“I assure you, if it’s something Der Führer wants, he won’t have to pay for it.”
I smile and nod. It’s a good point. “Like I said, anything you need. This corner’s my usual place. Just look for me here. Tell you what, keep the pack,” I add, pressing it into his hand. “I have more. Think of it as a welcome present.”
“How old are you?” he asks, his voice harder now. Our tête-à-tête is over.
My heart races, this time out of fear. Polish boys and men are being abducted off the streets for work camps, fighting, or God knows what else. Here today, gone tomorrow. So I reply, “Old enough to smoke. Why?”
“Identification?”
Here we go again, I think. Careful, careful, Arab. Already some Jews I know are in hiding, drifting, fading quietly away, getting out of Poland altogether. We all know about Hitler’s “Jewish problem”—which really isn’t his Jewish problem but the Jews’ Jewish problem.
“Have you seen the lines at the registration centers? And four hours for a loaf of bread?” I hope my cordial manner and shining smile will sway the interrogation. “But I’m not Jewish, if that’s what you think.” I’ve seen more than one poor man having to drop his pants to display his circumcision—or lack of it—to German officers. And then won’t I be the talk of the barracks?
“Everyone needs to be registered. Everyone,” he states stiffly. “You will be issued identification papers and a food ration card and your race will be noted.”
I decide to smile. Be the dumb Pole he probably expects me to be. “Well, I’m just a stupid Polish Catholic.” I edge closer and add, “But between you, me, and Hummel here, I’m not even sure I’m much of a Catholic.”
The lieutenant crushes out his cigarette with his boot and replies, “It’s not your religion we’re concerned with. It’s your blood. So get registered and tell your parents they need to—”
“Oh, my family was called to Berlin,” I break in.
“Berlin?”
“Yes, Berlin.” I casually exhale smoke. I sense his interest. “As a matter of fact, Father’s reading a paper to …” I pause. What? “… a … the Society of Geo-Mediologists. He’s an expert in his field. In fact, Hitler’s people are very interested in his theories.”
“I see. The son of scientist is a common street peddler?”
“Well, that’s the whole theory of geo-mediology, though, isn’t it?” I try not to look past him at the approaching soldier.
He insinuates himself into our conversation. This one is also tall and very thick-chested and he sports a Hitlerish mustache. I think my heart has dropped into my shoes.
“What’s all this?” he asks, in broken Polish. Then, in German, “Hello, Fritz. Are you having trouble with this …” He looks me over. “This Pole?”
“No, Herr Hauptsturmführer, not at all,” Fritz replies. Then back to me: “Continue. What theories?”
“Quite logical and simple, really. How can a brilliant man like my father sire one so stupid, like me?” I stand back and tap my head. “It’s confounded science for years.”
The imposing soldier doesn’t understand Polish, and Fritz translates for him. “He is stupid, isn’t he?” the intruder says. “Tell him I wouldn’t go bragging about being so stupid. Every species weeds out its weak, sick, and old. And the stupid ones, like this shit, eventually do away with themselves. One way or another. It’s nature’s way.”
I nod my head sadly in agreement to Fritz’s much kinder Polish translation and say, “Precisely what my father says.” I know I’m stepping dangerously close to being “weeded out, one way or another.” Worse yet, being plucked.
When the young lieutenant shows his friend his picture on the cover of the newspaper, I take my leave, only to be stopped again by a loud, “Halt!”
I freeze, turn, and slink back. He holds out his hand. “My lighter!”
I try to look inferior and apologetic while reaching into my pocket. I hand it back. “See?” I tap my head again. “Stupid, stupid, stu—”
The butt of the captain’s gun along the side of my head sends me spinning.
Not sure how long I’ve been out. I’m sitting against a wall, blood dripping down on my shirt clear through to my chest wrap underneath. My head is pounding. People walk over my legs, eager not to notice me.
I blink the crusty blood out of my eyes. What’s this? I pull at the paper pinned to my chest. I squint to read it.
STUPID POLISH THIEF
I’m damn lucky I don’t have a bullet hole between my stupid Polish eyes.
