The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die

by Randall Platt

  When I hear the three knocks on the door of our meeting spot, I breathe easier. But as always, I have my Luger close at hand. I draw it slowly and knock two back. It’s answered by one knock, and I unlock the door.

  A man stands, back to me, in an German SS uniform. I put my gun to his neck.

  “Don’t move an inch,” I hiss.

  “I never argue with a female holding a gun,” Otto says, as he slowly turns around, grinning.

  “Otto, you scared the shit out of me!”

  “I never let my back be to the street.” He quickly steps inside.

  He takes a brief look around and his eyes land on Stefan and Lorenz, frozen and staring at Otto from the shadows. “What’s with them?”

  “Probably has to do with how well that uniform fits you,” I say, pocketing my gun.

  “Don’t ask me how I got this uniform.”

  “Arab, who’s he?” Lorenz asks out of the recess of the room.

  “Didn’t you tell them?” Otto asks.

  “I don’t tell anyone anything until it’s over.”

  “Good, then no one realizes it’s gone to hell in a handbasket,” Otto quips, winking at the boys. “Which is which?” he asked.

  “The tall one is Lorenz and the shrimp is Stefan.”

  Otto kneels down and says softly, “Stefan, Lorenz. My name is Otto. Stefan, how is your hand? Does it still hurt?”

  Stefan looks warily at me. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “He’s a friend. You can tell him.”

  “No,” he answers in a low, cautious voice.

  “The hell!” Lorenz pipes up. “He complains about it so much I feel it!” He gives his brother a shove.

  “You boys did good to be afraid. Men dressed like me are bad. But I’m only pretending,” Otto explains, still kneeling.

  “Why, Arab? I thought you said we’re going away,” Lorenz asks.

  “I’m going to find you brand new homes far away from all this,” Otto says.

  “I want my old home!” Stefan announces. “And I want to find the dirty szwab who shot my fingers off and shoot off his shvantz!”

  “He absolutely cannot act like that, Arab,” Otto says, hard and serious. “He has to be quiet and frightened. Subservient.” He grits his teeth and seethes, “Occupied!”

  “Stefan,” I order. “Cry!”

  He forces dramatic tears. “Lorenz, look like you have a gun to your head.” Lorenz is not only a perfect-pitched soprano, but also a hammy actor. His sweet face is instantly filled with an ugly terror.

  I’ve dressed the boys in rags and smudged their faces with dirt to make them look like they’ve spent the last year in hiding. I’ve even pinned yellow Stars of David on them.

  “Good enough,” Otto says. “Now, let’s go over our plan one more time. Quiz me on my route through the ghetto.”

  We make our way over to the gate on Leszno Street. It’s one of the busier gates into the ghetto and the lines are already long with patrols and workers returning to and from the ghetto at five o’clock. The fact that it’s still the Sabbath means nothing. Steam rises through the street as all of humanity mills about, impatiently waiting to have their cards checked by the guards operating under dim lights. More to our advantage.

  I look around for a vantage point. The snow has been plowed along the street, so I climb the small mountain of ice. From here, with my binoculars, I can see what’s happening. I watch as familiar faces and ranked officials are signaled on through with impatient gestures; others are stopped and checked. Still others, tired and anxious to get anywhere but the streets, just push their way through. I look around for Otto and the boys and finally pick them out of the lines. Otto has each boy by the collar and escorts them, shoving people aside. If Otto Braunsteiner isn’t a Nazi at heart, I think, he sure as hell is a damn good actor.

  They get through the first checkpoint, but are stopped by a second guard who calls them back. It looks like Otto’s being asked for papers. Stefan and Lorenz are now struggling to get free of Otto’s grip. God, so much for subservience. This isn’t the plan! I can’t tell if they’re truly frightened and trying to escape or if Otto has told them to fight. Lorenz screams at the top of his lungs. I can hear him from here! I think all of Warsaw can hear him. He kicks Otto in the shin while Stefan bites his hand. Otto hollers, grabs his shin, and puts his hand to his mouth. I stand up, ready to spring to their rescue. The boys sprint into the ghetto with Otto running after them. I find the guards in the binoculars. They’re falling over laughing!

