“Ruthie!” He’s going to save her! He’s going to bring her to me! He’s going to—
I try making my way to Fritz, but the soldiers are coming straight for me. I turn tail and run, ducking into the shadows, now frozen, afraid to move. What’s happening? Get back out there, I scream to myself. I look around the corner. There’s no one. No Fritz. No Ruth. All I hear is the thundering, fading sound—iron horseshoes on packed snow. Gone.
Think, Arab, think! I have to get out of here. I have to find Fritz. Maybe he’s keeping her safe. Or maybe he’s … I look at the last of the rousted Jews, disappearing now down the street. What did he say about trust? God! How can I have trusted the enemy?
I dissolve back into the shadows and lean against a building. I don’t even think I can stand, let alone walk. And walk where? Everything has vanished for me. I’m alone. I exhale and look up. The pink of the rising sun kisses the clouds far off to the east, over the ghetto.
“Come on, Arab. Think!” I scream as loud as I can. There’s no one alive to hear. I look out at the street, now empty. Overturned carts, churned up snow, clothes strewn about. Bodies and blood decorate the snow, and the only sound is the faraway trill of a factory whistle calling people to work.
I turn into an alcove of a shop, sit on a step, wrap my arms around my legs, and rock myself to and fro. Everything plays over and over in my mind. What happened? What went wrong? It was all so carefully planned.
If I stay here, I’ll either freeze to death or get shot. I have to use the handrail to pull myself back up. I feel like I’m a million years old. I slink back into the shadows. I walk the alleys to my nearest hole, pull out a stash of clothes, and change, numb inside and out. I crawl onto my cot and pull the heavy Nazi coat over me.
I can’t sleep. I have to sleep. I can’t cry. I have to cry.
Please, God, just let me sleep.
XX.
I spring awake and have to put together all that’s happened. What’s real? What did I dream?
I take a look around for something, anything I have of Ruthie. My one photo is now on her forged identification papers. I have nothing. I try not to relive what happened, but I can’t help it. I keep seeing the charge of those soldiers. And me … running away instead of running toward Ruthie.
I have to shake my head to get the visions out. Eat, Arab, I tell myself. Eat and move and breathe. I pull together some things, cram down a piece of frozen bread, and head out.
I take side roads and alleys through town, planning my mission as I dash in and out of the shadows. I head toward the cavalry barracks. I’ll find Fritz if I have to tear the place apart. I hide not far from the intersection where the bridle path from the stables meets the street.
Hummel sees me before Fritz does. The jingle of his bridle is almost musical. I step into the sun and the beautiful horse stops.
“Not again,” Fritz says, looking around.
“Where is she?”
“Didn’t I tell you to save yourself?”
“And you also told me to never trust the enemy! Where is she? Did you take her back to the ghetto? Did you put her on one of those trains to hell? Where?”
“She’s been taken away.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you never listen, do you? You think you know everything, Arab! You think you can outrun and outsmart anyone you come up against! I’m telling you, you can’t! Why can’t you get that through your thick Jewish head?”
“I want my sister!”
“Keep your voice down. Half my unit knows who you are and how much your bounty is.”
“What did you do with Ruth?”
“I’m one step away from getting demoted and sent to the front! And you don’t know how valuable I am right here in Warsaw!” He looks down on me, his face hard, his words clipped and angry.
“No, tell me. You ride your patrols, you round up innocent people and herd them into the ghetto and off to God knows where! You play polo, drink your Schnapps, read your Don Juan, and you brush your precious horse, you spoiled rich faygeleh!”
Silence.
“Just tell me where my sister is, and I promise you’ll never see me again, Fritz.” I keep my voice low, regretting everything and having nothing else to lose.
“She’s gone. I had a job to do, and I did it.”
“You and your fucking Nazi job! I hate you!”
“I’m the enemy. You’re supposed to hate me.” There’s a tone to his voice I’ve never heard him use before. “Now, get out of here.”
“Where? Everything I’ve done has been for her! You think I’m going to just let it go and walk away?”
More silence. It’s as though we don’t even know each other.
