The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die

by Randall Platt

  I have my customers to think of. No, I have myself to think of. Ruthie … Mother. I have to stay solvent and focused. Bigger, Arab. Think bigger. These Krauts aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Just how do you plan on surviving?

  I look around before knocking our code on the basement door of the burned-out church. Three knocks, returned by four. I slip in and tell Lizard my grand plan.

  “You’ve come unstuck, Arab,” Lizard says, taking the last cigarette out of my last pack. “I think you’re crazy.”

  “I don’t care what you think. I’m going to do it.” Lizard has grown just as hard, tired, and cynical as the rest of Warsaw. I miss his positive attitude and cheerful outlook. On the other hand, what sort of outlook can we afford?

  “Hunger has gone to your head. I tell you, Arab, you’ve come up with some wild ones in your day, but—”

  “So what are you and your boys going to sell once we run out?” I throw the crushed pack of cigarettes at him. “Once the Germans get their own distribution up and running? Going to sell flowers? Who the hell gives flowers these days? How about newspapers? Who wants to read the German news? Who can even read German, besides me?”

  Lizard and I are sitting in the one parishioner’s pew we spared from burning over the winter. He rummages through his jacket, pulls out a cigarette, straightens it out, and holds it up. “Want my last one?” He strikes a match, but I blow it out.

  He looks at the cigarette as though the solution to our supply problem might be written on it. Or maybe he’s thinking about my plan. “All right. You have a solution? Great. But just remember, the more people you bring into our gang the more risks you take. I’m not going to put the lives of my kids in jeopardy just because of some harebrained scheme you’ve come up with.”

  “Fine. Tell you what. I’ll just put my own neck in the noose, okay? If it works, maybe I’ll let you in on the deal.” The snap in my voice is also courtesy of our first winter of occupation.

  “Don’t be that way, Arab. What happened to fifty-fifty?” He sounds hurt. Who can afford to sound hurt these days?

  “Lizard, listen. So we made it through one winter. What about the next, and the next?”

  “You know this can’t last.” He crosses his arms—something he does when he’s trying to be superior. I ignore it.

  “The hell it can’t. Those rumors are true! They’re going to build a wall. Cram all the Jews in there—and why, do you suppose? Wars need factories, and factories need workers.”

  “Other countries will come to our aid.”

  I stand up and point to the world above our basement. “I am sick of people thinking others are going to come save us, Lizard! Where are the Brits? The Americans?”

  “Fine, fine. Let’s not get into politics.”

  Our eyes meet. For some reason that strikes us both as funny, and we break out laughing. Here, in the basement of a bombed-out church, our country overrun by Germans and Soviets, our Jewish population evaporating before our eyes, our whole Polish life destroyed in a matter of months …

  “You’re right,” I laugh. “Politics has nothing to do with this!”

  I leave, intent on my mission, but with a tiny kernel of laughter still nestled under my ribs. If it can’t be food, laughter will have to do.

  IV.

  “What do you want?” the woman asks with a growl, peering suspiciously through the cracked-open door.

  “I want to see the owner. Or the manager,” I say, smiling through the crack.

  “Gone,” the woman says with a guttural laugh. “Along with everything else. Now you be gone, too!”

  “This is the Arizona Cigarette Company, isn’t it?”

  “No cigarette company here. Go away!”

  But I put my foot in the door. “Please Madam, wait. Look at me, I’m no threat. Just looking for …”

  “I know what you’re looking for,” she continues, opening the door a little wider. I see an ocean of young, ghostlike faces behind her. “A handout. Does it look to you like I have anything to spare?”

  “Well, maybe I can change that.” I wink down at a curious toddler clinging to her mother’s skirts.

  “Who are you?” the woman asks. I notice one hand is gripping an iron skillet. “I don’t recognize you.”

  “That’s because I’m new to the district.”

  “So are the Germans,” she says.

  “And that’s just what I want to talk to you about,” I say, hoping my smile might charm, maybe even relax her. Truth is, I hate having my back to the street for more than a few seconds. “Maybe I could come in, and we can discuss a business arrangement. It’s chilly out here.”

