The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die

by Randall Platt

  Two little boys are hiding behind what was once a fountain. Their heads pop up as they hurl rocks at the soldiers. One little urchin stands up and shouts, “Nah nah nah-nah nah!” and exposes his backside. He and his buddy fall back behind the fountain, laughing.

  “Oh, do not do that, kid,” I mutter, fogging up the window.

  A rock hits a soldier. He seizes his arm and whirls around. He aims his rifle. The boys screech and turn tail. Then, a fellow soldier presses his comrade’s rifle down, picks up a rock, and hurls it at the boys, hitting one square in the back.

  The men laugh. “Nah nah nah!” the one who hurled the rock says, wiggling his own backside at the boys. He and his comrade have to trot to catch up with the others. Now the soldiers split into two groups. One group surrounds the building across the street. The other group trots toward my building.

  “Damn,” I whisper. Why these dead, empty buildings? What could they possibly be looking for? Move it, Arab!

  I stash anything I have out under a floorboard and run into the hall. I’m on the fourth floor. I listen over the stairwell down the center of the building and hear their voices shouting orders.

  “Check every room! Every closet! Not just the ones along the boulevard!” I understand everything they say. Thank you, Vienna. Not speaking German can get a girl killed.

  Some light trickles down from the skylights. Thank God I know the lay of this building! I run toward the janitor’s room. I remember seeing a dumbwaiter there.

  But there’s no light in here. I grope the wall until my fingertips find the two buttons for the dumbwaiter. Then I find the handle and carefully lift up the door. I close my eyes, as if that can lessen the clinking sound it makes. I listen and only hear faint echoes as the soldiers call back and forth to each other. I heard the crash of doors, shattering of glass. What the hell are they looking for? Couldn’t be me! I haven’t done anything. Well, not much.

  I reach into the abyss of the dumbwaiter, but I can’t feel it! Where’s the damn cage? I grope around until my hand latches onto the cables.

  The voices are closer. On the third floor by now, maybe even the fourth. Footsteps on crushed glass, more orders, more responses. “Did you hear something?” a German asks.

  “Quiet!” another snaps back.

  I hold my breath. Too close!

  Forget the damn cage! I climb through the opening. My foot gropes for anything to get a purchase on. My toes find a ledge. I slip my whole body in, both feet on the narrow ledge in the shaft. I pull the door down, leaving just enough room so my fingers can grasp the rim. My other hand holds on tight to the splintered, greasy cable. It’s pitch dark, but I close my eyes anyway, as though that might make my heart slow down, my breathing dwindle to next to nothing.

  Footsteps. Closer. I open my eyes and, through the small opening, there’s a swath of light being cast through the room. I feel the beam reflect off my face. If the soldier knows where to look—if he sees the tips of my fingers clinging to the rim—I’m dead.

  “All clear here!” he calls out. I hear them move on.

  I don’t even exhale yet. Wait, wait, wait, Arab. Not yet. I’m frozen here for an hour, a day, I don’t know, except it’s a lifetime. My muscles quiver as my grip begins to loosen, one tendon at a time.

  All I can hear now is the groan of this cable and the drip, drip, drip of water from some broken pipe below me. I slowly lift the door, an inch at a time. Finally, I grasp the ledge and haul myself out. I melt down the wall and want to dissolve here, massaging feeling back into my cramped hands and legs. How long can a heart beat this fast and not just stop cold?

  I’ve been in some scrapes before, even in the dark, rancid sewers, but never once have I been trapped in a small shaft, the whim of a thin, faint beam of a flashlight deciding my fate.

  They say we should know our enemies. I don’t know my enemy yet, but one thing’s for certain—I sure as hell respect him.

  II.

  “What the—?” I give one of the back doors to my building another push. Locked? From the outside? I wipe some whitewash off the side window and peer around. Lumber and chain. Barricaded. So, those Krauts weren’t searching the building yesterday. They were—what?—securing it? Making sure it was empty, and then locking it up tight?

  Stupid Krauts. There are at least six ways out in the basement of this relic. Child’s play.