“You better, Arab. You damn well better walk away.”
“No!”
“You’re pushing your luck. You’re going to get yourself killed. Don’t know how you made it this long. And once you’re dead, who can you save then? Think about it,” he whispers. “Just let it be. Now, move aside. I’m on patrol.”
“No!” I aim my gun at him. “Tell me!”
Hummel alerts us to more horses approaching. “That’s my unit. You better vanish, Arab.”
I pocket my gun and step back into the shadows I know so well. Another soldier approaches, his gun drawn.
“No need for that, Obersturmführer,” Fritz says. “Everything’s under control here.”
“I have my orders.”
“What orders?” Fritz demands.
“To arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
He hands Fritz a piece of paper.
Fritz scans it, wads it up, and throws the paper down. He nudges his horse forward. More soldiers trot up, all guns drawn on Fritz. One man grabs Hummel’s bridle.“Release that bridle!” Fritz orders.
The riders move in, surrounding Fritz. The horses rear up and toss their heads, snort, whinny, as Fritz tries to break free. A soldier reaches for Fritz’s gun and Fritz pulls him off balance. More shouting and confusion, and now the others are on him.
A shot rings out.
Silence. Then, slowly, Fritz slumps, leans, then falls sideways, half off Hummel, who tries to balance himself. Fritz falls to the ground, making a hideous thump. Hummel stands his ground and sniffs his master’s head.
Fritz … no …
The soldiers are arguing now. I pick out words of accusation and blame. Finally, one shouts orders to pick up Fritz’s body. They lift him and sling his body over Hummel, his hands and feet dangling lifelessly. I have to turn away at the sight. Then, as quickly as they were upon him, they lead Hummel and his cargo away.
“Fritz …” I whisper.
I walk over and watch the unit disappear. I look down and see Fritz’s blood in the snow. I pick up the paper and unwad it. “Order of arrest,” I read. “Treason to the Third Reich.”
I kick up snow to cover his blood. I don’t know why.
XXI.
For the first time since I returned to Warsaw all those months and lifetimes ago, I don’t know what to do. Where to go? And why? I’m right back where I started. Alone. No, even more than alone. Empty. Alone is alive. Empty is dead. With Ruthie gone, what’s the use? I’ve lost something deep inside me—something I never knew I had. I’m empty.
How much room does a soul take up?
FEBRUARY, 1941
I.
It’s been over three weeks now, and nothing. I can only assume Otto, Lizard, Mrs. Praska, and all those children have been caught, killed, taken Elsewhere, maybe frozen to death in Palmiry—or hell, drowned in the Baltic. For the first few weeks, I hung around Three Crosses Square—where Otto and I had agreed to meet back up if something went wrong. Well, everything went wrong, and I’m the only one here selling anything on the steps. And now I’m running out of cigarettes to sell.
I head over to the cigarette factory. We’re having an early thaw, but now the slush and mud bog everything down. I know every corner, every alley, every side s
treet, and every home—or what used to be homes—on every route to the factory.
I try the side door of the factory but the doors are swollen and iced over. I force the door open and slowly inch inside. There’s a light coming from the hall that leads to the factory. Odd. Not like Mrs. Praska to have left any lights on. Not that she ever had an electric bill to pay. I listen. Just the drip of some melting icicles somewhere beyond the bricked-up windows.
I step into the factory. A single light dangles from the ceiling. I’m hit with memories—the smell of tobacco and cigarette smoke permeates the thick wood floors. I walk along the rolling machine, dip my finger into the spillover area where years of grease, dust, and tobacco have combined to make a thick goo. The side wall of the room, where the bales of tobacco were once stacked to the ceiling, is now piled with canvas sacks, brown wrapping paper, and twine—the only evidence of our once-thriving business.
In one corner I hear Yankev warning his mother it will never work; in another corner I hear Mrs. Praska swearing her revenge; in another corner I see Lizard, packing the cigarettes into bags to take to our sellers. And in the last corner, I see me—full of … what? … exuberance? The fast-talking street arab, full of ideas and excitement for the road ahead. Ready to take on all comers. Where is that Arab now?
