“Only to you, Papa.” I relive what I felt—the horror, humiliation, the damn anger at seeing my own headstone.
“Two years now, dead. Who are you really?”
“Father, it’s me. Your daughter, Abra.”
“I have no daughter Abra. Only Ruth. Abra is dead and buried.”
“Shall we go dig up that grave and see who’s not in it?”
He totters and catches himself with his cane. I make no move to help him.
He glowers at me again, as though refusing to recognize me. “They told us! We heard stories. Stories of disgust and filth! Stories of shame!”
“I didn’t come here to discuss my death, or lack of it.”
He starts to speak again, but then turns abruptly and hobbles toward the house.
“I’ve come to help you and Mama. And Ruth.”
“No. No. Go away. We don’t need your help. We are fine here. Leave us in peace.” He starts toward the front walk again. I notice the entire iron fence is gone—pulled up for scrap, no doubt.
“You call this peace?” I shout, following him. What am I expecting? That we’ll fall into each other’s arms and beg forgiveness? There’s no room in war for forgiveness.
He grabs the stair railing and takes each step up slowly. When he gets to the top, he looks down at me. It’s as though he has no idea what to say. His eyes are oddly vacant. Then, slowly, tears form, magnified by his glasses. I’ve never seen my father cry. My own eyes suddenly sting. He might be broken, but he is my father.
“Father. Papa. Let me take you out of here.”
“This is our home.” He opens the front door. I follow him up the steps. Instead of being greeted by a maid, I’m met by a blast of stale, hot air. I look up the staircase and hear footsteps.
I stop at the threshold. “May I come in?”
He looks at me closely, almost as though he still doesn’t believe it’s me standing here. “You’ve come this far. Back from the dead, even,” he says, his voice just a weak rasp. “You may as well come in. For a moment.”
I step inside and look around, inhaling the emptiness, then follow him into his study—bare now of paneling and furniture and books.
“Papa, let me take care of you.”
“A man takes care of his family. A daughter does what she’s told.”
“Maybe before. But Papa, everything’s changed.”
“We are fine here.”
“Don’t you see what’s happening? Don’t you look around you? Do you think they’re building that wall to keep the riffraff out? They’re building it to keep the riffraff in! We are the riffraff.” I struggle to keep my voice low and calm.
“Speak for yourself. I am a man of no small consequence. No small influence! Even the Germans respect authority.”
“Only their own.”
“God will keep us safe,” he says, almost as a prayer.
“Yes, I see what a superb job your God has been doing around here. Doesn’t God help those who help themselves?”
“Always disrespect! I was right. Abra is dead.”
“Please, Father, this has nothing to do with me. I came here to help you!” Is it all going to come down to his damn sense of honor, propriety, and stubbornness?
“I am not stupid! I know what’s happening! I am ready! I have Red Cross satchels for us and gas masks. I paid five hundred zloty apiece for us to get typhus vaccinations!”
“I could have gotten you those for half that,” I say, almost under my breath.
“The cellar is stocked with supplies. I have money to bribe officials.” He walks to his desk drawer and pulls out a small, blue envelope. “And just in case, I even bought cyanide tablets. Cost over three thousand zloty. We’ll all die here, if need be.”
I stare in disbelief. “Kill Mama? Kill Ruthie?”
“If need be,” he says. The envelope shakes in his hand. “If need be.”
I grab the envelope, shake out a tablet, and examine it under the light of the window. I lightly put it to my tongue.
“No, Abra, don’t!” He grabs for it.
I let the taste settle, then pop the tablet into my mouth and chew it.
“What are you doing? That’s—”
“Aspirin. You spent three thousand zloty for aspirin. German aspirin!” It’s the item of the season on the black market.
I hand back the blue envelope. “If not for you, then for Mother and Ruthie. Let me at least take them away. I can hide them on the other side. I have connections. With Ruthie’s blonde hair, I can easily get her forged documents. She’ll be safe with me.”
