“I don’t know,” he says. A cadre of small children, bundled up to their noses, peek around the corner of our once-lavish parlor. I can see laundry hanging across the room. The smell of piss fills the entry hall.
“This is their home! Where are they?” I demand.
“Who is it, Josef?” a woman asks, shoving her children aside.
“My parents! My sister. The Goldstein family! Where are they?”
The man steps away from my grasp. “We were brought in two days ago. Shoved in here like cattle through a chute. There are four other families just in these two rooms! I don’t know who your family was. And I don’t care! I have my own to worry about!”
“Josef, show some compassion,” the woman says, coming into the hall and looking into my face. “We’re sorry. We don’t—”
A voice from the darkness down the hall breaks her off. “I know. I was here.”
I push my way past the man and his wife. “What? What happened?” I ask the woman on the stair. She steps out of the shadows and I’m taken aback by her face. I can’t believe she has the strength to talk, let alone stand. Even in layers of clothes and a blanket around her shoulders, she can’t weigh more than eighty pounds.
“It was the middle of the night. It’s always the middle of the night.”
“Where did they take them? Did you hear?” I feel a panic rising up deep inside me.
“The Nazis never say. They just took your father. I heard the commotion. The old woman was dead, I don’t know, maybe for a few days. That stupid old man went looking for an undertaker. That’s probably how they knew to come after him.” She tries to laugh, but only coughs. “Bodies being carried out by oxcart and he wanted an undertaker! Can you believe it?”
“Then what?” I demand. I want to shake the woman until she tells me that Ruthie is here somewhere. That she’s hiding, playing a game!
“Then I heard him yelling when the soldiers came. I was sure they’d just shoot and be done with him.”
“My sister, the little girl?”
“If she was with him, they took her, too, because she’s not here.”
“Someone turned them in.” Another man comes out of the darkness and puts his arm around the tiny woman. His voice is clogged and thick. “Said he was stirring up trouble. Could have been any one of us here. You can only cram so many people into so small a space. And people will do anything for a few more ration cards.”
“Ach! It was a bounty hunter,” Josef says. “Money to be made, betraying good people, murdering little children. How much worse than a Nazi, a bounty hunter? How is it you think we got tossed in here?” He spits on the floor.
“What does it matter? They’ll come back for all of us. It’s just a matter of time. If the Nazis don’t get us, typhus or pneumonia or an infected splinter will. Come, Josef, prayers,” his wife says, following the sound of a child’s cough.
I don’t want to believe any of this! “No! Someone here must have …”
The emaciated woman shuffles back into the light with a photograph, slightly torn. “Here. Is this your sister?”
I hold it to the light. It’s Ruthie—my heart leaps at her smile! The writing in the corner dates it: Ruthie’s birthday, two years ago. “Yes,” I whisper.
“My son found it behind a dresser. At least you have that. Such a beautiful child.”
I feel my eyes sting. Why did I wait so long to come? Why wasn’t I here to save Ruthie? All I needed was her … photograph … for her forged papers. I have the photo, but Ruthie’s gone.
“Lech l’shalom,” the woman whispers to me, as though saying it out loud will bring the walls down around us. They all smile, turn their backs, then disappear back into the parlor, leaving me in the entry.
I walk down the steps. Numb, I walk back onto the street, clutching Ruthie’s photograph, damning myself every step.
How did I let this happen? I should have been here! I look down at the photo in my hand. Ruthie! Every cell in my body screams. I kick slats off a fence, pull viciously at some bushes and throw the broken twigs and leaves into the air—anything to keep from crying out. If I can just stay angry at myself, I won’t be able to cry.
But I know in my heart, in my soul—if I still have a soul—I can’t afford to mourn. I might just as well walk around with a target painted on my back as cry. Law of the streets: you cry, you die.
Survive today. Cry tomorrow.
I head back to the Aryan side, shoving the memory of my parents behind me. But not the memory of Ruthie.
II.