I find a few cigarettes under the packing table and roll one between my fingers. I light one and it tastes horrible, but a smoke is a smoke—how many times have I said that to a customer? I watch the smoke rise over my head and disappear into the chilly air.
There’s nothing left for me here. I switch off the light, pocket the cigarettes, and leave the way I came in. Out of habit, I cover up my footsteps. Don’t know why.
It doesn’t surprise me I’ve ended up here, in the ghetto. I walk the streets, searching the faces for one of my own maybe captured and tossed back in. Every little girl could be Ruth or Sofia, every little boy could be Stefan or Lorenz. Every bundled old woman could be Mrs. Praska, every thin young man could be Lizard. Every soldier could be Otto.
I have to stop wondering what might have happened to them. All our planning, my sudden strokes of genius, turned out to be just half-witted impulses. Failures. Stop it, Arab! Don’t be a fool, I swear to myself. But God, the images all come back. Why me? Why am I the only one to have survived this hell? Of all the ones who should have died … I’m the one who lived.
I return to my cellar, still undiscovered and vacant. I search every nook, every hidey hole, every corner, looking for something in the cellar to anchor me—a sock, a half-smoked cigarette, a smell.
Nothing.
I sit down on Ruthie’s little pallet and look around. The tears come fast and uncontrollable. Spasms of gasps. Who cares who hears me now? Let them hear! Let them come and get me!
II.
I wake in the dark and rummage in my pockets for a stub candle and a match. I light my way through the boiler room and into the root cellar. At least I can barter some bottles of liquor up there in the ghetto. I fill my coat pockets and head up to do some trading. I rehearse my sales pitch, my banter:
HAVE A DRINK
GOT LOTS TO SELL
LET’S ALL DRINK
OUR WAY TO HELL
I don’t get far. Coming toward me are two figures. A few blocks away I hear gunfire, explosions, shouting, and screaming. How well I know those sounds. Another roundup. They seem to come one right on the heels of another, as though clearing the ghetto block by block. Why? They just bring in more. Thousands and thousands more by the truckload. In the front door and out the back. All on trains to Elsewhere.
I pull my cap down lower to hide my eyes. Dressed the way we all are, I can’t tell an old man from a young girl until they are standing in front of me. These two aren’t lost, that’s for sure. They walk toward me with a purpose, but slow, not being escorted or chased. Now I can tell—female. My heart picks up. Could it be …?
Careful, Arab!
They stop when they see me. Slowly, we search each other’s eyes.
“Mrs. Kerber?”
She brings down her scarf. “Abra?”
“Yes. What …?”
“Thank God for a familiar face! Please, please help us. My daughter, Anna.”
Anna shows me her face, contorted in pain.
“Why are you out here? I thought the Krauts kept you safe. You and Anna. The sewing, not to mention the passes I gave you—”
“Someone informed on us about Anna being pregnant by a goddamn Nazi! All my goods, my whole life, my machines—everything down to the last button and spool of thread. Gone! Us too, if we hadn’t slipped away. Please, Abra! Please!”
Anna grips her stomach. “Mama!”
“She’s gone into labor, Abra. A soldier tossed her down and … for god’s sake, help us. We need shelter.”
“Can’t you find a midwife or …”
“She’s in labor! We have to find shelter!” Mrs. Kerber shouts. Anna doubles over in pain.
Damn! I look around. She can’t just stand here and drop her baby! “All right. But I warn you …” I stop. Warn them what? Mrs. Kerber and her baby are doomed no matter if I help them or not. “Come in. It’s not far.”
I lead them to my hideout and help slide Anna down into the cellar. “There. That room over there is the warmest,” I say, pointing to one of the side rooms where we had our little infirmary of sick children. The blankets still hang and the pallets are still side by side. I help get her settled and bring what rags I can find.
“Do you think you can get some water boiling? We’re going to need water and—”
Anna screams out. I remember the rooms full of people upstairs. “She has to stay quiet, Mrs. Kerber. Others might hear and rat us out.”
“I know, I know,” she says.
“I’ll try, Mama,” Anna says, stuffing a rag into her mouth to stifle another cry.