I touch my head, feel the gash, and wonder if my ear is split open.
“Think, Arab,” I whisper, flinching. I’m too dizzy to get up just yet. Retaliate? There’s a laugh. Defy? Another laugh. I think back on those boys with their rocks—that first small act of defiance, a little boy, sticking his tongue out, taunting a soldier. And that nearly got the little tyke shot in the back.
IV.
Over the next few days, I continue to sell on my corner and here he comes back again—the dashing, spit-and-polished, handsome, young, Polish-speaking SS Nazi with the horse named after a porcelain figurine. Fritz Von Segen. I’ll be more careful this time. And I do have a little score to settle.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” I say. A bandage is still wrapped around my head, anchored by my cap. “Can your horse have a carrot?” I ask. I already know how much he treasures this animal. A little grease never hurts, so I always try to have something for the horse.
“Cigarettes today?” My heart is jumping around. The last thing I want is another “conversaton” with his captain.
“Yes, please. Three packs, if you have them.”
Another customer comes, tosses me a coin, and takes a paper off the stack next to me. “Thanks, Arab!”
“Arab?” Fritz’s eyes widen. “Your name is Arab?”
“Nickname. Everyone calls me that.”
“Odd name for a street kid in the middle of Warsaw.”
“No, it’s not. See, all us street kids are arabs. You know, street arabs? Or don’t they have those in Germany?”
“Not where I grew up.”
“Where was that?”
“Bavaria.”
I’m imaging one of those alpine chalets with the Alps, skiers, and goats in the background, like I’ve seen in the travelogues. Where the upper crust vacations.
“Your head,” he says, pointing.
“Sir?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’ll stop. It always does.”
“That lighter is dear to me. But Wilhelm didn’t need to hit you that hard.”
Well, this is interesting. A conscience? “I’m just glad it wasn’t Wilhelm’s lighter. I’d be dead, I’m sure.”
“Wilhelm has a temper.”
“I’ll keep it under advisement. I was seeing double for a week. And believe me, I don’t need to see double Germans!”
I hand him a Hummel figurine of a horse. “Here. On me. You know, to make up for that lighter episode.”
“Wherever do you find these things?”
“Oh, people are selling anything they don’t need. I buy from them, triple the price, and sell to you Germans. It’s a nice system. Someone has to balance the rising cost of living.” Our eyes meet and I tip my cap and grin. “Uh, make that the cost of not dying.”
He laughs. “At least you’re honest, Arab.”
“That’s what you think, Fritz,” I say back. “You know, you could make a little something on the side if you sold these cigarettes to some of your comrades.”
He frowns and shakes his head. “Well, that wouldn’t be very fair, would it?”
Fair? Did a Nazi just say fair? My eyes widen in disbelief. I spread my arms with palms open upward and do a complete turnaround, indicating all of Warsaw around us. He gets my point. Smiles and takes his cigarettes. I look at the money in my hand—he’s shorted me fifty groszy. Again.
V.
It’s the first rule on the streets: opp
ortunity makes the thief. The trick is to recognize the opportunity when it hits you in the face. Or maybe I’m still seeing double from being hit on the side of the head. I see double opportunity in those big silver S-shaped bits and the medallions on the bridles of the Nazi horses. And there’s one captain in particular I’d love to settle up with.
Problem is, getting around is damn hard now. Cars and buses stop where they run out of gas and there’s no such thing as a direct route anymore. What I need is a bicycle. I look everywhere, especially in front of office buildings. I find one poorly hidden in a park, so I’m quick to “requisition” it. Some kid gets a lesson, and I get a bike. After only a little banging and straightening, it rides fairly straight. Unlike the previous owner, I’m going to hide it well and guard it with my life. Who would ever think one’s very life might depend on something as common, as simple, as a kid’s bike?
