The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die

by Randall Platt

  I laugh and walk away, but he keeps my pace. “There’s a laugh. I know this Arab fellow you’re talking about. He has no ‘work’ here—not like you holier-than-thou do-gooders think when you think ‘work.’ Arab’s work here is to save his own skin—and so far, it’s been working just fine. What he doesn’t need is you and some guilt-ridden garden club of rich old ladies poking their high-society American noses into his life.”

  “Well, you seem to speak for ‘this Arab fellow’ pretty well.”

  “He and I used to play on the same polo team. Until we ate our horses.”

  “How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

  I ignore him, keep walking.

  “Someone said you might be as young as fifteen or sixteen,” he continues.

  I round a corner.

  “Some sources say you’re a boy. Most agree you’re a Jewess.”

  That stops me cold. “How the hell did you ‘hear’ about Arab? What have you heard? Who from?” He might be working with Sniper or some other bounty hunter. And you don’t need a uniform to be a Nazi.

  “If I revealed my sources, we’d all be dead.”

  Again, I push him against a boarded-up Jewish shop, click open my switchblade, and hold it threateningly. “That could be sooner than you think, friend!”

  “Well, they all said you’re tough as nails.”

  “Who?” I growl close to his face.

  “The Gestapo,” he squeaks out, leaning away from my knife. “They have a file on you.”

  “So what? They have a file on everyone.”

  “Not like yours.”

  “I think I know who your ‘connections’ are,” I hiss, giving him a harder shove.

  “You don’t have a clue. Go ahead. Slit my throat … Abra.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “You heard me. Yes, I know your real name. I paid dearly for it, in American dollars, no less. They’re quite sought after. Just like you. Now, if you could lower that knife just a little and look in my right coat pocket.”

  I ease up and pull out the folded papers. I glance at the Gestapo file. Well, what do you know. It’s complete with two photos of me—the schoolgirl Abra and Arab on the street—past arrests from before the occupation, charges both real and trumped up. Contraband, trafficking, black market, enemy of the state, female. Jew. All the way back to the jewelry store robbery, then to Vienna and back again.

  The knife comes down. “How did you know to find me here?”

  “Not everyone here in Warsaw is a Nazi, a Pole, or a Jew, you know. We have our sources. We know who’s fighting, who’s resisting, who’s saving children. I’ve been watching you for some time.”

  “And you think I’m going to just trust you? A dog-head stranger named Braunsteiner? Just shows up here with these big plans to save the world? Think again, Messiah.”

  “Look, Arab,” he says, becoming deadly serious. “It’s only a matter of time before the Germans haul you in.”

  “They have bigger fish to fry.”

  “Do they? Look, neither the Gestapo or me gives a shit about why you’re saving these children. All we care about is that you are,” he adds, sounding a lot harder now. “The Germans want it to stop and we want it to continue.”

  “What do you want?” I have to struggle to keep my voice low.

  “We want you to help us save the children.”

  “With me between you and the Gestapo? Oh no, Herr Messiah. I’m not going to be your Pied Piper with a big bull’s eye painted on my back.” I pocket the Gestapo papers. “But thanks for these.”

  I walk away.

  “I heard you can get just about anything here in Warsaw,” he baits.

  “Yeah, let me know if you want Chopin’s heart,” I say over my shoulder.

  “They say you’ve kept your gang alive and well for over a year, Arab.”

  I stop. “Listen, whoever you are. I make and sell cigarettes. Some even have tobacco in them. The kids help me. If they help themselves in the process, so be it.”

  “They say you know the ghetto sewers better than anyone.”

  “The sewers?”

  “Yes, those things full of shit under our feet. The ones that run into and out of the ghetto.”

  “You mean to get children out of the ghetto through the sewers? So they end up back here, just to be rounded up again? There’s a joke!”

  “No. We don’t mean to get the children out of the ghetto and over here.”

  “Then what?”

  “We mean to get the children out of the ghetto, out of Warsaw, out of Poland, and out of Europe. We have operatives all across occupied Europe by now.”