He shakes his head. “Turn her back on her faith and become a goy like you? And what life do you offer? Begging? Pickpocketing? Thieving? What other skills do you have to pass on to your sister? I shudder to think.”
I’m ready for that, and I let it pass. Besides, he’s right. I’ve stolen, lied, cheated, caused the massacre of twelve innocent people, and am already planning my own sweet revenge. I need to keep my voice low and controlled. “Open your eyes. Have you heard of a ghetto, Papa? Do you even know what one is? When they finish that wall, close those gates, and cram every Jew in Poland inside this place, then you …”
“I have money!” he shouts.
“Polish money! You might as well use it for toilet paper!”
“You do not raise your voice to me!”
“Stubborn fool!”
Oddly, he smiles. Three years ago he would have smacked me into next week for such a comment. “So nothing changes, eh, Abra?” He puts the blue envelope into the drawer. “God will provide. And what God doesn’t provide, I will! All this will pass.”
We stare at each other. “You have your mother’s eyes.”
“And my father’s stubborn streak,” I reply, almost without thinking.
Another small smile.
“I want to see Mama.”
“She’s sick in bed.” He blows his nose on a filthy handkerchief. Again, our eyes meet. I’m beginning to understand. He almost reads my thoughts. “Cancer.”
“And Ruthie?”
“In school, of course.”
“What school? They’ve closed all the schools.”
“We have teachers and we have cellars. See? We’re not so helpless here. Komplety. Secret school.”
“Where?”
“Right downstairs. But you may not see her. It would only confuse and upset her. Some things must be left alone. You may look in on Mama, but I’ve just given her morphine. The pain, the drugs, they confuse her. She won’t know who you are. See her, then please, go back to your half of the world.”
I start for the stairs. “No, this way.”
“But Mama’s room …”
“Rented now. All the rooms. Rented.”
He leads me to the room off the kitchen—the one that was once a maid’s room.
Mother is sleeping soundly. Like Father, she seems to have shrunk. Once a beautiful, hearty woman, she’s now a small, wheezing form. Bottles of medicine line her bedside table. I wonder which of those are counterfeit and worthless.
I kneel down next to her bed and stroke her once-glorious blonde hair, streaked with gray and swept back in long, frazzled braids. I lift her hand, kiss it. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks around the room, unaware I’m at her side, holding her hand. Finally, her eyes find my face. She inhales a breathy gasp.
“Who are you?”
“It’s me. Abra.”
“No, you’re not Abra. Abra is … is …” Her smile vanishes as she stares at me. “Abra? My Abra?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Are we all dead?” She grabs my hand.
“No, Mama. Mama, listen, I can save Ruthie. You have to tell Father. I can save Ruthie.”
“What’s happening?” Her vacant, sunken eyes dart about the room. “Is it over? Have they left?”
“Mama, listen. You have to tell Papa I can save Ruthie. Do you understand? Mama, look at me!”
Her eyes fall on my face and the smile r
eturns. “My Abra. Back from the dead. I knew you’d come home. I’ve always known you’d come home.”
“Mama! Please, please listen! Tell Papa! Tell him to let me take Ruthie!”
She searches my face. “You need a bath. Tell Helena to draw you a bath.”
I put my head on her bed and fight back tears of frustration. “No, Mama. Please.”
I feel her hand on my head. She’s found the scar. “What is this?”
“I walked into a door.” She’ll never know about her stupid Polish thief.
“You must watch where you’re going.” She gives me that wonderful smile I remember from childhood. She nods her head, ever so slightly. “Yes. Yes, I will tell Papa. When the time is right, I will tell him.”
“Now! Tell him now. Mama. I can take her now.”
“Take my Ruth? No, no, no. I can’t allow that. But maybe, after … after …”
“Promise me, Mama. I’ll come back, and then I can take Ruthie out of here. I know I can save her.”