  I walk around the building, and the one across the street. Everything is barricaded. The streets have concrete blocks and barriers and even benches facing the street. In sloppy Polish, they post signs: NO ADMITTANCE, STAY CLEAR, DO NOT CROSS, THIRD OF MAY BOULEVARD TO REMAIN CLOSED, PARADE ROUTE.

  “Parade route?” I ask out loud, taking down the poster. “Parade route?” I look down the street, now clear of cars, buses, horses, corpses.

  Then I remember Vienna. Of course! The Germans’ victory parade. Oh, those Nazis do love their spectacles! Blocks and blocks of soldiers in precise formation, parading for Hitler and his Hitlerites. Can’t miss this! I look at the flier—tomorrow, ten sharp. I go about my errands. Need to get a paper for the latest news and make sure I have everything I need for tomorrow.

  This is the best seat in the house—right out my window! I have a pair of binoculars, a bag of peanuts, and a bottle of beer. Not my favorite brew, but this is war and things are tough all over. To my right, I can see clear down Third of May. They’ve erected a viewing stand just down the block. I watch as the crowds begin to form. But something’s different here. These aren’t the flag-waving, cheering crowds of German-Austrians—“spineless whores,” I remember one editorial calling them. These are a shell-shocked people lining the parade route—exhausted, defeated, humiliated. Hope Hitler isn’t expecting garlands and rose petals. I had no opinion then and I have no opinion now. Political opinions might get a girl killed. I just want to watch Hitler’s show-stopping encore.

  The viewing stand fills with black leather and caps and boots and back-slapping and saluting officers. Bring on the show! I toss some peanut shells out the window and lean out to see down the street. Just like during that first blitzkreig, I can hear it before I see it. The drums and the brass! Then, coming into view, a troop of flag-bearers, swishing in unison and keeping step to the beat of the drums. I grab my binoculars. The only ones impressed, clapping and smiling, are the Nazis lining the streets and in the stands. The people behind the barricades hardly even move. Even the children stand still and mute. I find Hitler and his staff. At least they’re having a good time.

  How do they do that? How do ten thousand Wehrmacht troops step all in time like that? How long do they have to practice to get it so perfect? How do they even have time to invade a country? Look at those motorcycles and their sidecars! Even men walking their bicycles goose step to the beat of the drummers.

  They must have requisitioned every black horse in all of Europe! Even those damn Nazi horses seemed to sweat confidence, lockstepping as one to the beat of the kettle drummer, heads high, eyes straight, nostrils flared.

  Then dozens and dozens of long cannons on wheeled wagons pulled by small trucks. How far can those cannons shoot? How many Polish people have they already dispatched? How do the Nazis protect their ears when they shoot them off? What’s the kickback on one of those things? How long does it take to polish those sabers to make them shine? Hmmm, are those bridle bits made of real silver? I zero in on one with my binoculars. Wonder what silver goes for now on the black market.

  How can the drivers in those panzer tanks see where they’re going? So many swastikas on so many flags look like red and black pinwheels on the wind.

  It’s quite a show. It really is. Even better than Vienna. I’m impressed. Anyone who isn’t, who doesn’t sit up and take notice, is dead as a dormouse. Might Makes Right. Girls learn that one early on. Meek Makes Weak. Some old con artist, ugly as sin but bright as diamonds, once told me, “Girl, growing wise don’t make for pretty, but it makes for old.” I’m beginning to understand what she meant.

/>   I raise my binoculars and there he is: Der Führer Ringmaster himself, admiring his troops as they pass for his inspection. He and his high-ranking toadies stand out, shining of new black leather against their red-carpeted platform.

  I’ll have to remember what the difference is in those uniforms—black, blue, green, brown. Why can’t Hitler just pick a color and stick with it?

  Oh, I love this part! The troops not only step in unison, they even think in unison. As they pass Hitler’s platform, they turn their heads in one crisp, well-timed movement while Hitler Sieg Heils them back. “Well done!” I cheer in a standing ovation. “Well done, you miserable szwabs.” One people, one nation, one leader. Well, Adolf! You’ve done it again! Please, no encore.

  The parade kicks up the white, chalky dust that used to be buildings and streets and God knows what else. Black, red, white—like their swastika. You just have to love a theme.

