Lizard paces the root cellar. “Freighters! Yachts! I can’t believe I got me and my boys into this mess!”
“You came along ready, willing, and able!” Otto says. I see his jaw tensing. “If you want out, fine! The fewer we take, the better our chances!”
“Look, gentlemen,” I say, stepping between them. “This has just started. Let’s not get into it now. Let’s plan just one big fistfight when this is all over, okay?” That releases some tension. “Otto, go on.”
“Then I come back after the children are safely delivered to the boat. Meanwhile, you and Lizard work to get more ghetto children lined up to go.”
I point toward Danzig, far to the northwest. “A lot can happen between here and there.”
“Which is why we do this in stages. We keep our lines of communication open, and we risk as few lives as possible at a time. But this weather, Arab. I tell you, it can ruin everything. No,” Otto says, “a few weeks one way or another won’t … I can plan this thing from now to doomsday.” He turns to leave. “But I can’t plan on the goddamn weather!”
“Where are you going?” I whirl him around by the elbow.
“I’m going to release those last pigeons and tell my connections it’s a no-go. It’s the only logical thing to do. Then I’m leaving Warsaw to reset everything, pick up more birds, and—”
“No, Otto! There isn’t time! All those kids aren’t going to die in the crosshairs of your logic!”
“All those kids?” Otto asks, a small smile coming to his face. “Thought you were in this just for yourself and your sister and your two pickpocketing boys. Arab, listen to me. We can’t ask all those kids to walk a block in this weather. Let alone to our first connection!”
“But this road, here, it’s well-traveled and might be easier going,” I say, pointing to the map.
“No. Well-traveled means well-guarded,” Otto returns.
“Wait. Let’s stop. Let’s think,” Lizard breaks in. “Otto, you’ve been out there. Do they stop every truck? Every car?”
“They have checkpoints, yes. Sometimes roadblocks. But in this snow, it’s hard to know what those Krauts will or won’t do.”
“Can you requisition a car or a truck?” I ask. “I mean, with all your papers and identifications, can’t you get us transportation? Your uniform has already opened a few doors.” I offer them both a cigarette and light them using Fritz’s silver lighter.
“Hitler would be hard-pressed to get a transport in Warsaw right now.”
“Well, Hitler might be hard-pressed, but I’m not,” Lizard says, casually.
“Uh oh,” I mutter. I recognize the expression on Lizard’s face.
“Hear me out. I say we evacuate everyone at once. None of this ‘a few at a time’ business. That’s just plain pressing our luck. I say we all go at once.”
“How? Like circus clowns, we all just cram into our little truck and disappear into the bottom of the stage?” Otto asks. He points toward the outside and that elusive sanctuary destination at the end of our route.
“I can find us a truck,” Lizard states. “Three trucks, if you want.”
“‘Find a truck!’ Are you insane?” Otto says sarcastically. “Find a truck where? At the used truck store?”
“There are about six Opel Blitz trucks lined up, pretty as you please, on a side street off of Żelazna. All chained up for the snow. You know the street, Arab. Just a few blocks that way.”
“Here in the ghetto?” Otto asks.
“Yes.” Lizard exhales smoke rings and they vanish into the chilly air.
“Must be for the deportations. Jews in the front door, and out the back,” I say.
“Are there any guards? Any soldiers?” Otto asks.
“Nope. Trucks just sitting there, minding their own business. Who would steal a truck here in the ghetto? How far could anyone get?” Lizard goes on, shrugging his shoulders.
“And Lizard can hot-wire a dead horse,” I say, recalling some rides we took when we were kids.
“No. Can’t hot-wire them,” Lizard says flatly.
“You can’t? You? Why not?” I ask.
“Because, Einstein, they don’t even have keys. No military trucks do. You just hit the starter.”
“Doesn’t that make it easy to …” I stop and smile broadly. “Steal one?”
“Fine. So you get a truck. Then what?” Otto says.
“What would you say to three German SS men taking the children out of the ghetto?” I ask, my new plan forming fast.