She grasps my hand in hers and brings it to her lips, kissing my fingertips. “Papa says everything will be fine. Just fine. And Abra? Make sure the gardener is watering my roses.” And she drifts off to sleep, a small smile of contentment on her face.
I kiss my mother’s forehead and tell her I love her. “Yes, Mama.” I walk toward the door, as close to defeated as I’ve ever felt.
I know now I can’t save my father. And I can’t save my mother. But, by God, I will save my sister!
I walk past my father. “I can get you more morphine.” I reach into my coat and set some papers down on the table. “Here. Ausweis and Kennkarte.”
“I forbid German words in my house!”
“It’s just identification. This is a work permit, Papa. That’s why they call it a life ticket.”
He looks at the portrait of my mother, painted when she was young and stunning. “God will provide,” is all he says.
I leave through the kitchen door, ignoring several strangers who are cooking over the stove, and continue down the walkway toward the cellar’s side door. I peek in and see only blankets hanging. But I hear voices beyond. The school room.
Ruth and I always had a secret signal. It’s a gruff clearing of our throats that started as a teasing imitation of our father. Then it became a warning that our father was close by and to stop whatever mischief we might be up to. I wonder if she’ll remember it.
I slowly open the door, and very slightly clear my throat.
“Ruth, sit down.” It’s an older woman’s voice.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Ruth says. I recognize the lilt in her voice when she fibs.
“Ruth, the bathroom is upstairs.”
“I’ll go around outside. My father doesn’t want anyone disturbing my mother.”
“Very well. Be quick about it. And don’t think you’re going to get out of the spelling test, either.”
“Okay. But I know all the words,” she says.
The blankets split open, but she stops cold when she sees me. Then, she slowly limps around me, as though inspecting a horse at auction. I kneel down. “Ruthie. It’s me. Abra.”
“Abra who?” she asks, a frown holding in a smirk.
“Your sister, that’s Abra who. Have you forgotten your own sister?”
She put her hands on her hips. “You lied! You said you’d come back.”
“And I am back. See? What, no hug for your sister?”
“No! You said you’d bring me a treasure. Where’s my treasure?”
“Well, you just come with me,” I say, picking her up and carrying her outside to the old tire swing hanging from an ancient oak. I reach into my satchel and pull out a rag doll. Ruthie doesn’t need to know where or how I got it. The child I took it from no longer needed it.
“Thank you!” She embraces the doll.
“Now am I your sister?” I ask.
Again, she gives me a once-over look. “I’m not so sure. Papa says not to talk to strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger.”
“I don’t know. You look pretty strange,” she says, reaching for my cap. “You look like a boy.”
“I know. I like to pretend. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I can run really, really fast in pants.”
“Mama won’t let me wear pants. She says it’s not ladylike …”
“And sometimes it is. But not now. So, am I your sister?”
“Yes!” she says, throwing herself into my arms.
“Now, you have to hide that doll from Father, understand? He doesn’t know I’m seeing you.”
“Why? Oh yeah, you’re dead. I forgot.”
“You’re six now. A big girl. Can you keep a big girl secret?”
“I like secrets,” she says, now cradling the old doll.
“Good. We’re going to need lots and lots of secrets.”
“Ooo, you stink,” she says, grimacing at the smell of my shirt.
“Ruthie, now listen very, very carefully. Put the doll down and look at me. Do you know the cemetery where grandmother Goldstein is buried? Just over there?”
“Uh-huh, but I don’t like it there.”
“Ruthie, you know the mausoleum?”
“What’s a … masso linoleum?”
“The stone building with the iron fence around it?”
“It’s scary there.”
“No, Ruthie, listen! I can leave you more things in that place.”
“Candy?”
“Yes, and maybe medicine. Or money, or food.”
“Why? I don’t like it there. Can’t you bring it here?”
I tuck some stray golden hairs back inside her scarf, loving this little opportunist. “No, Ruthie. This is just a game of hide and seek. You can hide something for me and I can hide something for you. It’ll be fun, and Father will never know. I have to go.”