I crawl back into my home hole on the Aryan side. Don’t count what’s gone, I tell myself. Count what I still have. I pull out the piss can from under the bed. Nestled under is another can—where I keep folded money. Coins rattle so I hide them in toes of shoes and false pockets of clothes. I keep Mrs. Praska’s money along with the other important spoils of my war hidden in a hole in the wall, concealed by strips of wallpaper. Now, I pull it all out to make sure the rats haven’t pilfered anything important. Even rats are on the take by now.
A soldier’s binoculars, slipped right off his shoulder as I bumped into him.
Two bottles of wine, heisted off of café tables.
Six pairs of boots in escalating sizes, some spit and polished, some bloodstained, taken from men who no longer needed them.
Three fine, silver SS bits.
A numbering stamp that looks like any other, but has the eagle and swastika symbol.
Money in several currencies, earned on the streets, picked from pockets.
Twenty or so sets of false identification papers, some bought, some stolen. One for a six-year-old Aryan girl, just waiting for a photo to be attached.
Three Ausweis work permits, now priceless on the streets.
Several passes for clearance out of Poland, also priceless.
The coup de grâce: three German Army identification cards.
And, of course, a leather-bound edition of Don Juan.
My eyes land on the photograph of Ruthie. “God, look at you. So beautiful. So … so …” My whispers trail off. I open the locket to see Fritz’s family smiling out in their shining, Aryan smiles. Also beautiful people. Loved, beautiful people.
As if to introduce them, I set the photo and the locket side by side.
Then it comes to me. I know what to do with these treasures.
I know Fritz exercises his horse on Saturdays, so I know exactly where to find him. Just him and his precious Hummel. The track around the polo field is a slushy, muddy oval. I watch from the knoll as Fritz canters his horse. Hummel’s black coat is striking against the piled-up snow on either side of the track. The sun glistens off the ice-encrusted polo field. The horse puffs out steamy breaths like a dragon.
I toss a snowball in front of Hummel. The horse shies a bit and Fritz looks up to see me approach.
“Aren’t you a bit off your own turf?” he asks. “Nur für Deutsche.”
“Yes, but the sun belongs to everyone,” I say, patting Hummel’s nose. “May I?” I pull a slice of apple out of my coat pocket.
“Go ahead.”
We listen to the sound of the horse’s bit jingle as Hummel crunches the apple.
“I’ll bet you didn’t come all this way to give Hummel an apple.”
“You’re right. I came to trade.”
“What could you possibly have to—” He catches himself, looks down at me, and smiles as I hold his book up. “And what are you asking in exchange?”
“Information.”
He looks around the field, dismounts, hands me the reins. “Here. Walk my horse so no one gets suspicious.” He walks a few steps ahead of me and lights a cigarette.
“So, tell me about this trade.”
“I need to know what happened to my family.”
“You have a family?”
“Fritz, they were in the ghetto. And now they’ve been taken away.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, low enough for me to think he truly is.
“But
you must be able to do something.”
He exhales a small laugh. “What makes you think that?”
“Because … because you’re not like the others.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, not looking at me.
“But there must be ledgers, accounts, names. Even numbers.”
“Oh, there are numbers,” he says. “Keep walking. I see some men just inside the stable.”
I follow him into a paddock off to the side of the stable—out of eye and earshot. He loosens Hummel’s girth and slides the stirrups up high under the saddle seat.
“What do you mean, numbers? Where do they take everyone?”
“Look, Arab, we are not talking hundreds or thousands. We’re talking millions.”
“Millions of what?” I shake my head. What’s he talking about?
He lights a cigarette, exhales the smoke, and looks at me. “Jews, Arab, you fool. Jews from all across Europe! Hell, Hitler would bring them over from America if he could and don’t think he isn’t thinking about it. Don’t you see? There are no names anymore! There isn’t time for bookkeeping! God, why do you make me spell it out?”
“No, you have a way of finding them. I know you do! Here’s the address. I’ve written everything down so you can find—”
“You’re not getting this.”