“Who are the other two, Stefan and Lorenz?” Otto asks, issuing a pathetic grunt.
“Lizard and me.”
“Lizard and you are staying here, remember? That was the plan,” he adds, with an impatient snap. Then he cocks his head. “What are you thinking?”
“What if I told you I could get German uniforms for both Lizard and me? Three guards, a truckload of children, and just one big evacuation?” I say.
That’s when they turn both on me—the men. “Well, I’d almost pay to see that,” Lizard starts.
Otto joins in, chuckling, looking at me. “I’ve no doubt you’ve played many roles in your life, Arab. But really, a soldier?”
“I’m almost as tall as Lizard here, and he knows I can take him in a street fight.”
“It isn’t your height. It’s your …” Lizard points to me and pauses.
“It’s my what?”
“That pretty face of yours. Well, passable face.” I hold back my grin, watching him fidget. “You’re starting to look … female.”
“And besides, do you know what it took for me to get this uniform?” Otto says, pointing his cigarette toward the SS uniform hanging in the rafters to dry.
“I tell you, I can get uniforms for Lizard and me.”
“Forget it,” Otto snaps. “I don’t care if you sprout a beard and grow balls, Arab! You are not going to pass for a German soldier!”
“Well, now, wait a minute,” Lizard breaks in. “I can pass, but I don’t speak German. Why can’t Arab be our interpreter or something? I mean, she doesn’t have to be anything more than just a street kid you use to interpret your prisoners’ Polish. Male or female.”
Otto looks around the boiler room. “Lord, what am I getting myself into?” he mutters.
“You should have thought about that when you entered Warsaw,” I say. Then, to Lizard, “What size pants do you wear?”
“The size I’ve just stolen.”
“Give me an hour.” I start to leave, but Otto calls me back.
“Arab, just remember: the more children we evacuate at one time, the more lives we risk in one go.” He drinks again.
“When did you become such a doubter? I’m going to start calling you ‘Thomas.’”
“There can’t be any mess-ups, that’s all. Everything has to go according to plan.”
I laugh. “Since when has anything gone according to plan?”
“I mean it, Arab! Swear to God, we have to—”
“You know, Messiah, I can just go get my sister. That’s all I really care about. Grab Stefan and Lorenz. It’s all the same to me. I can take her and my boys back over to the Aryan side just as easily as I brought them here. So can Lizard. Mrs. Praska will figure something out. She’s already beaten the odds. We’ll all figure out a way to survive the rest of the war. We can all walk away from you, from your so-called connections, from your big plans to save the world! We’ll muddle along somehow. Until your precious Americans come save us,” I add with a look of disgust.
“I tell you, Arab, I have a plan, and I make the calls!”
“Well, your plan hasn’t exactly worked, has it? Who got us here safe and sound?”
“And whose rat hole disappeared?”
“I can easily go back to the life before the Messiah’s great second coming! And what good is a savior with no one to save?”
“I don’t want to save the world! I just want to save all the children I can!” I don’t like his finger pointing at me. I slap it away.
“Well, those are my children! So you either let me make the calls, or we walk!”
Is it a bluff? Would I walk? Which risk is greatest for my Ruthie and the rest? There’s that damned amalgam of conflict—love, hate, peace, war. What’ll it be, Otto?
“Arab,” he whispers, stepping closer. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
“Then let me do what I do best.”
He stares at me hard and long. “Okay, Arab. Okay.”
I start bundling myself up again to head back outside. I need to be as invisible as I can.
Mrs. Praska has fixed up a small kitchen area behind the coal bins, where she can store and ration out our meager supplies. She comes out just as I’m heading for the chute. When she stops, our eyes meet.
She takes her prayer shawl from around her shoulders and puts it around my head. “He’s not coming, is he?”
I can barely look at her. “No.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she whispers as she ties the shawl in a knot under my chin.
I take her hand, so close to my face. “I’m sorry. I should have told you first thing, but I had to tell Lizard and Otto.”
She nods and keeps fussing with the shawl. “He was my firstborn. First to die.”