  “Well, good luck to you—and your damned operatives and connections and rich Americans. I’m sure they’ll all file letters of protest when the Nazis put you up against a wall and blow your head off, Messiah. Now, if you don’t mind, I have cigarettes to sell.”

  “In case you change your mind, I’ll—”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I mumble. The street is filling with outworkers returning from the ghetto factories. I have cigarettes to peddle.

  V.

  “What happened?” I demand, crashing into Mrs. Praska’s apartment. “Lorenz said Stefan’s hand was blown off!” I go to the bed, where Mrs. Praska is finishing bandaging his hand.

  “Just the tips of his fingers,” she says. “Thank God for the morphine.” She closes her sewing kit.

  Lizard holds up a tackle box. “And fishing line.”

  “Is he dead?” Lorenz asks, his face ashen, his eyes wide and tear-filled.

  “No, no. Just asleep. He’ll be fine,” Mrs. Praska says, giving Lorenz a warm hug.

  “Tell me how this happened, Lorenz.”

  “We were … well, sort of begging. Sorry, Arab, I know you don’t like us to beg.”

  “Just tell me what happened!”

  “Anyway, a lady was going to give him something and … and … then there were all these soldiers on horseback. One told Stefan he had something for him and to hold out his hand and boom! His fingers were on the street! There was blood everywhere and then Lizard found us and …”

  “I packed his hand with snow and got him here as fast as I could,” Lizard said. “God, can that boy scream! Hope he hasn’t ruined his singing voice. Anything to drink around here, Mrs. Praska? I could use a shot of something.”

  Over the next few days, I think long and hard about what to do about it. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a hand for a hand. What’s a child’s hand worth here in the middle of all this horror? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But I’m not going to let it go completely. I want the man responsible to know I’m hunting him. Make him look over his shoulder. Never know when he’ll be in the crosshairs of the enemy’s gun.

  “I’ll say one thing about you, Arab. For a girl, you sure have balls, coming here. Are you even aware these are officers’ quarters? The enemy officers’ quarters?” He shakes his head and starts up the steps.

  I grab his arm and pull him back down. “Fritz, one of your drunken polo club chums shot three fingers off the hand of one of my boys!”

  “I know,” he says, exhaling cigarette smoke with a long, tired sigh. “I was there.”

  “And you let it happen?”

  Fritz looks at me, his face almost frightening with its chilly lack of expression. “Who do you think I am? I have no power here. I can’t find your sister, I can’t save your boys, I can’t save you. Christ, I can barely save myself.”

  “All you have to do is show me the man, Fritz.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “That little boy is eight years old! Three fingers! Just gone!”

  “He is alive, Arab! Think! For the love of God, let it go!” he says through gritted teeth, as though he’s ready to explode. And I don’t care.

  “He’s only eight!”

  “And he won’t live to be nine if you’re dead!”

  We stare at each other. He whispers, “We just received new
orders. There’s to be more deportations. They want this city swept clean of everyone who doesn’t serve our needs. You Poles are expendable, Arab. Don’t you see? Why do you think we’ve wiped out your schools, museums, your intelligentsia? Your whole fucking culture!”

  I have no reply. He’s right—bit by bit, everything Polish is being destroyed, buried, or carted off. He looks away. “And this is only the beginning. I tell you now, Arab, I can’t protect you. I’ve been promoted to captain, and still I can’t protect you. I have a job to do. I warn you. Let it go.” His face, his voice, are now different.

  He’s right, I think, watching him disappear into the silvery, silent night. The goddamn Nazi is right.

  But I won’t—can’t—let it go. I have to do more. Something about this has hit me deep inside. I can’t save my parents, so be it. I can’t save Ruthie, so be it. Go after me, fine. Go after Lizard, fine. But go after one of the boys—that’s war. The coward who did this is going to pay. God knows, he won’t be the first Nazi I’ve dispatched.

