The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die

by Randall Platt

  “Just promise me, Arab, no more. We can’t afford to feed any more. And I don’t care what their street potential might be.”

  “You know, there’s something else we can’t afford.” I reach inside a small cupboard and pull out a wad of turquoise material. I shake it out and twirl the fine silk shawl, complete with fringe, around my shoulders.

  “Arab … that’s …” Lizard says, reaching for it.

  I step back. There’s a price tag hanging from the label. “House of Andre. Paris, France. Ooh la la.”

  “I mean it, Arab! Give that back!”

  “Just tell me you stole this and didn’t pay …” I look at the price tag. “Twenty!”

  “Arab!”

  “British pounds? So right here is something we can’t afford!”

  “Give that back!”

  “I thought we weren’t going to exchange presents this Christmas.”

  He finally grabs it away and bunches it up. “We’re not. That is, you and I aren’t.”

  The smile falls off my face. “What?”

  “I mean—God, Arab! That’s not for you,” he says, his voice low.

  “Well, certainly not Mrs. Praska,” I say. “She’d never wear anything so …”

  The look on his face tells me I am so, so wrong.

  “It’s not for you. It’s for someone else.”

  “Who?” I manage to ask. I can feel my face redden with embarrassment—humiliation—jealousy?

  “Irenka. Oh, come on, Arab. Don’t take it that way. You and me have never … you know.”

  “Who’s Irenka?”

  “Remember that cute nurse over at the infirmary? The one who helped us get the identification? So we could forge that pass for your sister?”

  Another sting of memory. “Oh. I thought she was just a passing fancy,” I say, trying to recover.

  “Oh, she passed my fancy some time ago.”

  I smile and point to the shawl. “Um, good. I mean. Great. I’m glad you’ve found someone. I assume she’s someone you can trust.”

  “As much as anyone can be trusted these days,” he says, putting the lovely shawl away. He comes over to me. I feel like such a damn fool! “And yes, I did steal it. I’d never jeopardize our survival by spending money on anything so trivial.”

  I smile back at him. “Okay. I know. It’s okay. I was just joking—having some fun. Teasing.”

  “I know,” he says. The boys are starting up a boisterous game with a small rubber ball. “Hey you!” He catches the ball and tosses it into a corner. “Quiet! Get your coats and get ready to move out! We have cigarettes to sell! Papers to filch! Shoes to shine! You too, Lorenz! And Stefan, quit pulling his hair!”

  They pile out, leaving me alone. I pull a box out from another cubby hiding spot. I open it and finger the meerschaum pipe I’ve stolen for Lizard. What a beauty! I put it in my knapsack. I’ll have it sold in no time.

  I try to laugh off the whole incident. Even though that shawl is probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  I layer on my sweaters, coat, muffler, scarf, and hat. Just when I think I know everything, I find out I don’t know shit. I think about what Fritz has told me. He’s oh-so-right. So goddamn right. It’s a very complicated war.

  Once I’m safe in my new hiding spot, I pull out my notebook, light a short candle, and begin to write.

  WHAT’S WHITE IS BLACK

  WHAT’S BLACK IS WHITE

  SHADES OF GRAY

  THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT

  WHAT’S RIGHT IS WRONG

  WHAT’S WRONG IS RIGHT

  THE STRONG SURVIVE

  THE WEAK DON’T FIGHT

  BUT LOVE SURVIVES

  DON’T ASK ME HOW

  DON’T ASK ME ANYTHING

  DON’T ASK JUST NOW

  III.

  “Hey, Arab!” a small voice calls out. “Where you been?”

  I grab the boy and shove him up against the wall. “How many times have I told you to keep your voice down?” I growl into his ear.

  Little Stefan looks up at me and repeats in a whisper, “Hey, Arab. Where you been? Lizard’s been looking two days for you!”

  “So what? He doesn’t own me.” I admit to not wanting to see Lizard. Not after I humiliated myself over a stupid, frilly, girly scarf.

  I let him go and look around the area. “Getting stuff done. Which is none of your businesses, that’s where! Where’s Lorenz?”

  “He’s not Lorenz. He’s the Lion. I’m the Jaguar!”