Mrs. Kerber dabs her daughter’s forehead. “It will be soon. Soon, my precious. Soon. Breathe, breathe.”
I do the best I can with what I can find. There is still enough clean snow to melt for water and I rip out pages from a few books from my father’s collection of first editions to fuel a fire. If he could see them now. I’m able to get the water to near-boiling, and I bring it and the cleanest rags I can find to Mrs. Kerber.
I’m paralyzed. I’ve never seen this before. Anna’s bare knees now point to the ceiling, and Mrs. Kerber is sitting on a crate at her daughter’s feet. “Push, Anna, push,” she whispers. “I’m right here. It’s going to be okay.”
I bring the water over. “Set it down there, Abra. Take her hands. Help her sit up, and let her grab onto you.”
Another scream through the rags. I sit behind Anna and let her lean against me. I take her hands, and she squeezes mine.
“Push, darling. I have the head. Come on, one last push! You can do it, Anna!”
I hold her while she strains against my grip. Her strength amazes me. I lean into her, as though my own strength can help her push.
“Now! One last push!” Mrs. Kerber says, her hands reaching between her daughter’s legs.
It’s like all three of us women push that baby out. A huge gasp for breath from all of us while Mrs. Kerber pulls the baby up into the faint lamp light. She takes the rags and quickly begins to rub warmth into the baby.
There’s no sound. “Is it—” Anna asks. “Is it—”
Mrs. Kerber sits back on her heels and holds the baby upside down. She clears something out of the baby’s mouth, then slaps it gently on its backside. “Come on! Come on!” she chants softly. I can see the umbilical cord, pink and twisted and still connected to Anna.
“Mama?”
“Come on!” Mrs. Kerber commands the baby.
Then, finally, a huge baby gasp, followed by a small gurgle, and then crying.
Mrs. Kerber hands me the towel-wrapped baby. “Watch out for the cord,” she says. “Come on, Anna. One more push! One more!”
Anna falls back on the bed and gives it her
all.
“There we are!” Mrs. Kerber says. She takes a pair of scissors out of her apron pocket and holds them up to me. “I hid this from the Krauts! I knew I’d be needing it.” With that, she snips the umbilical cord.
I look down at the wrinkled pink-and-white baby, now starting to squirm in my hands. This little miracle, here in this cellar! “You’re number twelve,” I whisper down to the tiny, puffy face. This one new life avenges that last death.
Anna is sweaty and breathing hard, but she sits up and reaches for her baby. I hand the child to her. “What is it?” she asks.
“A girl,” Mrs. Kerber says. “A beautiful, perfect girl.” She looks at me. “And I think Abra should be the one to name her.”
I blink in surprise, but my choice comes to me immediately. “Ruth,” I whisper.
Mrs. Kerber touches my hand, her eyes seeking out mine. “Of course. Ruth.”
She sits next to her daughter and granddaughter. “Put her to your breast now, Anna. The baby will know what to do.” Sure enough, the baby latches on tight.
Anna smiles down at the tiny face of her child. “Ow. Are they all born hungry?” she asks her mother.
“Of course! She’s in the ghetto!” Mrs. Kerber says. Her eyes fill with tears. “A life … here in the middle of all this death.”
I leave them to their moment and go back to tend the fire for more hot water. I can hear the muffled whimpers of the newest resident of this old house … a baby named Ruth. But now what? I ask myself. Here I am again, in this cellar with three more lives to look out for. “So, what’s the plan now, Arab?” I ask the steaming kettle of water.
As though to answer, the baby lets out a huge scream. I want to scream right back. So why am I smiling? Oh yes, I remember! My own Ruthie screamed just as loud when she was born.
MARCH, 1941
I.
This early March thaw has brought out not only the scavengers and the vendors, but also even more patrols and roundups. The baby seems to be thriving. At least someone is getting fed around here. I sell and barter the liquor in the ghetto, but people have so little to give or trade. A cup for a loaf of bread, a swig for a slice. We give what little food we can find to Anna. She needs her strength for the baby.
The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die Page 25