  I turn my binoculars back to the platform. “So, there you are again, Adolf,” I mutter, taking a good, long look. He looks older than he did in the newsreels and papers. For a man who’s just conquered an entire country in less than a month, I think he should be looking pretty damn proud of himself. Instead, he looks—what, cordial? Chatty?—pointing here, pointing there, perhaps saying, “Keep that park, blow up that church, move the Vistula River so it flows west to east in summer and east to west in winter.”

  Now the band comes closer. They march up and stop in front of the platform, glowing of spit and polished brass. The men on the platform all rise soberly. I can hear the faint refrains of “Deutschland Über Alles,” Hitler’s catchy theme song—I remember how it echoed up and down the streets of Vienna.

  I scan the platform, looking at each member of the victory committee. If this was the telescope on a high-powered rifle instead of a pair of stolen binoculars, I might have a good, clean shot at him and his leather-clad men. Click. Bang. Dead. Make a note, Arab—get a gun. Chances like this don’t come very often.

  The faces of the people all seem to look the same. A silent crowd bearing witness with shock and disbelief. Still and all, it’s a parade to remember.

  I look away for a moment as I scan the newspaper I bought earlier and mutter a new headline of my own, “WARSAW FUCKED.” Says here we’re under the “General Government.” “What the hell’s that?” I ask the paper. I scan the article for the dos and don’ts and legals and illegals, the rules and other Nazi crap. Makes no difference to me. I have my favorite trio to look after: me, myself, and I. After all, this is war.

  When the crowd starts to disperse, I grab some soap in my stash and decide to commemorate this auspicious occasion with a little graffito. I head down and out onto the streets and scribble on the window of an abandoned dress shop:

  HITLER ARRIVED

  MUSTACHE AND ALL

  OCTOBER FIVE, AFTER THE FALL

  SINCE THAT DAY

  EVERYTHING’S ROTTEN

  HITLER’S GONE

  BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

  III.

  “You there! Boy! Halt!”

  I stop cold and hold my bundle of newspapers to my chest. People are being conscripted off the streets to scoop up parts of dead things, haul away a rotting horse, or overturn a burned-out car. I’ve already been stopped twice and told to relinquish something: my thick work boots and then the brown raincoat I’d only that day stolen off a coat rack. Each time, I know I’m being tested. It doesn’t take much to ignite these golems, these automatons. I’ve watched them mow down an old woman for not crossing the street when they approached. They were a lot nicer in Vienna.

  So I know how I react, how I smile or don’t smile, how I cock my head or bow my head, how I slink, waltz, or march over to the SS officer will set the bar for the rest of my life—which could be only a matter of minutes. What’s it to be? Subservience, arrogance, defiance, or—

  “Newspaper, Herr Hauptsturmführer?” I ask, making my decision. Yes, I know he’s just a lieutenant, not a captain, but a little flattery can go a long way. Then I look up and see his face. He’s striking! And young. Not much older than me—nineteen, twenty, tops. Arab, stop it! He’s the enemy! Damn his looks! Didn’t Sniper teach you anything?

  “Yes, yes, I’ll take ten copies,” he replies in excellent Polish, dismounting his black horse, and taking a paper, oblivious of me.

  I quickly get hold of my senses. “Ten?” I ask back, keeping my voice low.

  “Hold my horse, boy.”

  I set my bundle down and hold the reins. The horse gives my arm a nudge. Probably the best-looking Kraut horse in the ranks. “They sure issue you beautiful horses,” I say, thinking Ruthie would kill just to sit on this animal.

  “Uh-huh,” the officer mumbles, absently scanning the paper. “He’s mine. I brought him with me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Hummel. Quiet, can’t you see I’m reading!”

  The horse keeps nudging me and I remember a half-eaten apple in my pocket. “Can he have this?”

  Annoyed, he looks at me over the top of the paper. “Yes, yes. Fine.” Then, he points to the papers. “How much?”

  My mind races. It’s such an easy racket confusing a foreigner the value of our currency. “For ten? Um, fifty zloty.”

  “Fifty zloty!” He casts me a chilly glance.

  Uh oh. He knows. “Did I say zloty? I meant groszy.” I smile sheepishly.

  “Even that’s outrageous!”