  “You’re nothing till I say you are,” I say, walking ahead toward our den.

  Stefan scampers after me. “Uh-uh,” he calls out. “Lizard said we could pick our own street names.”

  “Well, Lizard doesn’t king our gang! I do!”

  “How can a girl be a king?” he persists. I grab his arm, put my nose to his, and bark, “Who’s the boss?”

  “You are.”

  “Who got you into this trade in the first place?” I let go and keep walking, forcing him to struggle to keep up with me.

  “You, Arab.”

  “And who makes cigarettes for you to sell?”

  “You.”

  “Who taught you about crowds and pockets?”

  “You.”

  “Who taught you to have eyes in the back of your head? To look up for pigeon fanciers?”

  “I had a friend who kept pigeons,” he says, trying to change the subject.

  “No, you little idiot! German snipers up there on the rooftops!” I point a finger gun down at him. “Bang! You’d make a perfect little target. And you’d wake up with your head decorating the top of a lamppost!”

  I stop fast and Stefan, not watching where he’s going, piles into me. I turn, bend down to look at him. The color has gone out of his face. “I don’t want to decorate a lamp post,” he whimpers.

  “Well, you will if you don’t do what I tell you! Got it? Where’s your brother? Why aren’t you setting up a pitch?”

  “They cut the power at the factory again. Mrs. Praska said to cool our heels.” He lifts a snow and mud-caked boot. “Hell, Arab, my foot’s already half froze!”

  I have to laugh at him—Stefan does have his innocent charm. I hate to be reminded of Ruthie, but there it is. “All right. Let’s meet at the den. Go find Lorenz.”

  Lizard answers my knock at our new den. I come in, walking past him. “Just where the hell have you been?” he asks.

  I ignore him and slice myself a piece of bread. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  “Well, a guy gets worried, you know.”

  “Don’t waste your worry on me,” I say, disguising the twinge of jealousy in my voice with a slight cough. “So, what’s going on?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “The electricity’s still out at the factory, there’s no cigarettes to sell, and the gang is bored to death. Frankly, so am I. And usually at Christmas time, there’s so much action out there.”

  “It’s no fair, neither! Those Krauts get lights and Christmas trees and all the good stuff!” Lorenz says, picking up on Lizard’s complaint. “We don’t even get a Menorah candle!”

  From the back of the den I hear Stefan singing an old Jewish folk song. “Stefan! Stop singing that! What have I told you?”

  “You didn’t say I couldn’t sing.”

  “Who sings Jewish songs?”

  He looks at his brother, then at me. His face scrunches in anger as he hollers, “Jews! Damn it! Jews!”

  “And what are you?” Lizard asks him. “Stefan! What are you?”

  “Mad as hell!” he shouts.

  “Who at?” Lizard asks.

  “Everyone! I like to sing! Those Catholics sing, and so do the Nazis. How come I can’t?”

  “And just what do you have to sing about, anyway?” I ask him.

  “Nothing, and that makes me mad, too!” Stefan says. “We used to sing. Remember Lorenz? For parties Mama and Papa … had … and …” Hardened as the boys are getting, they still have their
moments of mourning, following by stoic chins and cast-aside tears.

  “Oh, go ahead and let him sing. Sing us a song,” Lizard says.

  When Lorenz hesitates, I give him a shove toward his brother. “Just keep it low. Don’t want to tell the world we have Jews down here.”

  They sing us a version of “The Dreidel Song,” first in Yiddish and upbeat, then slow and in Hebrew. I’ve heard a lot of versions over the years, but the brothers sing in a lovely, sweet harmony.

  Lizard and I latch eyes.

  “I got an idea,” Lizard says “It’s Christmas time.”

  “But that’s not a Christmas song, Lizard.” Then, my eyes widen. “Oh!”

  “Boys singing on the corner. People might toss a coin or some bread. It’s worth a try,” Lizard says.

  Lizard knows the songs, and I know the German words. The boys are quick studies and we start teaching them the ones they already know the tunes to: “Stille Nacht,” “O Tannenbaum,” and “Still, Still, Still.” The other boys are soon joining in, making quite a chorus.