I pull out the photo of Ruthie. “Now, here’s a photo of my sister. Her name is—well, it’s all on that paper.” I hold up Lord Byron. “You get your book back when you tell me where I can find my sister.”
He shakes his head, pulls a brush from his saddlebag, and begins wiping the mud off Hummel. “How could someone as smart as you be so fucking stupid?” he asks, his cigarette bobbing off his lips as he speaks.
I pull him around and show him the picture again.
He stops and takes the photo. I pull out the locket, open it, and hold it next to the photograph of Ruth. “Ruth sort of looks like this girl here, don’t you think?” I point to the youngest face in the photo. “Blonde, blue-eyed.”
He takes the cigarette out to clear the rising smoke out of his eyes. I watch his face. He looks first at Ruthie, then his own sisters’ photos, then back to Ruthie. He tosses his cigarette to the ground where it hisses as it hits the snow. “She’s very pretty. Looking Aryan, maybe she’ll be okay. Like you.”
“Fritz, they took her away!”
“Arab, I’m just a spit of grease on the cog in this whole damn wheel!”
“What would Henri say to that?”
He pauses, looks out over the treetops, and whispers, “It doesn’t matter what Henri would say. Henri’s dead.” He looks at me, his face now hard. “Taken away in the middle of the night, Arab. He was just a number, too. If I could help you, I would. I’d do it for Henri and I’d do it for your Ruth.”
I toss his book and the locket down at his feet. The muddy slush envelopes them. Fritz kneels down and picks them up, knocks the mud and snow off. He stands up and stares at me. I take a step back.
“So there you have it, Arab! You’re a Jew and I’m a goddamn faggot! We’re both doomed. Just like your Ruth. Just like my Henri! So there you …”
Fritz stops and follows my horrified gaze beyond him. He turns and freezes. The soldier behind him has heard every word.
My Luger is out of my pocket in an instant. Fritz makes a grab for the gun.
The shot echoes off the polo grounds, leaving us with only the sound of birds scattering above.
The intruder, shot through the face, dead before he hits the ground. Before he can ever repeat what he’s just heard.
Fritz stares at me.
“He heard you, Fritz! He heard everything!”
The shock in his face finally smoothes into a stern, jaw-flexed scowl. “Go! Now!”
I pocket my gun and run off as fast as the snow will let me.
I make it back to Three Crosses Square and scramble into my hideout, numb with grief. Not over the boy’s life I just took. Grief over the girl’s life I can’t save.
III.
I struggle to open my eyes. They’re crusty and stuck together. I blink tears into them. The glorious moment of fog vanishes and it all comes back to me … I see my old home, the near-dead woman, the news, Fritz … the dead soldier.
I count the twelve hash marks I’ve made on the wall over my bed. One for each innocent I saw massacred on the street, that day so long ago. I take my knife and make an X out of the first hash mark.
My first kill. Eleven to go.
I change to a heavier coat, wrap a wool scarf around my head to hide my face, and head out. Winter makes for easier disguising.
I hitch a ride on the back of a lorry toward Mrs. Praska’s. I owe her a visit, and her weekly cut. The day is sunny, but very, very cold. The glare hurts my eyes and the chilly air numbs my face, making me cold all over.
I hop off the lorry and head west, careful to peer around every corner before I round it. I come into a spot of sunlight. Damn it! Beggars everywhere I turn!
“Please, sir?” one little boy asks. Three of the fingers of his glove are missing and his tiny hand shakes. A smaller child stands behind him.
I ignore them, go half a block, then stop. I clench my jaw to give me strength against their penetrating eyes. The boys huddle against the wind, trying to warm themselves in the sun.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” I growl, borrowing Lizard’s favorite expression. “Danger all over Warsaw. Think of your own hide!” I curse myself as I walk back to the children.
The two boys look up. The older boy pushes the younger one behind him. “I don’t want any trouble,” the child says, jutting a brave chin out. I remember my father telling me the same thing.
“Oh, you don’t, do you? Well, that makes a million of us!” I snap, rummaging through my coat pockets, then pulling out six packs of cigarettes. “Look, these aren’t to eat, you little brats, but just do what I tell you, okay?”