  “Well done, Messiah,” I mutter. “Well done.”

  That’s my cue to get myself into the ghetto. No Nazi escort for me; I might be recognized. So I run down the side streets until I find the sewer I know will shortcut me through the ghetto.

  I slip in and use my flashlight to light my way. I came down here on my own trial run yesterday and know just where I am. I’ll zigzag my way and emerge close to the old piano factory, just two blocks from our rendezvous point on Pawia, and not far from my old home.

  I’m careful to peek around before lifting the manhole cover completely off. The street is nearly deserted. I’m up and out in an instant, taking only a minute to spin the cover back in place as quietly as I can.

  I duck into an alley and wait. I flash my light three times, waiting for Otto’s two-flash answer.

  Nothing. I look around and listen. Still nothing.

  Then, from down the side alley behind the piano factory, a child’s screech. Finally, three shadows emerge into the vague light. It’s Stefan and Lorenz, running pell-mell toward me. Now Otto appears, chasing them and gasping for air.

  I grab the boys as they zoom by me. Otto looks like he’s run ten kilometers in full battle array. He nearly collapses at my feet. The boys are fighting to get free of my grasp.

  “Stop, Stefan! Lorenz! What’s the matter with you?”

  “He, he …” Little Stefan stammers, heaving for breath. “He said to run and don’t stop.”

  “He said run like hell. And we did,” Lorenz adds.

  Otto starts to laugh in and out of gasps. “It’s true. I did. But I never told them to stop.”

  I lead the way through the back alleys to Pawia Street, my old haunt. The snow has piled high on the sidewalks, with narrow, dirty paths carved through the heaps of garbage and rubble. We weave through groups of people, bundled against the cold, hurrying home or perhaps finding shelter before curfew.

  Our old building seems to sag even more under the weight of so much snow and humanity. How many people are jammed in there, I wonder. I flash on that once-splendid and dignified building housing a wealthy, proper Jewish family. Now, a ghetto within a ghetto. I look at the bottom floor, where my mother once entertained, my father once lectured, I once studied, Ruthie once played.

  “I’ve seen slums. But nothing like this,” Otto says, looking around.

  “You should have seen this district just a few months ago. You’ve got to hand it to those Germans. They can build a slum overnight.” I shake the image of what this home—my home—used to be, once, a million years ago. “Come on, Messiah. Let’s get these boys hidden.”

  “Are you sure there aren’t people living in the cellar?” Otto asks.

  “Not as of yesterday. Anyway, you’re the one in a uniform, Obersturmführer. Use your rank and kick them out. That might be my old home, but you outrank me here.”

  “I’m really, really cold,” Stefan says.

  “Pipe down. And start looking like a starving brat,” I chide.

  “I am a starving brat!”

  “Not like children here are.” I push him ahead. “Come on. We’ll go into the side cellar. Can’t get there from upstairs.” I lead them down the walkway along the side of the building. The snow is high and untouched. Even my tracks from a few days ago are covered.

  The coal chute is completely buried. All the better. We work fast and quiet to uncover it and snap it open through a thick and stubborn grip of ice. We slide down the chute and close th
e two doors behind us.

  I signal them to wait and be quiet while I explore the cellar, shining my flashlight into all the black corners. Even though I was here to set things up, it can all change in a minute. I know this place so well! The huge bins for the coal are empty, of course, leaving a black, dirty pit under the chute. The coal was probably the first to go.

  I flash my light into the first room. I smile, thinking of what my mother used to call it—her rainy-day room, stocked with preserves and canned goods. Everything there is long gone, too.

  The second room is where Papa had the little school. I flash my light inside. The small desks and chairs are gone—kindling, I’m sure. The three other storage rooms are also clear. The wooden barrels and crates once stored in them have been broken, the goods pawed through.

  “It’s clear,” I say to Otto. You can settle the boys in over there.” I flash my light into the third room. “I found some bedding and stashed some food and water and a piss can there. Deck of cards and some books.”

  “Lord, it’s cold down here,” Otto says. “I sure could use a toddy.”