“Take me with you!”
“Not today, Ruthie. Mama needs you now. You need to take care of Mama.”
“Father says bad things and he yells at me. Everything is all different. I don’t like school. I have to share everything!”
“I know. I’m going to fix that. You must be patient. I have a lot to do to find us a home someplace safe. Until then, you’re safe here. But Ruthie, I have to go.” I catch her up, hug her, put her down. “But remember, I’ll bring food and clothes, and where do you go to find them?”
“That scary place,” she says, pointing toward the cemetery.
I start up the walkway. I stop to wave and she waves her doll’s little hand goodbye at me. She turns and limps slowly back to the cellar door.
NOVEMBER, 1940
I.
Over the months preparing for winter, I keep thinking of Aesop’s grasshopper and the ant fable. No wasting time for us as we take advantage of the warm fall weather to raid, stockpile, trade, and steal everything we can get our hands on. I’ve been able to find streets in and out of the ghetto that are not yet barricaded, but it gets harder and harder as the days wear on. I make as many exchanges as I can with Ruthie. Cheese, a toy, fruit, earmuffs. She leaves meager findings in exchange—a purple crayon, a broken plate, a book pulled out of a burn pile. Each time it’s harder to get through, as the wall slowly wraps its arms around the ghetto. That leaves the sewers, but even those are more and more difficult to slip into and out of. They have stepped up the patrols around and inside the ghetto.
Side roads in and out of the ghetto are cut off entirely, now leading only to dead ends of high walls, broken glass, and barbed wire. On the main roads they’ve build thirteen gates that squeeze traffic into long lines. Sometimes those with work permits, the factory outworkers, have to wait over an hour to get their passes inspected to get in and out.
The old cemetery close to my home is only a short sprint from a sewer opening. But as the building crews work that area, I have to be extra careful. I’ve even been pressed into service for three rainy days—mixing cement, hauling gravestones, an
d adding them to the wall. I helped haul my own gravestone and entomb it in the wall. With my own hands I packed cement around it. I was careful to place it so the engraving faces out. If I’m going to be gone and forgotten I don’t want anyone to forget.
The Germans have announced they’re going to officially seal off the ghetto by the middle of November. I can almost feel the sense of struggling humanity close in around me when I manage to sneak inside. How many people can they fit in here? Every day, truckloads of people come. Roundups herd more in every day. At what point will the walls collapse from the bulging population?
Like always, the Germans are as good as their word. The gates close on November 15th, right on schedule. The sentries and checkpoints are set. Men with scopes and rifles watch from towers above, men with guard dogs patrol below. Only German soldiers, Polish police, Nazi officials, and factory workers are allowed in and out. Still more Jews in. God, where do they come from?
For weeks I’ve been getting things in order for Ruthie. Everything is ready. Ruthie will stay with Mrs. Praska as soon as I forge her papers. Lizard and I nearly got ourselves killed stealing a sick little girl’s Aryan identification, birth certificate, and passport—worth gold!—in a Kraut infirmary. A flirty little nurse friend of Lizard’s looked the other way. A Nazi doctor called the security police and we barely got out the back stairway. A doctor, for God’s sake! So much for “first, do no harm”!
All that’s left is getting her photograph, and that I’ll get once I have her here on the Aryan side, safe and sound. I’ll kidnap Ruthie from my parents—at gunpoint, if I have to. It’s been weeks since I’ve made it back over, now that it’s nearly impossible. The sewers are just as dangerous as the streets now. But I have everything I need.
I barely recognize our old street, buried under a layer of filthy snow. Our house, the grounds, seem out of a different world. A whole wing has been torched! Total strangers answer when I knock on the front door. I look behind them. “The Goldsteins?” I ask. “Where are the Goldsteins?”
The man starts to close the door, but I force it open again with a shove. “I asked you, where are the Goldsteins?”
The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die Page 10