  “It’s no warmer in here.”

  She pauses again. I know it’s just as risky for her to trust me as it is for me to trust her. But just then, a baby wails and an older child calls out, “Mama! Pawel did it again!”

  The woman quickly turns and goes into the room, leaving me at the door and able to slip in. Of course, I’ve seen a lot worse in the last several months … starving families, sick children, grandparents abandoned because no one could, or would, care for them. But the home is dark, cold, and damp, and there seems to be a coughing child in every corner.

  The woman gathers up a baby and begins cleaning his face with her long apron, murmuring soothing words. Her eyes, narrow and suspicious, land on me standing there, hat in hand.

  A boy, maybe my age, holds two of the blue and white armbands now imposed on all Jews. “Mama, here. Your armband.” He also looks at me with caution.

  “Put those damn things away, Yankev!” his mother growls. “This isn’t Hitler.” She turns back to me. “Can’t you see I have enough to keep me busy here?” She squints at me. “What sort of ‘business arrangement’?”

  “You make cigarettes, don’t you?” I point to the factory and warehouse behind the house.

  “Used to make cigarettes. When they took away my husband, they closed the factory. When was the last time you saw an Arizona Cigarette in Warsaw? Or Morwitans, or Nobles? When did you last have a decent smoke?”

  “That’s my point. May I sit down?”

  The child in her arms settles and the woman says, with raised eyebrows, “You have five minutes. No more.”

  I quickly explain my plan. “So, if we can get that production line working again, I can sell every cigarette on the black market,” I conclude, running my tongue over my teeth in the hopes that my smile appears brighter—not girl, not boy, just confident. Five more curious children have now relaxed in my presence.

  “And what about the Germans?”

  “What about them? They’ll be our best customers.” I wave my hand as though they are a minor inconvenience. “You know what they say: Better a good enemy than a bad friend.”

  “You know Jews aren’t allowed to have their own factories in Warsaw anymore. No business at all! Not even a rag-and-bone cart. The rations they give us couldn’t feed a half-dead pigeon. Seven children I have, and they want all of us to starve.”

  I wonder if I should tip my hand, tell her I’m just as much a Jew as she is. But I think better of it. “They want all of us to starve. But who says we must?”

  “Adolf F. Somebody,” the woman answers drily. “And you know what the ‘F’ stands for.”

  I smile at her and like her at once. “Shall we go look at the factory? Mrs….?”

  “Praska.”

  “Mrs. Praska. Can we get inside the factory from here?”

  The woman adjusts the baby on her hip and leads me through a closet, then down a dark hallway. She opens the door to the factory and lights two overhead kerosene lamps. Her children follow close behind in a flock.

  When my eyes adjust, I can’t believe what I see. Bales of tobacco stacked clear to the rafters! The assembly line is dusty, and little paper packs of cigarettes dot a conveyor belt. In my eyes, they are stepping-stones to better days.

  “You mean they didn’t take any of this?” I ask.

  “The stupid dog
heads didn’t even know what sort of factory this is. They just showed up one day, demanded all the men come out, took our cash box. Said any business run by Jews is outlawed. They cut the electricity line and warned me to leave.”

  “But you haven’t left,” I say. That shows gumption. Grit. Just the qualities I admire.

  “And I won’t until they throw us out. We can hide here just as well as anywhere.” She indicates the factory around us. “They might as well have taken a torch to it. This factory is useless to me now. I can’t feed my children tobacco.”

  “Mrs. Praska,” I say confidently, “this is far from useless. How many people does it take to run the line?”

  “My husband and I and two men. It’s a small line. The machine does most of the work.”

  “I can make all the arrangements. I’ll bet this fellow right here can work, can’t you?” I ask the tall, thin boy standing protectively next to his mother, arms crossed.

  The boy just stares at me coldly. “They’ll find out and shoot us all.”

  But the woman passes the baby off to him, picks up a pack of cigarettes, and shakes one out. My lighter is out fast.