A few times I’ve biked behind the cavalry units to the small, old hotel they’ve commandeered not far from the Saxony Gardens district. It’s close to bridle paths and has a large, modern stable, an indoor riding arena, and a polo field with a track around it. Nothing but the best for Aryan horses, I figure. I know which soldiers exercise which horses on which days. It looks to me like this fierce SS Cavalry Corps consists of nothing more than rich boys and their rich horses, cantering the war away on a polo field, not a battlefield. Pretty nice way to ride out a war.
As I’m returning my bike to this week’s hiding spot, I hear the clop of hooves. I run my bike over to the remaining oaks along the street and duck behind a tree. Four SS soldiers. Fritz is one of them. They trot together briskly, posting up and down in perfect unison.
I hop back on my bike and follow them, keeping a safe distance, to a tavern, already designated “Nur für Deutsche.” Getting so a conquered girl can’t get a decent table at a conquered tavern anymore. Damn nuisance.
I stash my bike and watch the soldiers tie their horses and enter the tavern, leaving the four horses standing genially, barely winded from their trot through the district.
I’ve been around carriage and delivery horses often enough to know the basics. I ease closer, keeping one eye on the horses and the other eye on the tavern door. I pull out my knife, open it, and quickly go to work on the closest horse’s bridle. I slice through the leather strap that connects the bit, including the reins, which fall limply to the ground. Horse doesn’t even budge. Same thing with the second and the third. They just stand here, either too well trained to wander off, or too stupid to realize they can.
But the fourth horse issues a low snort when I approach. “Whoa, Hummel. It’s your old friend, Arab,” I whisper. “Steady.” He keeps nuzzling and turning around, going for my pockets, looking for an apple or carrot. I already have three bits, so I settle for slicing the silver buckles from the girth of Hummel’s saddle. Then I slice off the black saddle bag and take it for my collection.
Second rule of the streets: never stick around long enough to admire your handiwork. It’s just as bad as returning to the scene of the crime or sticking around to watch the fire you’ve started. So I take my plunder and hop on my bicycle to get myself out of here.
Okay, so I break the second rule. I hear the soldiers coming out of the tavern and, slinking even deeper into the shade of the trees, I pause to watch. None of them notice anything and the horses aren’t mentioning it.
Fritz Von Segen is the first to mount. Upsy-daisy! With nothing holding the saddle to the horse, he falls straight back on his perfect German ass, the saddle falling in his face. The other three laugh just as Hummel spooks, rears back, and runs off. Now all the horses are galloping away, stirrups bouncing as they bolt.
Now, no one is laughing. Except me.
I assume they have a nice, long, thoughtful walk back to their cozy quarters at the hotel, carrying what’s left of their Aryan dignity. I take off in the opposite direction, a cocky whistle on my lips. Can’t wait to tell Lizard. He’ll yell at me for playing it so risky, but damn, it was worth it.
I enter my new home hole, pausing to listen for sounds of life on each floor. I close the door, lock it, and reach into the hole hidden behind a photograph of a constipated-looking old woman. I pull out a can of peaches, open it, and bolt down half. I don’t know who the old woman is, but all I have to do is look at her and I’m not so hungry. A good reason to keep the old bat hanging there.
I shake the contents of Fritz’s saddle bag out onto my bed. Let’s see, what does a man like him keep close? A small silver flask. I take a sniff, then a pull. Whiskey. And not good whiskey. Probably the same swill I sold him just last week. I recognize the burn as it snakes down my gullet. Lizard can have it.
I pick up a silver locket. In elegant, well-worn engraving I can make out VON SEGEN. I click it open. Each side opens yet again, and there in front of me are the smiling faces of an elegant woman and three beautiful girls. His mother and sisters? I take a close look at the girl in the middle. She looks a little like my own Ruthie. So pretty.
I wonder if I could ever be half as pretty. Who am I kidding? And what the hell am I even thinking? War is no time to be caught being pretty. “Somebody should tell that to Fritzenheimer,” I mumble down at the locket.
