Resistance

by Jennifer A. Nielsen

  If I was going to make a difference, then I needed to fight.

  But instead, I was facing a week of walking and hiding and cursing the cold weather for its relentless chill, just as this war was relentless and death was relentless. Just as my frustration constantly gnawed at me like a slow-moving drill, burrowing deeper every day.

  In fact, the only thing that I was certain would end was the luck that had carried us through Lodz. I couldn’t expect it to follow us all the way to Warsaw. I shouldn’t even hope for it to last until curfew tonight.

  Half of our remaining day was taken up with buying better wintertime clothes for our journey, which we put into Esther’s shoulder bag. Except the bag must also hide the gun I stole, so I agreed to carry it. By the time we were finished, most of our money was gone, adding to my irritation. I had hoped to enter the Warsaw ghetto with supplies to help the resistance fighters.

  Our goal was to escape the city before curfew and then find a place to rest until it was quiet enough to walk through the night. And for the most part, we left Lodz with no one giving us a second glance. There seemed to be an assumption here that every Jew was already behind the walls, so we weren’t worth a second look. For those who did look, I smiled back as if we were friends. And maybe at one time, we might have been.

  Esther had been studying me all morning, though she hadn’t said much. Finally, she asked, “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Mix in with these people like you’re Polish, and then with ours as a Jew? It’s like you have two separate personalities.”

  “I’m only me. But I don’t go about with my eyes on the ground, as if I’m ashamed, or as if I expect to be hurt. Why should I? I’m proud of who I am, what I am.”

  “But you wear the crucifix,” she said softly. “You lose the Jewish accent out here and present yourself as one of them.”

  I sighed and looked away. “Out here, I have to survive. And so do you. One day this war will end, and then I will walk these streets again as myself.”

  “Will you?” Esther shrugged, her shoulders as rounded over as usual. “I wonder if this will ever end.”

  “The war?”

  “The hatred. I remember my father saying that he’d finally come to believe the world had moved past its hatred of Jews, and then this happened.”

  “Maybe when the world opens its eyes to what has been done to us, they will realize how destructive hate can be.”

  Esther shrugged again. “Maybe. But they’ll forget again, in time. And when they forget, this will all start once more.”

  I put an arm around her and used it to straighten her posture. “Enough of us must survive the war to tell our stories, and every story will matter. When they remember our stories, they will forget their hatred.”

  She smiled and began walking taller. “Thank you, Chaya.”

  “For what?”

  “For being patient with me, and teaching me, and … for helping me get through this. I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

  I brushed that off, like it was nothing. Like it was what anyone else would’ve done too.

  But that just bothered me more. Because I hadn’t been at all patient with her, and I was teaching her only because her mistakes threatened my safety too. Worst of all was that despite my poor treatment, she’d been helping me far more than I’d helped her. For as little experience as she had, she was learning fast.

  Or … did she truly have so little experience?

  “Where were you before you joined Akiva?” I asked.

  “I joined Akiva when I was twelve. Just not your group in Krakow.”

  “Then where?”

  “Farther north.”

  Considering that Krakow was in the southern part of Poland, nearly anywhere would be farther north. And maybe around others, I had to let her get away with avoiding any talk about her past, but now it was only the two of us. I had the right to know who I’d been partnered with, who I was trusting with my life. I had to be careful, though. I didn’t want to ask about her family, not yet. Because chances were, she didn’t have a family anymore, just as it was possible that I didn’t have a family anymore.

  “Tell me about yourself, then. What were you like before the war?”

  She considered that a moment, tilting her head as if deep in thought. This in itself was interesting. To answer, she had to compare herself to who she was now, how the war had changed her. I knew how I would answer such a question, because I’d thought about it many times. I could answer it—I just didn’t want to.

  “I guess I was … I don’t know … before the war I was … happy.”

  The simplicity of her answer left me speechless. How often I once took that for granted, as if life would always be as innocent as it used to be.

  Esther broke the silence with a question of her own. “Chaya, do you believe in God?”

  I paused in my walk. “What do you mean? Do I believe He exists? Of course.”

  “No, I mean, do you believe in God’s words? His promises to our people?”

  I knew where she was going with these questions, and I tried to find any excuse to change the subject. But the earnestness of her expression deserved an honest response.

  “I believe in God’s promises,” I said. “But I’ve run out of patience waiting for them. I believe in God’s laws, but—”

  “What about God’s law not to murder?” Esther was ahead of me, but when she looked back, her face had become deadly pale. Suddenly, I realized those questions weren’t for me. She asked because she needed the answers for herself. “Avraham and his friends believed that what we’ve done … what we’re doing is murder. Are they right?”

  I drew in a slow breath. “Last fall, after I shot that soldier in the train yard, I was upset one night and Rubin found me. He believed that God has given us the right to defend ourselves.”

  “Were we defending ourselves the night we attacked that café? Because it seems like we started that fight. And did any of it matter? We didn’t stop the war or get the Nazis to leave Krakow. We can’t even say that lives were saved because of what we did.” Her voice rose in pitch. “What about in Lodz? All we did there was make things worse. I only wanted to get some answers, but instead we stole a weapon, lost food that could have saved lives, and ended up being the cause of an Aktion. Maybe what we’re doing is just as bad as the enemy!”