  Another snow storm is hitting us and the silence it brings helps me think. Bundled, I walk the streets, glad not many people are out and about. If I don’t have to worry about my own safety, I can think more about my boys’ safety. I can think about revenge.

  But I keep hearing Fritz’s words, his warnings, I keep seeing his hardened face as he said “I have a job to do.” So do I! I have … a job to do. It hits me! That Braunsteiner man! He has a job to do, too!

  I find Otto Braunsteiner reading a newspaper inside a union bakery, close to my usual corner. The paper slowly comes down as I take a chair across from him. I’m no fool, though, and I trust no one. My Luger is in my coat pocket, but pointing right at him.

  He smiles, as if expecting me. “Will the boy be all right?”

  Somehow, I’m not surprised he knows about Stefan. “We’ve taken care of him. He’ll mend.”

  “Well, good. So, what can I do for you?”

  “You said you’re going to take children out of Poland.”

  “Going to try.”

  “I have two boys I want you to take. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”

  “I don’t want your money, Arab,” he says almost jovially, giving me a calm, confident, almost arrogant, smile. “I want you. I need your connections, your savvy, your knowledge, maybe even your charming personality.”

  We assess each other for several moments. “On second thought, I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I say, “Look at you. You’re just a kid yourself. What do you know?”

  “I admit I’m young, but I know plenty. Someday I’ll tell you.”

  “But you don’t know Warsaw. Look, the reason I’m not dead or wishing I was is because I take advantage of their greed, their nasty habits.”

  “And you do it so well.”

  I’m growing exasperated. “All I want is for you to take two boys out. Just two. Then I won’t bother you again.”

  “What are you going to do for me if I do that for you?”

  “All right. Tell me what you need.”

  He leans toward me. “I need someone to help me get as many children as we can out of this fucking war. That’s about as clear as I can make it.”

  “Well, I’d like to know how you plan on doing it. You don’t know the Nazis like I know the Nazis.”

  “Yes, I do. After all, I am a Nazi,” he replies calmly.

  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “I’ll drop you here at this table if you’ve been setting me up.” I remove the safety. His eyes meet mine when he hears the click.

  “You don’t need that, Arab. Look, we’re not all evil monsters. Resistance comes in many forms and languages. Like you.”

  “I am not resistance!” I tick my head east, toward the ghetto. “Probably a quarter million crammed into—what?—maybe a thousand acres, and even they aren’t fighting back!”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  A waitress comes over. Her apron looks like it hasn’t been washed since the Germans marched in and her hose have so many runs in them I wonder why she even bothers. “You Polish?” she asks me, her words as weary as her face.

  “German,” Otto replies, with a snap of Aryan authority. “Another coffee.”

  “Because we can’t serve Poles,” she adds, still looking at me. “I can’t even serve me here.” She sort of smiles and brings over another cup, filling it with something that resembles river water and tastes just about as good.

  “Shall we put politics aside and talk about the children?” Otto says. I hesitate. “And perhaps you can do me the favor of putting the safety back on your pistol. It makes for a very one-sided conversation.”

  “All right. Tell me this big heroic plan you have.”

  “We’ve done this before in Austria and France,” he begins. “We have operatives on every leg, from Palmiry forest up to the Baltic. Safe houses, barns, basements, studios, whatever we can arrange. The plan is to establish an underground route.”

  “Underground? Then building a damn tunnel would be easier,” I say. “Look, it’s a long way to the Baltic. How many things can go wrong between here and there? And that’s just assuming you can get children out of the ghetto.”

  “Everything can go wrong,” he says. “Which is why we need to plan things very carefully. But we know what hasn’t worked in the past. And our contacts and operatives by now are seasoned and willing. The deeper Hitler has gone with his ‘Jewish problem,’ the more determined we have become.”

  “Rhetoric,” I say. “Give me details.”

  He pulls out a sheet of paper, unfolds it, and crudely sketches a map. He writes PACIFIC OCEAN on one side and TEXAS on the other.