  Lizard and I step outside for a smoke.

  “Guess who I ran into today,” he says.

  “Who?”

  “Our old friend, Sniper.”

  My jaw tightens. I haven’t told Lizard about my run-ins with Sniper, or Fritz and Schneider. The two dead Krauts. Any of it. Don’t need him rushing to my defense—or worse, avenging me. That’s something I want all to myself. But I was hoping when Sniper sold me out to Schneider it put him off my trail. “That schmuck? Hoped he’d be dead by now.”

  “No. In fact, he’s looking quite the dandy. Even snappier than when we saw him in the ghetto.”

  “Did he ask about me?”

  “Well, that’s the funny part. He said he was going to miss you. Heard you were arrested.”

  “And what did you say?” I try to sound casual as I sit, fiddling with my buttonless cuff.

  “Well, I told him he must have heard wrong. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “There’s a lot I don’t tell you,” I mutter, visualizing Schneider’s crumpled body.

  He steps closer and looks into my face.

  “What?” I say, glancing up.

  “Something I’ve been meaning to ask. Did Sniper … Did he ever … get you?” Lizard asks, his voice low and soft.

  “What do you mean, ‘get’?” I narrow my eyes at him. I think I know where he’s going with this.

  “You know. I mean, did he, because he always bragged he was going to … get you.”

  “You mean fuck me? I’d kill myself first! Then I’d kill him!” I issue a weak laugh, afraid it’s a bit too feminine.

  Lizard grasps my hand. “Because, you know, Arab, if he did, I mean, I’d kill him. I’d kill anyone who did you any harm.”

  “Should I warn Hitler?”

  “Come on, Arab. I’m serious. You know how much I think of you. I couldn’t love my own sister more.”

  “You don’t have a sister.”

  “Well, if I did.”

  “Thanks, brother.”

  He takes his hand back and even seems a bit embarrassed. “Well, anyway, we’ll keep an eye out for Sniper.”

  I feel an uncomfortable need to change the subject. “Hey, those brats sound pretty good in there.”

  We go back inside and the boys give us their first performance. Their voices blend like angels!

  “Why didn’t you tell us you two can sing?” I ask.

  “Why didn’t you ask?” Stefan replies.

  Lizard shoves me. “And just think, Arab—if you join them, people will pay you to stop singing! We’ll be rich!” I form a fist and take a sisterly swing at him, which he easily ducks, laughing.

  So we have Lorenz and Stefan singing on the street corners. Their sopranos are a perfect pitch and their serious faces a perfect ploy to distract and maybe even comfort people our second Christmas of the Nazi occupation. Who would think two little Jews could sing Christmas carols so earnestly, so passionately? Perhaps because, even at eight and ten, they know their lives—our lives—depend on it.

  If we don’t have goods to sell, the other boys join them, adding to the harmony. Even groups of German soldiers gather around the singing boys. Away from home and loved ones. Hell, even a Kraut has a home and loved ones, somewhere—mothers and sisters who pray for them, sweethearts who write to them, fathers and brothers who brag about them. Do they know these street carolers are Jews? Do they care?

  IV.

  “Stefan! Where did you get this?”

  “I lifted it off of that tall szwab who buys cigarettes on Mondays. You know the one.”

  “Lorenz sang and I lifted. It’s probably worth a million zloty!”

  I look at the inscription. How many times have I tried to walk away with this very same lighter? Fritz’s lighter. Now handed to me by my little street Arab. It’s the best present I’ve ever received.

  “Except, you know what?” Stefan says, lowering his voice. “There was this man who sort of followed us.”

  I look around the square. The snow, the people rushing about, the sad attempt to resurrect a holiday, the soldiers. Nothing unusual.

  “Did he have a uniform? A soldier?”

  “Nah, just a man,” Lorenz says. “At first, I thought maybe he saw me lifting the lighter, but he didn’t say or do anything. Just sort of walked away.”

  “Well, remember, you don’t talk to anyone who looks like they’re following you,” I say, but I’m thinking about Sniper and his black book.

