Sometimes I don’t know if it’s a mercy, protecting them here, or a curse. Because we all know it’s only a matter of time. You’d have to be deaf and blind to not realize the Nazis’ plan. This whole ghetto is nothing more than a corral to hold in Jews and other undesirables. Just a stop on the way to the next destination … Elsewhere.
Still, I go outside to scope things out several times a day. The snow is now muddy slush and every eave drips with the melt-off. There is a small hint of spring in the air, but I try to ignore it. I know winter isn’t over by far. It’s much too early to look forward to spring. But the streets do have a bit of color, no longer the stark black, white, and gray that cold weather seems to bring. Someone’s red coat, blue handcart, green hat, all stand out now, seductions of spring.
I look at the ghetto wall, only a block away. When it was covered in snow and ice, it was easy to forget the coiled barbed wire and pieces of glass cemented in to its top. I walk the base of the wall, the snow no longer crunching under my feet, but making sucking sounds of deep, thick slush. I see the lump at the base of the wall. Oh God. Yankev, now only partially covered with snow. I throw a rock at some crows showing an interest. Thank God Mrs. Praska isn’t here to see this.
I keep walking until I get to the ravaged cemetery. I think about my old plan to dismantle the weak spot marked by my own gravestone. Big dreams, fantastic plans. Stupid! I want to laugh, but my face hardens when I spot it. I wipe away the slush from the edge and see my epitaph is right there. GONE AND FORGOTTEN.
I grit my teeth. It’s like that stone is laughing at me. “Fooled you, Abra Goldstein!” it seems to shout. I whip off my gloves, toss them down, and grab my gravestone by the edges, pulling with all my might. I lose my grip in the slippery ice and fall back and down.
“Oh yeah? I’ll show you!” I scream at it. I get up and break a limb off a fallen branch and bash it again and again to break the ice from around the edges of the stone. I pull at it again. Still solid. It enrages me.
“I’ll get you out, goddamn it!” I growl. Then I stop. Arab, what are you thinking? So what if you get this thing moved? What then? What makes you think Mrs. Kerber, Anna, and the baby will be any better off on the Aryan side? Where can you hide them?
“Stop it, Arab!” I screech out loud. “Think of yourself! There’s nothing you can do, so just stop it!” I take the tree branch and whack it hard against my gravestone. “Stop thinking!”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Slowly, the damn gravestone falls forward and thunks to the ground, splashing my pants with icy slush. I stare down at it, half expecting it to fly back into place.
But it doesn’t move.
II.
I quickly work to put my gravestone back, gears already turning in my brain. I pack snow all around it, then run back to the cellar. It’s going to take some more work, but damn, we have an escape route if Mrs. Kerber and Anna will have the courage to take it.
“How’s Anna doing?” I ask Mrs. Kerber when I come down the chute.
“She’s weak, but that baby! Abra, she’s so beautiful.”
I look at my three guests. An undernourished, middle-aged seamstress; her daughter, weakened by childbirth; and her beautiful grandbaby, screaming her lungs out.
Mrs. Kerber offers me a cup of tea. “So,” she says, “what do we do next?”
“I found an escape hole in the wall. It’s a small opening, but I think you and Anna can get through. But it’s risky.”
“While you were out, I heard commotion somewhere above. I think they caught someone still in hiding. Abra, we’ll be next. We have to chance escaping now. While we can.”
I sigh. “Well, I can find you a place to hide on the Aryan side, but you’ll be on your own. You do know that, don’t you?”
She touches my hand. “I know. You’ve already risked so much.”
“I mean, maybe I can find you a sewing—” I stop.
She reads my face. “What is it?” she whispers.
“Sh. I hear something.” I lean closer to the coal chute and listen. Footsteps in the snow above and outside, coming closer. I grab my Luger.
“We’ve got company. Get Anna and the baby in the root cellar. Close the door. And for God’s sake, keep the baby quiet.”