I pull Yankev’s cap out from under my sweater. It’s warm from being close to my skin. “Here.”
She exhales a sigh of grief as she sees the cap, then takes it to her breast.
I have never made any pretense of liking Yankev. “He died a hero,” I say, the words slipping fast out of my mouth.
“He did?” A little smile comes to her worn face.
“Yes. I saw it, when I went out this morning. He defied a soldier. He stood right up to him and died before telling him why he was running. He was running to find us. Wouldn’t say where he’d come from or where he was going. He kept us safe.”
“Where is he? Can I see him? Kaddish … I have to …”
I touch her arm. “There is no Kaddish anymore, Mrs. Praska. They took his body away. He’s gone.” Another lie. I nod toward her other children. “But now we have them to save. He died for them.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Thank you, Arab.”
“Yankev died rather than betray us. A hero.”
“Yes. Yes.”
It’s the kindest lie I’ve ever told. And Mrs. Praska is kind to pretend she believes me.
IX.
“And what happens when a soldier comes for his uniform and it’s not here? Do you know how these goose steppers cherish their boots? What will I say? What will happen? We will be kicked out of here faster than you can say eins, zwei, drei!” Mrs. Kerber states flatly.
“But all those uniforms. Don’t you have some that have been here for a long time?” I look at the tags on some, check the names and drop-off dates. “Look! This one has been here for two months! You think this Corporal Huber is, what, away taking the waters at Wiesbaden? He won’t be back if he hasn’t come to collect this by now. He’s dead. I’ll take this one. And here, this one is old, too. One of these should fit Lizard. Now, boots. And good, there’s some heavy coats. I’ll need three—no, make it five! Just for good measure.”
Mrs. Kerber pulls me back by the arm. “No, I can’t chance it. I just can’t. I have my Anna to think about.”
I rummage through the rank insignias on her sewing table. “I’ll take this one. And this.”
“No!”
“Mrs. Kerber, I’ve stolen from you before, and I can do it again. If anyone comes for these, just say the neighborhood gonif took them. Tell them it was me, Abra Goldstein. File a complaint.”
“I forbid it. I …” Her bespectacled eyes fall on the wad of food ration cards I’m holding in front of her face. “I … we …” I pull out two tins of condoms I unearthed from someone’s dresser weeks ago.
“And here. Take these for Anna. Do you know the penalty for a Jewish woman getting pregnant? By anyone, let alone a German officer?” I run my finger across my throat and hiss. “For the mother and the baby.”
Her eyes come up to meet mine. “These are too late. Already Anna is eight months … What have we become?”
I pull out two papers from my coat. “Do you know what these are?”
“No.”
“These are passes out of Poland. All you have to do is get someone to type in all the information.” I point to the form. “If you can get yourself out of the ghetto, these just might get you both out of Poland altogether. If you don’t use them, then for God’s sake, sell them.”
She takes my offerings and turns her back on me. I leave burdened with two uniforms, two pairs of boots, five coats, and insignia patches for Mrs. Praska to sew on for us.
X.
“Is there anything you can’t get your hands on?” Otto asks. He fingers the uniforms I’ve returned with.
“Yes. Decent weather.” I hand the whole armful to Mrs. Praska.
The sound of children coughing brings Otto’s face around to me. “We’re not just fighting the weather, Arab. Listen to those kids. Four woke up sick. How do we keep a kid from coughing? You might as well ask a baby not to cry.”
“Meanwhile, we sit here? All these children? How much food do we have? I just gave away four of our ration cards! Do we even have any medicine here for those kids?” I snap back.
“Maybe we should go back to the factory,” Mrs. Praska says, sounding defeated for the first time. “At least on the Aryan side there’s more we can get our hands on. At least we have electricity now and then. The children can sell what cigarettes we have left.”
“Medicine …” Lizard says, low and long. “Med-i-cine …”
“What?” I ask. “What about it?”
“Irenka,” he says, smiling.
“Who?” Otto asks.