  “Stop it!” It’s a good thing we were outside of town because I heard myself yelling. “Don’t ever say that again. Don’t ever think like that again. We are not like them!”

  She instantly cowered. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean—”

  “What happened in Lodz was murder, every single shooting. The Aktion might’ve started because they were looking for us, but—” I stopped there, the words choking my throat. Until this moment, I hadn’t had to think too much about this, that the consequences of entering the ghettos weren’t always good. But I’d never been part of anything that awful. “The Aktion started because they were looking for us. They were looking for us.”

  This was never what I had joined the resistance to do. I became a courier to save lives, to offer help and a chance for survival. I was never supposed to be the reason people died.

  “Chaya, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”

  “No more talking.” Tears welled in my own eyes, but I didn’t want them. I didn’t want to think about Lodz anymore, about the people who were being buried today, including three brave teens I would have considered friends, had they lived.

  Would it be the same story in Warsaw? Would it be the same story until the last of our people were gone?

  Off to the side of the road was a small woodshed. It had a narrow window facing the road that we could use to see out, if necessary, and it was guarded by a blackthorn tree bare of leaves. I could see the thorns sticking out along every branch, hopefully a deterrent for anyone else approaching the woodshed. It should provide us a decent place to rest until dark. A safe place to cry away
the memories of Lodz.

  February 18, 1943

  Road near Brzeziny

  I awoke with a start to the rattling sound of a car driving by. Morning light streamed in uneven streaks through the dirty window, where patches of bright sunlight blended with splotches of shadow. Esther yawned beside me, but it took her a moment to realize the same thing that had me already shaking my head.

  We had overslept.

  This little shed must have been gathering heat all day, so when we climbed in here, feeling secure from being discovered, it had been too easy to nest ourselves on the round logs, curl up near each other, and sleep. Truly sleep.

  Maybe we needed it, but now we were facing a full day ahead in which walking was unsafe and hiding was unbearable.

  “We’ll just have to be careful,” I told Esther. “We’re not staying here.”

  “But if we’re seen, if we’re questioned—”

  “Who gave you this assignment, to go to Warsaw?” I asked.

  “Antek did, I told you that already.”

  “And when did he explain that your safety was the top priority? That at all costs, you were to protect yourself?”

  Esther lowered her eyes. “He never did. We’re to get to Warsaw as quickly as possible.”

  “Then gather your things. Let’s go.”

  The problem was, we had very few “things,” the exact opposite position I wanted to be in at this point in our journey. I had the stolen gun hidden in Esther’s sack, but not a single bullet. Thanks to yesterday’s purchases, we also had warmer coats where our identification papers were now, but we hadn’t had enough left to buy any food. Our last meal had been a full day ago, but I tried not to think of that.

  To avoid entanglements with the Nazis, we kept to the back roads, but they still showed tire tracks from cars and wagons, and prints from horse and foot traffic.

  I doubted we’d see anything today beyond scattered farmhouses and the occasional shop, but that was hardly reason to relax. The neighbors in this small community would be familiar with one another. Anyone who did see us would know we weren’t from here.

  Which was why I immediately raised my guard when I spotted a woman headed toward us with a basket in her arms. She waved, then realized we were strangers and lowered her hand. This was wartime, and she knew she must be cautious too. She came closer and I saw her basket filled with eggs, perhaps on her way to a market.

  I wanted those eggs, even a single one. It had been a long time since I’d had a fresh egg and my mouth watered for it. Don’t stare at the basket, I reminded myself. Don’t give her a reason to be suspicious.

  She greeted me in Polish and I responded in Polish, as polite and friendly as possible.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “There’s nothing around here.”

  “Our grandmother lives up the road,” I casually replied. “Our parents sent us out of the city to stay with her.”

  “Who’s your grandmother?” Her tone was marginally friendly, though her eye was almost constantly on Esther. That worried me.

  “Maria Nowak.” It was a good Polish name, matched my papers, and was common enough that it wouldn’t surprise me if there actually was a woman nearby with that name. Lying had become second nature to me now. Half the time, I had to stop myself from lying when it wasn’t necessary, just because I could.

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t know her. But we’ve had many new people come in from the city over the last couple of years.” She looked at Esther again, too long, too earnestly. In response, Esther looked down at her feet, all but admitting guilt. “Where are you girls from?”

  “Lodz.” Although I’d told Esther not to claim having come from anywhere she was unfamiliar with, in this case, we had to. There was no other big city close enough to justify why we were here on foot.

  “I go into Lodz every week to sell eggs.” She lifted her basket, igniting my hunger again. “Maybe I’ve seen you there before, because you look familiar.” That was addressed to Esther. “Perhaps on Bracka Street?”

  Esther drew in a breath and looked down again. Bracka Street was one of the few roads in Lodz that we did know. It was inside the ghetto, the very road where we stood before Avraham brought us into his apartment. The road where Avraham and his friends were shot.