Slowly, the hatch to the coal chute opens. A soldier slides down and before he can rise to his feet, I have my Luger to his head.
“Why do you always pull a gun on me?”
I’m so stunned, I can’t move. “Otto!”
“Do you mind?” He takes his finger and moves the tip of the gun down.
“Where—What—Where the hell have you been?” I finally sputter.
He pulls me into an embrace, rocks me, and whispers in my ear. “We made it. All of us. We made it.”
I break away from his embrace. “Well mazel tov! It’s been over two months! So where the hell …?”
“There’s so much to tell you!”
And there it is again—Otto’s famous, optimistic grin. The same grin he shot me so often when he first tracked me down how many lifetimes—how many lives—ago? I seethe at that grin.
“We got back to Warsaw just yesterday! Lizard and Irenka and I drove the truck back, no questions asked.”
I put my Luger back into its hiding spot. Anything to keep from looking at him. I should be thrilled he’s back, that all went well, but … I just can’t.
“I’ll tell you, it’s far easier to get in than it is to get out,” he goes on. “Of course, we took down the quarantine signs. Well, the whole exodus took a little—okay, it took a lot longer than we planned. Weather, broken truck, sick children.”
I step away. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want him to see mine.
“Oh, Arab, I wish you could have been with us! God, the close calls. Sure could have used you a few …”
“I had my own problems here,” I say over my shoulder.
He pulls me back around. “I wish you could have seen the faces of those kids when they saw that boat anchored out in …” Our eyes meet. His words trail off.
“Did you walk on water out to the boat?” I snap, glaring at him. “Messiah.”
“What? Arab, I thought you’d—”
“How about a little of that raising the dead you do so well?” I grit my jaw and fight back tears.
“Oh,” he whispers. “Ruthie.” He steps closer and puts his hand on my arm. “Arab …”
I cast off his hand. “The fucking irony is, the only reason I did any of that—that whole—whole—idiotic suicide mission was to save her! And she’s the one I lost!”
“What happened?”
We lock eyes. I don’t care now if he or anyone else sees me cry. “That fucking bastard Fritz Von Segen took her that night! I had her, then I lost her! I had her!”
“Arab.” He grabs for my hand but I pull back further. “Arab, don’t—”
“I tracked him down and he gave me that whole ‘never trust the enemy’ bullshit! Well, I did trust him, but you can be damn sure I won’t trust anyone else again!”
Otto looks down as he takes his gloves off. “Fritz was a good man, Arab, and—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit! I was a fool to trust a goddamn Kraut and …” I stop, cock my head toward him, and narrow my eyes. “You said ‘was.’ How do you know Fritz is dead?” His face grows dark. I seize his arm. “How?”
He pulls away from me. “God, you know better than to ask so many questions!”
“How could you know? You’ve been gone all this time!” I shout.
“Can’t you just believe me if I say I just can’t say?” There’s that conflict again in Otto’s wavering voice.
“Maybe all you Krauts are the same. One way or another, you’re going to get your victories. Well, you know where you can put them!” I walk into our little kitchen area and start moving a few dishes around.
“Arab,” Otto says, following me. He sighs heavily. I know that sigh. I turn around and face him. He takes the cup in
my hand and places it down. “Do you remember … when we first met … how I said resistance comes in many forms?”
“Yeah—and you also said die now or die later! ‘Now’ is looking better and better to me, Otto!”
“Well, I’m going to choose later. Arab. Will you look at me?”
I turn back around.
“Arab, we’ve all lost people we love. But come with me. Let’s avenge your loss. Let’s get more children out.” He takes me by the shoulders now and looks into my eyes. “Think of the other Ruthies out there, praying for someone to come and save them,” he whispers.
“Where is it written that I have to risk my neck, over and over again, for people I don’t even know?” I manage to spit out.
“It’s not. But even your Ruthie stood up for her friends. She was willing to risk her neck for their safety.”
Tears burn my chapped cheeks. I run my sleeve over my face. He hands me a linen handkerchief.
