and sell them on a corner.

  I watch the street below each and every time before venturing out. The soldiers, tanks, trucks, horses are arriving by the trainload. Everywhere you look—Nazis, horses, soldiers, lines, announcements. Got to hand it to that Hitler. He’s got this invasion thing down to a science.

  I slowly move the torn window curtain aside and peer out. The bright autumn sun gives the plaza below a serene glow. The Germans have set up barricades along the boulevard below, and just a few people are milling about.

  Well, this could be trouble: I count sixteen SS soldiers with rifles at the ready across their chests, trotting up the middle of the street. A street vendor quickly turns his cart into an alley. A dog barks, then takes off. Even the dogs of Warsaw already know when to expect trouble.