  “Toddy?” I remember the root cellar, but surely someone has found that, too. Every other corner of this house has been cleaned out. But maybe …

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The room farthest into this abyss is the mechanical room. The boiler and water tanks are in here. I remember how warm this room used to be, how comforting when I was playing here or hiding out. The root cellar is a hole in its floor, even lower than the actual cellar and held together by its namesake. I yank open the icy door and flash the light inside. This is where my father stored his collection of ritual wine and fine liquors, all reserved for high-ranking guests and special occasions. I found this secret stash when I was eleven and raided it regularly after that.

  Well, look there. It’s untouched. I have to laugh at all those people living upstairs. All this liquor and what those people would give for a strong drink. The dusty, icy bottles reflect the light of the flashlight. I step inside and wipe away the cobwebs and root tendrils hanging down. If nothing else, we can drink our way to hell, I think. I look around, rub an icy layer of dust off the some of the bottles. If I can get these to the Aryan side, they’ll be worth a Führer’s ransom! What a find! No telling how long a stash like this can keep me alive.

  In the corner, my light reflects off of something white wrapped around a bottle. I pull it down and take the envelope off. I feel a jolt deep inside me. It’s addressed to me, in my mother’s shaky hand.

  I walk out of the root cellar and into the boiler room. I lean against the wall and slip down, sitting, staring at the envelope. I set down the flashlight. I pull off my glove with my teeth and see my fingers are shaking. I carefully open the envelope flap and pull out two pieces of paper—the two pieces of my birth certificate my father ripped in half so long ago. Mother kept them.

  I look inside the envelope. There’s more. I blow warm breath onto my finger, pull out the note, and unfold it. Tears spring to my eyes. I can almost hear her calm voice in the icy chamber.

  Abra, my precious daughter,

  It’s all happening. The walls, the soldiers, all these people, the raids. Death everywhere. Me soon, I know. There’s no more morphine, but my head is clear for my one and only act of defiance. I pray you will somehow find this. Yes, I always knew you stole from your father’s wine cellar. Fathers you can fool—mothers, you can’t. If you are alive, if you come home, if you find this … so many “ifs.” I am sending Ruth to the seamstress, Mrs. Kerber. They say she is being allowed to stay here to mend officers’ uniforms. She will teach Ruthie to sew and perhaps … a stitch a day will keep them alive, G–d willing. I must hurry and let Ruth hide this before your father gets home. Mrs. Kerber is here, waiting. I will love you forever.

  Mama

  “Ruthie,” I whisper, running my sleeve under my nose and taking several deep breaths. I read the note again. “Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie …”

  I stuff the note and birth certificate halves into my pocket and grab a bottle for Otto. My heart is thudding and I have a hard time catching my breath. I’ve come so close in the last few weeks to giving up, walking away, saving my own hide. But now …

  “Good God, Arab. Have you seen a ghost?”

  I snap out of it. “Yeah, about a million of them.”

  “What are you holding?” Otto asks.

  “Here. Here’s your toddy. Look, get the boys settled. I have an errand to run.”

  “An errand? Like what, the beauty parlor? Not that you couldn’t use it,” he says, ignoring my gift. I put my glove back on and wrap my muffler over my hat. “I mean it, Arab! Look, we have to stick to the plan. We have less than a week to get all the children over here and set it all in motion.”

  “I’ll meet you tomorrow and we’ll bring Mrs. Praska’s older children over. After that, the rest of our gang.” I head for the coal chute.

  “Arab, where are you going?”

  “I told you. I have something to do.”

  “I warn you, Arab, we don’t take any chances here. Whatever your errand is, it better not jeopardize all I’ve been working for or I swear I’ll—”

  “Careful, Messiah, you’re sounding like a Nazi,” I growl. “You’ll get your damn Polish Scout merit badge.”

  The dim light of my flashlight casts shadows on his face. What am I seeing in his eyes? What is he seeing in mine? I climb back up the coal chute and he follows.

  “I warn you, Arab.”

  “Close that chute and pack some snow on it. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

  I don’t wait to hear his protests.