  I give the boys more cigarettes and get them set up. With this sudden break between snowfalls, people will be filling the square. But I don’t go far, just stand in the shadow of a storefront. I’m not leaving the boys alone.

  There. Who’s that man? I come out of the shadows and stand between him and my boys. “Stefan, Lorenz, get behind me.”

  “That’s the man,” Lorenz whispers up to me. I step closer to meet the man, eye to eye. Gentile, I think. Blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses, fair hair, rosy complexion. New here. Too healthy. Careful, careful, careful.

  “We’re selling cigarettes, nothing more,” I say in German. I open my coat and display a fresh load of cigarettes bursting out of the inside pockets Mrs. Praska has sewn for all us street sellers.

  “Cute kid. Is he your brother?”

  “Cigarettes or not?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I use Fritz’s lighter to light one from the pack he buys and watch his face as he exhales. He coughs a little. “Hmm, I think I detect a hint of tobacco in this.”

  “Things are tough all over,” I say. He looks out over the area. He wants something besides cigarettes, that’s sure. He’s not leaving. “I haven’t seen you in this district before. Come home for the holidays?” It’s a standard street joke.

  “Well, yes, in a way,” he replies. His German is perfect and I feel a deeper chill. Out of the corner of my eyes, I look him over. Clean coat, fur collar, thick leather gloves, felt hat—and galoshes! Who has money or time for galoshes? And he’s young. Soldier-boy young. Bet he’s not over twenty. What’s he doing here in Warsaw, dressed like this? Young German men are conscripted. This one looks like he should at the very least be prepping for final exams at some university, not smoking with the likes of me on the streets of Warsaw. Something’s not right here. I button my heavy coat and plunge my hand into my pocket, reassured by the cool tip of my switchblade.

  “Well, enjoy your smokes. I sell on this corner most days.”

  “So my sources are correct? You’re the cigarette seller they call the Arab?”

  I try not to react. Plenty of people know me, know where and what I sell. I grab Stefan’s collar. “You and Lorenz go start some songs on that corner. The factories let out soon. Now!”

  Once they’re gone, I step closer to the stranger. He takes a step back. “So, just who the hell are you? And what sources are you talking about? Believe me, stranger, I have my gang right around the
corner, so—”

  Stefan and Lorenz are singing now. The stranger cocks his head toward their music. “They going to sing me to death?” He smiles. “I mean you no harm.”

  “You have your cigarettes, then, so get lost!”

  I walk toward the boys, and the man sloshes through the snow after me. I turn on him again, but he puts his hands up. “My name is Otto Braunsteiner. I work for a small but well-funded charity—”

  “Charity! There’s a laugh! You’ve come to the wrong city and the wrong country, Braunsteiner! There’s no charity here.”

  “Perhaps you’ll let me finish.”

  His eyes are soft and a bit magnified by his spectacles. They seem almost peaceful—or maybe just innocent. I cross my arms and take a stance. “Talk.”

  “A well-funded char—let’s call it an organization—in America who …”

  “America!” I interrupt again. He exhales heavily. “Where’s America? On the moon? They don’t even know Warsaw exists. Fuck America!”

  “America will come. Until then, I have come.” He flashes a smile of youthful confidence, so rare now in Warsaw.

  “So what does that make you? The Messiah?”

  He chuckles. “Hardly. I don’t believe in any of that crap.”

  “But you think you can save us poor, suffering, dumb Poles from the big mean Nazis? Go home. We don’t need your help.”

  “I’ve got a job to do, and I’ve come to do it,” he states, as plainly as if he’s the exterminator come to check the rat traps.

  “Look, stranger, no one wants into Poland. Everyone wants out of Poland.”

  “I don’t want to talk here on the streets. Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Your club or mine?” I turn away. “I have no time for charity, America, or strangers.”

  He pulls me back by the arm, an action I repay by pushing his chest and threatening a fist close to his face. But he’s not scared. Damn it, I think he’s amused.

  “I can help you save the boys.”

  My fist slowly comes down and I examine his face.

  “What makes you think this Arab would want to save boys?”

  “But you have been. The cigarettes.” He nods toward the sound of the caroling. “The singing. The newspapers, shoeshines. We heard about your work here.”