  “Well, the cost has gone up since …” We lock eyes. My mouth goes dry. “Well, since you arrived.”

  “And why is that?”

  I can smile the wings off flies. “Well, for one thing, newspapers are a rare commodity these days. Seems there’s been a slight halt in the supply of paper. Some gossip about a factory burning down. I don’t know, I never listen to gossip.”

  I pause, wondering if he knows what a smile is, but silently begging him to smile. He’s the Aryan ideal. Tall, straight-backed, fair of eye and hair, healthy, ruddy cheeks, even sparkling, perfect white teeth. Wears his black uniform as though he were born with it on.

  While he’s combing through the paper, I force my thoughts back to business. I touch the beautiful silver bit in his horse’s mouth. Must cost a fortune.

  “And of course, these are collectors’ editions,” I continue.

  “Collectors’ editions?” he asks, giving me that cold look again.

  “This is history in the making,” I add. Then I notice the front-page photo of the cavalry corpsman atop his horse, Hitler saluting in the background. It’s this very Jerry. “Well, look! You are history in the making!”

  Is he blushing? Holding in a smile? “Yes.” He rummages in his pocket, hands me a coin, takes the papers, and folds them into the black leather pouch behind his saddle.

  “Sorry, sir. Fifty groszy.”

  “Look closer, boy. That is fifty groszy.”

  “Oh yes, I see that now.” I pocket the two-groszy coin. “Thank you, Herr Hauptsturmführer.

  “Obersturmführer,” he corrects. “Best learn German rank insignia, boy. And learn the German language too, if you Poles want to survive in the new world.”

  “I speak a little German already. Lucky me, huh?”

  “Good. I tire of your ugly Polish language.”

  He looks me over carefully. I know I’m being sized up. Little does the officer know he’s being sized up, too. “Are you sure you have enough papers?”

  “Yes, these are all I need,” he replies. “For the men in the barracks.” He indicates the money and says, “Best spend that soon. Deutschmarks are going to become the coin of the realm. And Germany is the realm. Your Polish zloty will be used to wipe Jewish asses.”

  “Well, I’ve had my broker invest my money in South American and Swiss bonds. Some American cash, of course.”

  There it is again. The slightest, narrowest, smile. “Too bad. Germany is the future. Not those second-rate countries.”

  I know better than to argue. Besides, at the rat
e the Germans are going, I think he very well might be right. I pull out a pack of cigarettes and offer him one. A good customer is a good customer, regardless of world domination, and tobacco transcends race, nationality, and religion.

  “Smoke? They’re Egyptian.” Lie. They’re Polish. “I can get you all you need.”

  He takes one and I notice the fine silver lighter he’s pulled from his jodhpurs’ pocket. “May I?” I ask. Heavy and engraved on both sides. FRIEDERICH VON SEGEN. I flip it over and read FOR FRITZ. MAY YOU CARRY THE FIRE WITH YOU ALWAYS. MOTHER.

  “Very nice,” the soldier says, inhaling as though he hasn’t had a decent smoke in months. “Very good. Very … different, but pleasant. So, you sell cigarettes, too?”

  “I can get you anything here in Warsaw. Anything—from a Polish tart to Chopin’s heart.” It’s my standard street pitch.

  “Chopin’s heart? What’s that? Some sort of Polish pastry?”

  I know better than to laugh. “No, it’s the heart of Chopin. It’s entombed over there in the Holy Cross Cathedral. If there still is a Holy Cross Cathedral.”

  “Just his heart?”

  “The rest of him is buried somewhere in France. If you want the rest of Chopin, well, that might take some doing, but I’m your connection.”

  “Why would I want any part of Chopin?” the lieutenant asks, almost relaxing now.

  “Well, I only mention it because I read today that you Germans have outlawed all Chopin’s music with the rest of the Polish artists. Guess it’s Bach, Brahms, Wagner, and polka bands from now on.”

  Now he laughs! “I see. No, thanks. Not in the market for hearts today. But I’ll keep it under advisement.”

  “Still and all, it would make a great conversation piece. A little war souvenir. Or a gift, say, for Herr Hitler … Der Führer?”

  “And you’re just the boy to get it, right?”

  “For a price, of course.”