  II.

  “Ruth who?” Mrs. Kerber gasps, through her cracked-open front door. “Who are you? Go away! It’s after curfew!” She tries to close the door, but I push it open even further.

  “I’m Abra Goldstein. Where’s my sister?”

  She inspects my face in the glow of a foul-smelling carbide lamp.

  “You’re not Abra Goldstein! She had long blonde hair, a fair face and—” She raises the lamp higher. “Dear God, it is you. After all this time.”

  “My mother left a note saying Ruth was with you.”

  She pulls me inside, looks around outside, then closes and bolts the door.

  “She was, at first. But I couldn’t hide her. She wouldn’t stay quiet. She wouldn’t hide. Twice she kicked a soldier dropping off his uniform. Threatened to shoot him. Such a child! Where does she get it?”

  Her eyes land on me. She smiles, and I have to return it.

  “But she could have gotten us all killed. So I had to send her away. As long as I sew and my Anna …” She indicates the rooms upstairs. “She entertains the soldiers for our freedoms. God forgive us both.” She nods toward the parlor filled with German uniforms hanging in various stages of repair, and gleaming black boots standing at attention along the wall. “So many of the children have already been taken away, Abra. God only knows where. They said to safe schools, but, oh God, they never come back.”

  “Where is she, Mrs. Kerber?” I’m trying to keep my voice down.

  “There’s a den. We call it a den. There are some children there. We take food and see to their needs. We try our best. Some are very ill. Some have died. We can only do so much!”

  “Mrs. Kerber, please. Tell me.”

  She looks at me and sits straighter. “The Minerva Theater. Two streets over. In the basement. But the patrols, Abra. It’s after seven and past curfew. They shoot on sight! I’ve seen them do it.”

  “I know all about patrols and curfew.” I head for the door. She follows me.

  “For God’s sake, don’t jeopardize the other children,” she pleads. “Please, Abra! Ruth is safe. Go back to wherever it is you’ve been!”

  I don’t even take time to thank her. I leave, keeping well inside the deep shadows of the buildings, dodging a group of soldiers enforcing curfew.

  My Luger bangs against my thigh. A street arab knows to trave
l light, but never unarmed.

  I remember the Minerva Theater well. I used to sneak into plays and movies here when I was a kid. For all the coughing I hear, I know Ruthie can’t hear me. I see a sliver of light coming from the layers of theatrical curtains hanging from the rafters. Old movie posters are hammered up along the walls. Painted sets of tropical seas and snowy mountain tops give the place an almost gay atmosphere. I hear someone reading out loud. I carefully step closer until I can make out six little children, wrapped in blankets, lying around a girl, about twelve, who is reading to them.

  I see Ruth’s head of curly hair, knotted and wild, willfully escaping her filthy scarf. She holds the doll I gave her when I last saw her, forever ago.

  I clear my throat, louder this time. Now the children spring to their feet and the young caretaker whips a large knife from her skirts, ready to do battle on behalf of her charges. Ruthie, on the other hand, runs toward me, yanking aside a curtain. But she stops cold when she sees me. I’ve forgotten how much I’ve changed. Even in my heavy coat, I’m thin. My face is dirty and scar-nicked; my eyes are red and sunken.

  “It’s me, Ruthie! It’s Abra!”

  Her doubt grows into a huge smile and she throws herself into my arms, wrapping her arms around my neck, her legs around my body as though she’s latching on for dear life.

  I twirl her around and around, holding her head safe and close to mine. We both cry each other’s names over and over. Had someone told me that morning, as I helped little Stefan bandage his hand, as I padded Lorenz’s coat with cigarettes to sell, as I made my way through the sewers to test an escape plan for children I hardly know, that I would be holding my baby sister that evening—well, I wouldn’t have believed it.

  “It’s okay,” I say to the girl in charge. “I’m Ruth’s sister. It’s okay.”

  Her knife comes down and I carry Ruthie aside.

  “Mama said you’d come back,” she says, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. “Take me home, take me home, take me home,” she chants in a nervous whisper. “I want Mama. I want my mama.”