  “Uh, Otto? Just how far are you taking these children?”

  “If someone finds this piece of paper, the last thing they’ll think is ‘This is really the Baltic,’ and ‘This is really Warsaw.’”

  I have to nod in agreement. He sketches more and by the time we finish our beers, he’s filled me in. Still, I’m not convinced.

  “You’re counting on a whole lot of luck there, Messiah.”

  “Look, we can fine-tune this as we go along. There are always going to be hiccups.”

  “Hiccups? Ha!”

  He touches my hand. “Arab. Hear me out. This will work. We put our heads together, I know this will work.” He casts me a beguiling smile. “With a little luck.”

  There isn’t that much luck left in the entire world. Let alone Warsaw.

  VI.

  I’ve always been wary of the type of courage that comes with allies. But even a loner like myself can’t do everything on her own. I count my allies on one hand: Mrs. Praska, Lizard, and perhaps Otto Braunsteiner. As long as I don’t put all my trust in any one person, as long as I have my rat holes—back door escapes to save my own hide—then maybe we can make a team.

  I find this new ally, this Messiah, on my corner waiting for me. I tap him on the shoulder. “Okay, I’ll do it. Merry Christmas.”

  He spins around and grins. “That’s the best present I’ve ever gotten! Shall we start planning? My people are ready any time. Come on, let’s have some coffee and talk.”

  He walks off and I watch him before following. What am I getting myself into? I wonder, catching up to him.

  We start to map an escape route for his big exodus. I diagram escapes, come up with a backup plan, and then a backup plan to the backup plan.

  Backup plans. What good are those? I recall my father’s backup plan for suicide-surrender with his cyanide-aspirin. I smile at the vision of him—swallowing two or three tablets—lying down to die with honor, à la Masada, and wondering why he’s suddenly feeling so damn good! Others might kill themselves rather than being taken alive, but not me. Not the Arab of Warsaw. Not even Abra Goldstein.

  “So when do I meet this famous gang of yours?” Otto says. “I have to get word to my people—where and when and how many—pretty soon, Arab. We’re hoping for sometime in the first two weeks of Ja
nuary.”

  “I’ll set it up for tomorrow. Remember, if they’re not with us, the whole deal is off.”

  “I remember.”

  “Can you find Krasiński Garden? There’s a playground where we can meet.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “And I’ll be in charge. If my gang says thumbs down, you find yourself another partner. After all, I just want to get two kids out. My partners probably don’t want to risk their necks helping you. Whatever happens, that was our deal. Right? Two kids.”

  We convene in the covered picnic area in the park. Someone has tried to brace up a log wall and there were probably people living in here until the snows started to hit us so hard. But it’s been a quiet, safe place to meet, far from eyes and ears.

  Lizard and Yankev stand leaning, arms crossed, against the one good wall. Neither are happy about meeting here, but I am not taking Otto to the cigarette factory. Not yet, if at all.

  “Come on, where’s this hot shot you’ve been yapping about?” Yankev asks. “It’s freezing here and I have things to do.”

  Otto has been standing in the shadows, and now he steps out. “This is Otto Braunsteiner,” I say. “I call him the Messiah. You’ll see why.”

  “Does this Messiah buy or sell?” Lizard asks, his voice low and skeptical. “He must be some savior for you to take a chance bringing him here, Arab.” He walks over to him, taps his chest. “Where’d you dig up this choirboy anyway, Arab?”

  “Easy, Lizard. He’s okay.”

  “Well, I don’t like Messiahs. Especially ones who fraternize with the enemy.”

  Silence.

  “Keep talking,” I say, watching Otto’s expressionless face.

  “I recognize him, Arab,” Lizard says, circling Otto. “Saw this ‘Messiah’ and that Nazi polo player of yours. Chatting like old chums over a smoke. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Otto says, his voice steady and unchallenged. “The captain stopped me and asked for my papers. It’s what they do, you know. Surely all of you have been stopped and questioned. So I showed him my permits and then admired his horse.”