  I laughed that away, each chuckle choking on my feelings of guilt and shame. “Bracka Street?”

  The woman didn’t laugh, and any friendliness in her smile vanished. She addressed me first. “I don’t know about you, girl, whether you’re one of those Jews or whether you’re one of these fool Poles trying to hide them.” Her eye turned to Esther. “But you are definitely one of them. And if you’ve come from Lodz, then you escaped from Lodz.”

  It was time to be aggressive. I pulled my Kennkarte from my pocket and held it out for the woman. “See this? I’m Polish, same as you.” By then, Esther had her identification out as well. “And same as my cousin. How dare you make such accusations?”

  “Identification papers can be forged. I’ve seen—” She paused at the sound of a wagon headed up the road. In it was a large man driving a pair of horses. His face seemed kind and grandfatherly, but then, so had the man’s face on our train to Lodz. I wasn’t foolish enough to judge anyone based on appearances.

  My mind raced. In a small community such as this, these two surely knew each other. She would tell him her suspicions, and if he tried to grab us, I’d have only one choice.

  The gun. It was still unloaded, but they didn’t know that. I’d use it to steal this man’s wagon and we’d get as far as we could with it before we found another place to hide. I had no idea what we’d do after that.

  “Dzien dobry!” The man greeted us in Polish and stopped his wagon, but his friendly smile quickly evaporated. Perhaps he sensed the tension in the air. Or perhaps he also suspected Esther and me. Why wasn’t she looking up? Why didn’t she defend her identity—her false identity?

  “These girls and I were talking,” the woman said. “I think they are—”

  “Visitors to our little village,” he said. “Welcome!”

  “We’re on our way to visit our grandmother.” Digging in with the lie was my only option, short of waving my unloaded gun around. “Maria Nowak. Do you know her?”

  He smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do. My name is Wit Golinski. I can take you there.”

  Esther and I looked at each other. Could we trust him? And what were we supposed to do when he dropped us off at this woman’s home? Go to the door and have her shoo us away as strangers, right in front of this man?

  “Look at that one,” the woman said, pointing a crooked finger at Esther. “She’s obviously—”

  “Cold, how right you are,” Wit said, finishing the woman’s sentence again. “Your concern for the health of these two girls does you credit, ma’am. Thank you for your kindness, but I’ll make sure they get to their grandmother’s.”

  I didn’t think he was nearly as naïve as the woman clearly believed. But I hadn’t decided yet what that meant for us.

  “Thank you, sir, we’d appreciate the ride,” I said, heading to the back of the wagon. When the opportunity came, we’d jump out and run.

  Even that would be impossible. Wit patted the seat beside him. “Ride up here where we can pass the trip with some good conversation. Your—”

  I took Esther’s hand. “She’s my cousin.”

  He smiled. “Your cousin can sit behind us. There’s plenty of room.”

  We didn’t have any choice. I certainly wouldn’t stay another minute in this woman’s company. I disliked her enough by now that I didn’t want her eggs anymore.

  Well, yes, I did. But if I ate them, I wouldn’t enjoy them nearly as much as I would have before.

  The bigger question was, would getting into this man’s wagon save us from the woman, or prove more dangerous than she ever could have been?

  February 18, 1943

  Road near Kolacin

  From what I’d seen, there we
re three kinds of Polish citizens in the country these days. The first were those who endeared themselves to the invaders, who proudly allowed their homes to be assimilated into the German territory and their lives into the Nazi culture. They helped in the war effort, either because it benefited them or because it kept them from harm. The woman with the eggs probably belonged in this category, but I was glad we weren’t there long enough to find out for sure. These were like the men who had stopped Yitzchak and my father on the street and harassed them or even beat them, knowing they wouldn’t fight back because the persecution would only get worse if they did. Or the women who rode the trolleys through the ghetto to laugh at the Jews and shout that we had finally gotten what we deserved. I considered them traitors to Poland, and certainly traitors to their fellow citizens who were being crushed beneath the boots of the Nazis. When this war ended, I suspected many of these people would meet their end just as the Nazis eventually would, with shame and cowardice, having been betrayed themselves. And I wouldn’t shed a single tear when they did.

  The second group of Poles, the largest group, were merely surviving, trying to blend into the background. They might’ve moved into the homes abandoned by Jews who were sent to the ghettos, and might’ve taken over our shops and our possessions, but they felt little joy in it. They didn’t help us, but they believed that at least ignoring our situation caused no harm. They were wrong. If there was any difference between causing a man to drown and failing to throw him a rope, it certainly didn’t matter to the man in the water.

  Although a small minority, the third group of Poles was different. They helped. They snuck close to the ghetto at night and tossed bread over the walls. They looked the other way when a Jewish child stole food from their shops to take back to his family. Or they took Jewish people into their lives, into their homes, and offered them a place to hide, a chance to escape the fate that tens of thousands of us had already suffered. They did this knowing what would happen to them and their family if they were caught. I would love these people for as long as I lived, and fight for them as hard as I would fight for any of my own.