  She inhales, exhales. She smacks her lips like a connoisseur might sample wine. “The tobacco is stale.”

  “So what?” I say, taking a cigarette and lighting it. “A smoke’s a smoke these days.”

  “What happens when they find me running this factory? I have children to worry about.”

  “Why would anyone have to know?”

  “Mama! Papa would say trust no one! Especially this street ruffian!”

  “But this ruffian has connections,” I say. “If we can start up that assembly line, I can sell every cigarette at five times the price you did before the war. Maybe ten!”

  “Mama, no. You saw what they did to the Kaplans last month! Shot, one by one, while they begged for mercy!”

  “The Kaplans were stupid,” she says. “Everyone on the block was warned. Those weren’t real Red Cross workers claiming to help us poor Jews. The Kaplans were stupid and fell for it!” Then, to me, she says, “It takes money to buy our way out of Warsaw. I hear the rumors about the ghetto in Łódź. One here in Warsaw soon. They’ll find us and make us move there, and we’ll lose all this anyway. Umbashrien!”

  “God won’t forbid it, Mrs. Praska.”

  She looks at me, the slightest trace of a smile coming to her face. “You speak Yiddish?”

  “Only when it’s convenient. Those aren’t rumors, Mrs. Praska. I know it for a fact. They’ve already marked off the Jewish Quarter. Started stockpiling supplies. Rocks, bricks, boulders—anything they can get their hands on—to build their wall. Hell, there won’t even be a gravestone left in all of Warsaw. And Adolf F. Somebody isn’t building walls to keep the stray dogs out.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why? We’re good people. Good citizens.”

  “It’s …” I search for the word. “… convenient, to have all the Jews in one place. But even people in a ghetto need their cigarettes. I tell you, I can sell every cigarette you can make me.”

  She looks at me. “Take advantage of your own people?”

  “I don’t have a people,” I answer, dodging her question. “That’s what makes me good at what I do.”

  Mrs. Praska is looking at me carefully. I take a slight step back. Never good to have anyone look too closely. “Come with me,” she says, leading the way back into their living quarters. “Yankev, stay here with the children.”

  “Mama!” he hollers. “You’ll get us all killed!”

  She closes the door to the factory passageway and leans against it, looking at me with a cool assessment. “Who are you?”

  “A common thief with uncommon skills.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Arab.”

  “Arab,” she repeats, as though it’s the first time she’s ever heard the word. She comes closer. “Take your cap off, Arab.” She smells of tobacco, as though her years of working with it has infused it into her skin.

  I do. I had my hair cut just a few days ago. I always keep soot on my face, urchin-like. She walks around me. “Arab, huh? An Arab helping a Jew. Interesting.”

  I’m beginning to feel uneasy. I wonder if I’ve backed the wrong horse—as that horse is now backing me into a corner. She has a commanding presence. Not one to trifle with.

  “It’s just a nickname. Now, do you want to talk business?”

  “You’re a girl, aren’t you?” she says, folding her arms.

  “Do you want to talk business?” I take a wide stance and glare back at her.

  “You can fool a lot of people … Arab … but you can’t fool nature.” She points to my crotch. “That’s a pretty big calling card you have there.”

  I follow her gaze down and see the dark red blood soaking my pants crotch. I feel something warm snaking down my leg. So much for what I’d assumed were hunger pains.

  “Look, Mrs. Praska. It makes no difference what’s between my legs. All that matters is I can help you and your children—me—all of us. I can make it happen. My sex has nothing to do with this.”

  She smiles and offers me another stale cigarette. “Are you done?”

  “Look, you’re a businesswoman, and …”

  “Sit down.” She indicates the filthy, overstuffed chair. “Wait.” She hands me an even dirtier rag. “That’s my best chair.” I put the rag down and sit on it. She smiles, pats my leg. “I love you already, Arab. But if you’re set in going about this war as a boy, you’d better let me get you some raspberry leaves.”

  “It’s tobacco leaves we need, not …”

  “Two cups of raspberry tea a day and that …” She points to my bloodstained pants, “… won’t be such a calling card. I can fix you up.”