“She’s Lizard’s sweetheart,” I say. In a way, I want to tease Lizard. But this is war. They’re probably far more than sweethearts by now.
“She works in an infirmary. Maybe she can give us something for the children,” Lizard says. He turns to Mrs. Praska. “Write down what we need.”
“Just hold it!” Otto says. “Won’t she wonder why you need all this medication? All the infirmaries are controlled by the Germans. We can’t just trust her to keep her mouth shut. What if she gets caught? Then what about your ‘sweetheart’?”
Good points, all. We look at Lizard for his answer.
“She’s a good woman. She’s helped us before. I think, when she knows it’s for children, she’ll do what she can. She doesn’t like the Germans any more than we do.”
“All right, but here’s the thing: if she hesitates, even flinches when you ask her, get out and get out fast,” Otto warns.
Lizard puffs a bit at that. He and Otto are squaring off more and more. “I know what I’m doing, and I know who I can trust. Now, do you want the medicine or not?”
“Yes, yes!” Mrs. Praska says. She looks at Otto. “What we don’t need now, we might need later. I have some morphine and aspirin, and that’s all.” She turns to Lizard. “I’ll make you a list.”
Lizard starts layering on his clothes.
Lorenz helps Mrs. Praska rip seams and identifications off the German uniforms. Little Stefan steps into a pair of the high, black boots and entertains the other children with an amusing imitation of Hitler, complete with a coal-smudge mustache above his lip and well-measured little goose-steps. “You cry you die! You cry you die!”
I try to get some sleep, but it’s impossible. There’s so much running through my head. Images appear, one on top of another—trucks, medicines, uniforms, sick children, Danzig, and Ruthie. As soon as it’s dark, I’ll head out, scoop her up, and bring her back.
I look twice around every corner now, knowing they have horse patrols here in the ghetto. The snow is coming down in thick, fat flakes, muting all sounds and building even higher drifts around the walls. Easy in, easy out. The Krauts will be out guarding these walls with their shoot-first-ask-questions-later motto, so I stay as
far from them as I can.
I make my way to the theater cellar, sparing my flashlight as much as possible. At least the snow makes things lighter in the dusk.
“Abra! You did! You did come back!” Ruth screeches, before I can hush her.
“Sh, Ruth! Quiet. We have to whisper all the time, now. Okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers up at me. God, she seems even smaller now than just a few days ago.
“Good. Are you ready? Do you have any warmer clothes?”
She shakes her head. “Somebody stole all my clothes. My toys, too.” She wears a light coat, several sizes too small. Her boots are unmatched, and they look worn and pinching, adding to her already pronounced limp.
“Come on, then. We’ll get you warmer clothes. You have to take my hand and be very quiet.”
“You said I could bring Sofia,” she says pulling away and dodging through the theatrical curtains hanging from the rafters.
“Yes, get your doll. But hurry.”
When she doesn’t come right back, I weave my way through the shrouds of curtain. There’s a commotion of chairs, voices, coughing. I step fully into the room—and standing in a small, tight group behind Ruth are six girls and their older keeper. Each is wearing a coat and gripping a valise or a bundle. Ruthie grips her doll, Sofia.
I stare. I can’t seem to say anything.
Ruth points to a child next to her. “This is Sofia. You said we could take Sofia.”
“But, your doll, Ruthie. Sofia is your doll,” I stammer, keeping my glance away from the hungry, empty, hopeful eyes on me.
“I know! I named her after my friend, Sofia!”
Then I recognize the children. All friends, and renters, and neighbors. Perhaps the only survivors from our old neighborhood. I stand speechless. God, now what? I clear my throat. “No, Ruthie. I can only take you. Your friends will be all right, won’t you?”
Ruth’s infamous pouty lip starts to quiver, and tears well in her eyes. “You said,” she cries in a whisper.
The oldest steps forward. “We made a pledge when we came here. We all stay together. No matter where God points us.”
“But you have adults taking care of you. You have someone checking in on you, don’t you?” I recognize a losing battle when I’m facing one.
The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die Page 20