“So let’s do what we can, Arab. Let’s save as many as we can.”
“Why? Why should I?” I use his handkerchief and hand it back.
“Simple. Because you can.” He grins at me as though that’s the most logical reason in the world.
What can I say to that? I shake my head and look down. I see blood stains on my boots. I can’t remember whose.
Otto breaks the silence. “Here. I brought back some black-market cigarettes. Picked them up in England.”
He lights my cigarette. The flash of silver and the sharp sound as his lighter snaps closed pull my attention. I know that sound. I grab his hand and seize what’s in it. It is! It’s Fritz’s lighter! “How did you get this? It was in my knapsack. Ruthie was carrying it!”
“I can’t tell you,” he says again, pocketing the lighter. He glances around the cellar. “So, how long have you been back hiding here?”
“Don’t change the subject, Otto.”
Our eyes meet. He’s never figured out I can read his face like a book. Slowly, I feel a smile creep onto my face—the first since that horrible night. I set my cigarette down and reach into a box to pull out a bottle of scotch we’ve been using as disinfectant. “Here. Have a drink.”
He takes a long swig from the bottle and hands it back to me.
“Now, tell me about Fritz’s lighter, Otto.” I take a drink myself.
He takes his second drink. He sighs. “I want you to know I took an oath,” he begins.
“Bet it isn’t first oath you’ve broken.”
He looks around, crushes out his cigarette, and sighs. “Have you ever heard of Lebensborn? It’s this … program … where orphans are taken in and given to German families for adoption. Usually, the illegitimate children of German officers, or other high-ranking officials.” He pauses.
I feel my jaw tighten. “Go on.”
“Or, sometimes … children who can pass for Aryan.”
I feel the hairs on my arms rise up. “Ruth?”
“Arab. For God’s sake, how do you think I ever found you in the first place?”
“What do you mean?”
“Fritz Von Segen! How do you think I knew about you? Knew you were keeping boys alive on the streets? Knew where to find you?”
“Fritz?”
“Do I have to draw you a picture? Remember I told you about my own family opposing Hitler? Widerstand? Fritz’s family works to unseat the Nazis, too. Fritz and I even trained together in England! Lebensborn! Fritz’s family takes in children, Jewish children, who can pass for Aryan.”
I have to walk around while I let this sink in. “Are you saying Ruthie is alive?”
“I am saying Ruthie is alive,” he states slowly.
I still can’t grasp this. I want to believe it, but do I dare? “But how did Fritz get her out? And so quickly?”
Otto stops my pacing and takes my hand, slipping Fritz’s lighter into it. “Arab, there’s a network. Very small, but there’s a network. Someday, Ruth will have an exciting story to tell at cocktail parties.”
I’m speechless. I look down at Fritz’s lighter, now warm in my hand. I’m envisioning Ruthie, all grown up, dressed to the nines, chatting gaily at a cocktail party.
“The Von Segen family,” I say, shaking my head, taking all this in. “Their son dead, because of … us.” The photos in the locket are engrained in my memory. I look down at Fritz’s lighter, rereading his mother’s inscription … carry the fire. Tears spring to my eyes again.
“Well, they may have lost a son, but they’ve gained a daughter.”
“What does that—?”
He plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls something out. “Here, been hanging onto this for you. Quite the good luck charm, turns out.”
It’s—oh God, it’s the silver yad Ruthie wore around her neck the night of the escape.
I finger the wooden tag bearing my father’s words of forgiveness, and I smile through my tears. “I’m surprised the little con artist gave it back.”
It’s all so much. I sit down where I stand. Otto kneels down and looks me eye to eye. “You know, Arab, it takes quite a man to do what Fritz did.” Otto takes my hand. “Our Fritz had to live two separate lives. Three, if you knew—”
“I knew,” I whisper, remembering his copy of Don Juan. His Henri.
Fritz was Ruth’s savior. All along. And any way I look at it, I killed the savior. God, what happened that day? Was he creating a diversion? Protecting me?