I click it back together and pick up the next item—a book, bound in leather. Byron’s Don Juan. I leaf through it. Huh, it’s in English. And I’ll bet it’s banned by the Reich in all languages. My eyes land on the title page. Inscribed in an elegant hand, in French, I read:
TO FVS
LOVE OF MY LIFE,
HENRI
I narrow my eyes and think about this. I walk to the old lady’s photograph on the wall. “How very, very interesting. Fritz has got himself a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend, but a French boyfriend. So, tell me—how do you suppose an SS Nazi soldier-boy gets himself a French boyfriend?”
I have to smirk at the old woman’s expression—I swear her eyes just popped! Guess I’ll keep that under advisement, I think, hiding the book.
NOVEMBER, 1939
I.
I’ve stopped along the sidewalk to blot my bleeding head. It’s been two weeks since my run-in with Schneider, the captain with the temper, but the damn cut pops open all the time. Probably should have gotten stitches, but the lines for even an aspirin go around the block six times.
I continue on my way. Lots on my list today. Taking advantage of the weather—cold, but at least it’s not raining or snowing. Now that I’ve had a few weeks to take it all in, I figure it’s time to spread out. I’ve watched from a distance—noting the places they’ve set up as offices, headquarters, barracks. They’ve taken over just about every office building not destroyed. They’re rebuilding inns and restaurants and taverns. They’re seeing to their own Aryan comfort and safety first. Getting lights, gas, and water. Residents? Wait. We’ll get to you. Jews? Forget it.
Part of getting to know my enemy includes knowing where and when they go out on patrol. My notebook is good for more than just my weak poetic scribblings. Far more important than my old angst is my new log: who, when, where, and why the patrols move, even if it’s just a guess. Knowing when and where they are means I know where and when not to be, especially the ones on horseback.
I’ve never been one to keep all my eggs in one basket. I’ve been dividing up the spoils of my own war: food, identification, cash, and supplies. So I find deserted, safe places to stow my goods throughout the city. I have my home hole—another abandoned apartment building, not far from Three Crosses. I keep most of my stash there.
One hideout isn’t far from Pawia Street, where my parents live. Each time I’m there, I check on my family’s home. So odd—from the curb, from a distance, it’s as though nothing has changed. Most of the buildings here are spared, the factories keep spitting out smoke, buses and streetcars run on schedule, people come and go. This posh district should have been the first to be bombed, I figure. If Hitler’s plan was to wipe out his Jewish problem, then why spare this area? Still, I’m gra
teful. Ruthie is always in the back of my mind.
And checking on her is first on my list. Just to know she’s still okay.
“Where’re you heading, all dressed up?” Lizard asks, lifting the corner of my blue woolen scarf. I carefully liberated it from a man’s coat as he stood in front of me in line for a streetcar.
“East.”
“Need some company? Been awhile since I’ve been ‘east.’” He says east like it’s a snooty resort.
“Suit yourself.” I start walking, and he matches my pace.
“Do you ever wonder what you’d do if you ran into your old man?” Lizard asks. “If you ask me, I think that’s why you go east so often. Maybe hit him up for a few shekels.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you.”
“I hear things are getting dangerous over there. So many Jews and all.”
“So, you’re afraid?”
“No, but I hear women need to be traveling in twos—”
I stop, indicate how I look, how I’m dressed.
“Oh. Right,” Lizard says. “I forgot. It’s just that …”
“You going to yap the whole way over there?” I shake my head and give him a hard look.
We walk in silence. I pick up a few apples off a vendor’s cart, and we hitch a ride on the back of a delivery wagon.
“Brings back memories, huh?” Lizard asks, looking around the neighborhood at our childhood haunts. “Remember when you and me first met? You were sitting on a park bench, reading, with your, what was she, nurse?”
“Governess,” I say. “Make that warden.”
“And you saw me lifting a wallet?” Lizard says, grinning at the memory.
“And I chased after you.”
“Thought sure you were going to turn me in or something,” Lizard says.
“No, remember? I said either you show me how you did that or I’d tell on you.”
Lizard looks off into the distance and thoughtfully sucks through his missing tooth. “Do you ever wonder, Arab? You know, if maybe we’re just born this way?”
The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die Page 5