The younger boy reaches for the cigarettes with a grin. “Hmm, cigarettes …”
The older boy slaps his hand. “Stefan! Mama forbid us to smoke!”
“Yeah, but …”
“Shut up!” the older says, shoving him back around. Undoubtedly brothers. He points to the cigarettes. “What do we do with those?” he asks me, a look of suspicion on his face.
“Take these cigarettes over to the Three Crosses Square. You know where that is?”
“Mama said we should never go there. She said …”
“I know where it is!” the younger brother pipes up.
“Good. There’s a newsstand there. Ask for Lizard. He’ll show you what to do. Are you Jews?” I ask.
“Mama said we’re too young to be Jews,” the little one states. “I’m eight and Lorenz is ten.”
“She said we didn’t have to wear those armbands,” the older one, Lorenz, informs me.
“That’s why they took her away,” the little guy says, now frowning.
“That’s not what I asked you,” I say sternly. “Are you Jews?”
The older brother carefully replies, “Yes, are you?”
“Look, you, you’re never going to make it out of here being stupid! Never tell anyone you’re Jewish, or else you’re dead! Got that?” I stuff the cigarettes into the boys’ hands. “Now, get going. Ask for Lizard. Think you can remember Lizard?”
“I can!” the younger says, venturing a peek up at me.
“Shut up!”
“I don’t have to!”
I kneel down to the level of the younger brother. Something in his sassy defiance warms me, just a little. It also scares me. “Listen … what’s your name?”
“Stefan.”
“Listen, Stefan. This is a very scary time. You have to do what your brother tells you so you can stay together, and maybe even find your mother, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers. His little hand pulls down my scarf. “Are you a girl?” He turns to his brother. “Hey look, Lorenz, he isn’t a sir, he’s a her. You got any kids, lady, because
we might need a …”
“Stefan!” his brother shouts. “Shut up!”
“I don’t have to!”
“Look, never, ever, either of you, ever tell anyone you’re Jewish or that your mother has been taken away.” Then, I turn to the older brother. “Lorenz, was she taken away by the soldiers?”
“Two weeks ago.” His eyes well up with tears. “She hid us in the linen closet, and when we came out, she was gone. Then some old man said we had to leave our apartment.”
Little Stefan spits on the ground. “I’ll kill all the Nazis. Wait and see if I don’t!”
“You and what army?”
“Me and the army of God!”
“God took his army out of town a long time ago,” I reply, re-buttoning my coat. “Now, are you Jewish?”
“No!” the boys answer in determined unison.
“Then what are you?” I ask gruffly, folding my arms like I’m a Nazi interrogator.
They look at each other.
“Hungry!” the younger one replies.
“No, you’re a Pole. Got that? Just say you are a Catholic Pole. You might find a church still standing and learn about Jesus.”
“Is he giving out food?” Stefan asks.
“I said shut up, Stefan!”
“I can’t! Mama says I got too much chutzpah to shut up!”
“Look, kid, your brother’s right,” I say to this feisty little tyke. “Shut up. Chutzpah can get you killed. Now, who will you ask for at the newsstand?” I quiz as I start to back away.
“Lizard!” the boys reply, their brotherly voices in a gentle harmony.
I am nearly out of voice range, but I heard the young one call out, “A sheynem dank!”
I cringe at his Yiddish.
“Yeah, thank me in hell,” I mutter, thinking they’ll probably never live to see 1941.
IV.
I continue along the new route I’ve made to our cigarette factory. I have several paths I take, depending on the day and what’s happening. The last thing you leave anywhere in Warsaw is a track. Hell, even a scent! The entrance into the factory is now through the chute to the coal cellar that we keep hidden by leaves and brush. The overhangs and eaves above the chute were the first sections of the house the family cannibalized for firewood so snow falls straight down and covers our entrance. If snow can be a blessing, it can also be a curse. To keep tracks in the snow to a minimum, I walked along a path of boards, jumping from one to another.
The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die Page 11