“And someone found out? Turned him in?” I remember the order of arrest. “… treason to the …” I flash back on the scene of Fritz’s death. I exhale a long, tired breath. “God, Otto, this is going to be hard to live with.”
“No, Arab. Lebensborn wasn’t the reason they wanted him. It’s a very secret operation.”
“Then what?”
“Consorting with the enemy.”
I have to glance away. “Me. I’m the enemy,” I whisper. “We used to joke about—”
“No, not you. Me.” Otto says, offering me his hand and pulling me back up. “I’m the enemy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Arab, I didn’t go out to smoke a cigarette before we left that night. I went out to call Fritz from one of the German offices in the ghetto. Tell him our plan. So he could be ready, in case anything went wrong. And, well, our call must have been intercepted. I hate that we lost Fritz. But he knew the risks. Gladly accepted them.” He catches my eyes. “Like you and I do.”
“Please tell me he didn’t arrange a roundup just so we could escape. All those people …”
“No, those are planned in advance. Jewish holidays and such. But I think he’s the one who moved people off the street so we could make it out of that alleyway. Remember how the crowd suddenly parted?”
“So the Nazis know about you, too. What if they go after you?”
“I’ll just throw myself off that bridge when I come to it.” He swishes the air with his hand as though it bats away that little problem.
I have to laugh. He would say that. “So, Lizard? And Irenka?”
“Hiding on the Aryan side, just waiting for me to return with new plans.”
My heart feels even fuller. “Stefan and Lorenz?”
“Probably driving their adoptive family in England crazy by now. I tell you, if we’re still at war when they get a little older, I’m going to recruit them!” He pauses. “Sometimes I think our biggest success will be Mrs. Praska.”
Just the mention of her name brings a smile to my face. “How so?”
“She got her children to England and we set them up with a small factory. She’s going to supply us with more cigarettes for children to sell. There’ll always be more children, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, nodding.
“So let’s not stand around jawing. Let’s get to work, huh? I’m in the mood for some good old-fashioned avenging. Come on. So many children waiting.”
There’s a faraway shrill. Otto straightens up. “Sh! What was that?”
; I can’t resist teasing him. “I’ve been trapping rats. Can you stay for dinner? Follow me.” I lead him through the boiler room and open the heavy wooden door to the root cellar. The small candle light reflects off the faces of the Kerbers. Just then the baby lets out a howl. Otto looks at me. Oh, his expression!
“It’s okay, Mrs. Kerber,” I say. “Come on out. He’s a friend. A very good friend.”
Anna follows her mother out, shushing the crying baby.
Otto’s mouth falls open. “What’s … I mean, who—?”
“You know better than to ask so many questions, Messiah,” I say, giving him a jab.
I walk over to Anna and she hands me the bundled-up babe.
“I guess it’s true what they say,” Otto says. “The great Arab of Warsaw can get her hands on anything. So, just who is this?” He puts his arms out.
I hand him the baby. “Our next customer. Her name is Ruth.”
SEPTEMBER, 1946
In red paint, hastily splashed upon a sagging cellar wall in the heart of the Warsaw Ghetto:
WE WEREN’T THE LAST
WE WEREN’T FIRST
WE WEREN’T THE BEST
WE WEREN’T THE WORST
WE RESCUED KIDS
ONE-THIRTY AND FOUR
WOULD THE LAST ONES OUT
PLEASE SHUT THE DOOR?
—The Arab of Warsaw
Acknowledgments
With any work of historical fiction, the author takes great care in research. A part of that research is finding experts in certain areas and asking for their help. I started researching The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die in 2004. In that time, I have relied on several people to point me in the right direction and answer certain questions, the answers to which were not readily found elsewhere. Since much of my research was from first-person accounts of that time period, many of these people have, sadly, passed on. Of these, I wish to acknowledge Helmut “Brownie” Braunsteiner, whose name I have borrowed. Brownie showed me and all those he came into contact with what true heroism is.
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