  “It’s a deal, then? Partners?”

  She gives me her gnarled, red hand. “Partners. But Yankev, my oldest, needs to know. I depend on him for so much now.”

  We go back into the factory.

  “Yankev, we’re going into business,” Mrs. Praska announces.

  “With him?” he shouts, pointing at me. “You can’t be serious!”

  “With her,” Mrs. Praska corrects. “And you are not to tell anyone about us, her, or anything. Is that clear?”

  “Her?” Yankev echoes, even louder. The baby he’s holding starts to cry and leans toward its mother for comfort. “You take this bum in off the street and believe what … she? … says? Are you crazy? Girls can’t even save themselves, let alone us! And girls bleed!”

  He points to my pants. I’ve heard enough. I walk toward him, noting I have about an inch on him. He’s thin, lanky, and shaking, almost blue in his righteous paleness. Was this the son my father always hoped for? “This arrangement is between me and your mother. And any time you want to square off with me, that’s just fine. All Jews bleed when shot, Rabbi, so don’t spout your pious Jewish bullshit to me.”

  He looks to his mother. “What would Papa say?”

  “Papa is dead. It doesn’t matter what he would say. I say we do this.”

  “What will it take to get that line up and running?” I ask, walking past Yankev, making sure I bump his shoulder as I pass.

  She points to the light fixtures overhead. “Electricity. They cut the power months ago. Not only do they want us to starve, they want us to freeze in the dark while we do it.”

  “If I can get the power back on?”

  “How?” Yankev demands, crossing his arms. “Flip a switch?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. I have connections. Mrs. Praska, first thing is I’ll arrange to brick and board up the windows. Then sound and light won’t be able to escape, and this factory will look just as deserted and cleared out as every other Jewish business.”

  We go back into the house and set up a plan. I can feel Yankev’s eyes on my back. He is going to be trouble, I know.

  The plan is simple. She and her older children will work the factory. Then I’ll be in charge
of selling the cigarettes in plain paper packages on the streets of Warsaw. Our customers won’t care what brand they are or where they come from. My motto: a smoke is a smoke.

  “We’ll make a killing. I promise you.”

  “That will be a nice change,” she replies, smiling.

  Before I leave, she gives me a pair of her husband’s wool trousers, taking my bloody pants. She gives me a small box of raspberry leaves. “At least in a dead neighborhood I can take whatever I can find. The Kaplans had a greenhouse, God save their souls.”

  “And ours,” I say, pocketing the leaves as I turn.

  “Arab?”

  I turn back.

  “Don’t worry about my Yankev. Our secrets are safe.”

  V.

  It’s taken some doing, but I find my electrical connection, a genial fellow I’ve been selling cigarettes to. He used to work for the utility department before being conscripted to rewire bombed-out buildings for the Germans.

  He climbs a pole and rigs a connection to the block. His reward is twenty packs of cigarettes, a few American dollars, a pair of boots I stole, and perhaps the grim satisfaction that he’s committing one small act of defiance, ensuring his own supply of cigarettes as a bonus.

  Yankev and I raid cellars for bricks and pull the boards off other Jewish businesses. Together we brick and board up the factory. But Yankev nearly knocks me off my ladder as I paint a big yellow JUDENREIN across the front and sides of the building.

  “What are you doing?” he hollers.

  “Keep your voice down,” I growl, grabbing the bucket of paint back from him. “Careful, that paint was hard to find.”

  “Traitor!”

  “Shut up, Yankev! You don’t know me well enough to call me that! Don’t you see? This just shows other Germans this place has already been deloused of Jews? Judenrein—free of Jews! It might as well say ‘Go away—no Jews here!’ Think, Yankev! Just think, for a change.”

  He glowers at me while I finish it off with a huge Star of David.

  It warms me to the marrow to know we, a bunch of Jews, just might get away with it, right under the Germans’ straight Aryan noses. There’s something supremely ironic—even humorous—in it. So much so, I paint in lopsided Hebrew on a sidewalk in Three Crosses Square: