by David Safier
“You are going to smuggle him out!” I felt a tiny hope sprouting in me. Maybe Amos could get me out of here, too. Me and the baby. Us.
“I can’t find him, though,” Amos said, looking everywhere for his friend and getting more and more nervous every minute.
“Take me with you, then!” I burst out.
“I’ve only got enough money to free one person,” he said. “I can only get Zacharia past the SS.”
“But you can’t find him!” I answered quickly.
Amos looked at me, dismayed. The idea of abandoning a comrade in the resistance for me was not something he could contemplate. But I wasn’t going to give up. “Your friend could be on a train by now.”
“You don’t know that!”
“You don’t know, either! And the longer you stay here, the bigger your chances of being gassed, too!”
Amos knew that, too, and he started to waver.
The baby was crying louder and louder.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” I kept saying to him.
He didn’t argue.
“But can you really leave without taking someone with you?”
“By someone you mean you?” he asked scornfully. He had come here to save his friend, not some girl he kissed once.
“Yes.”
He couldn’t make up his mind. Why couldn’t he make up his mind?
The baby was screaming right in my ear.
I held it away from me.
“The money is really important for the movement.”
“More important than someone’s life?”
“Than your life?” he corrected me.
“Is it more important than my life?”
“We can buy arms.”
“And that’s more important than my life?”
Amos bit his lip. Until it started to bleed. Then he made up his mind, “All right, I’ll get you out of here.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was going to escape the gas!
“But the baby has to stay here.”
I stared at the little baby whose face had turned bright red by now.
“I told you, there’s only enough money for one person.”
Now it was my turn to waver. The child screamed and screamed and screamed. As if it knew what this was all about.
“Come on,” Amos insisted, “before I change my mind.”
What kind of human do you want to be?
One who is there for her sister! And one who stays alive.
I turned round in panic, trying to find the doctor I’d seen before. She must be somewhere. She could put the child out of its misery! But I couldn’t see her anywhere. So I handed the crying baby to a woman standing beside me, just like its mother had done to me. She looked at me, horrified, and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Keep a lookout for the lady doctor. Ask for cyanide.”
I didn’t stop to say any more. I headed after Amos.
“Wait!” the woman called, and tried to follow us, but we pushed through the crowd and she lost sight of us. Her shouting and the baby’s wailing faded away until I couldn’t hear them anymore.
I’d abandoned a child. And I didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl.
32
We paid the SS men a hundred thousand at the gates. So that was what a life was worth—my life. Amos had saved me for the second time.
Once we got out, he bit his bleeding bottom lip even harder.
“I’m sorry about Zacharia,” I said.
But Amos didn’t say anything. Maybe he could tell I didn’t really mean it—I’d be on my way to the death camp if he’d found his friend. But I was too devastated to care. I had abandoned that baby. It was the first time that I’d done anything like that. The guilt would never go away.
We walked through the streets in silence until Amos said, “You’ll join us now?” It was actually more of a statement than a question.
When I’d been stuck in our dark pantry, I’d dreamed of joining Hashomer Hatzair and Amos and showing the whole world that we Jews were not like defenseless animals being led to slaughter, but reality wasn’t like that. We’d all been defenseless at the Umschlagplatz. Including me. I wasn’t a fighter. And I didn’t want to be one. I still had Hannah and Mama.
When I didn’t reply, Amos got angry, “We just paid a lot of money for you!”
“So you bought my life?”
Amos realized that he’d gone too far and shut up. After a while, he finally said, “It’s our mission to seek revenge against the Germans.” His eyes were gleaming with determination and hate.
But I didn’t have that kind of hatred or determination in me. I couldn’t kill anyone. Not even Germans. “My mission is to look after my family,” I said.
Amos turned away. This man had saved my life twice, and this was how I was thanking him.
“I … I’m sorry,” I said. So that he could hardly hear.
His answer was to simply leave me standing in the middle of the street.
33
I got to our kitchen.
The dresser had been knocked over.
They were in the pantry:
Ruth.
Mama.
Hannah.
Slumped.
In a pool of blood.
34
I screamed like a wounded animal. I screamed until I started to cry. At some stage the crying turned to a whimper. When that stopped, I just stared at the bodies for the rest of the night.
Then hate came.
I was so full of hatred, I wanted kill someone.
Me.
35
I wasn’t there. I wasn’t with them. Not with them. I should be dead with them. I was meant to … die.
I went over to the window. It was still dark. There were no streetlights on in the ghetto anymore. There was no one left who could use them. I noticed a small crack in one of the windowpanes. I could see myself breaking the window, picking up one of the pieces of glass, and using it to slit my wrists. Going to the pantry to join the others. Taking Hannah’s lifeless body in my arms and slowly bleeding to death beside her.
Being with her seemed right.
I looked around for something to smash the window. The old saucepan in the dresser, maybe? Or the broken kitchen door handle? I could easily pull it off the door. Or I could try to break the glass with an elbow. If I was going to slit my wrists, it wouldn’t matter if I cut myself first.
I lifted my elbow and rammed it into the glass, but nothing happened. I tried again, with more force, but the window simply wouldn’t break. All I did was hurt my elbow. I went over to the dresser, took out the saucepan, went back to the window, and struck it with all my might. The glass shattered into hundreds of pieces, which all fell out into the street. I should have worked that out beforehand. The pieces of glass didn’t make much noise when they hit the ground, but the sound echoed through the empty streets.
If the Germans heard that, they would come, find the broken glass, notice the window, storm the house, and shoot me.
Let them come.
That would be quicker than bleeding to death. I’d sit beside Hannah in the pantry and just let them execute me. Then I’d die the way I was supposed to.
But no Germans came.
I broke off another bit of glass from the window and cut my hand without meaning to. For a moment, I stopped thinking about everything—Hannah dead, wanting to kill myself—and instinctively started to suck the cut to try to stop it bleeding. The blood tasted vile, and I realized I was thirsty.
I stood by the broken window. I could feel the gentle breath of fresh air blowing across my face. The night was cooler than it had been over the past weeks. Autumn was on its way, but it was deepest darkest winter in my soul.
I opened the window wide to breathe in more fresh air, as if it could quench my thirst. Another piece of glass fell out onto the street. Still the Germans didn’t come.
I looked down to where the glass had gone, though I couldn’t actually see it in the dark. Maybe I
should just jump.
Like my father.
I could understand him now.
And I could forgive him.
But if I jumped, I wouldn’t be able to lie beside Hannah.
My hand was still bleeding. I kept sucking the cut, remembering I really was thirsty. I hadn’t drunk anything for more than a day. I was getting more and more muddled. I wanted to kill myself, but I wanted to drink something, too. My spirit wanted to die, my soul was dead already, but my starving body wanted to live.
There should still be a jug of water in the pantry. I could drink from that if it wasn’t shot to bits. I left the window and went over to the three dead bodies. They didn’t seem real. As if the corpses riddled with bullets had nothing to do with Hannah, Ruth, or Mama anymore. Their souls were gone. There was nothing left but skin and bones and congealed blood.
The stone jug filled with water stood behind the bodies on the floor. I stepped into the dark room to fetch it and trod on Mama’s arm. I stopped and lifted my foot and stared at the body. For a long time.
I never did tell her that I loved her.
My eyes wandered over to all that was left of Hannah, her mutilated soulless shell. Her death was absolutely pointless. So was her whole life.
So was my life.
So was my death.
I leaned over and picked up the jug. I couldn’t see if there was any blood in the water in the dark. Some could have splashed in. I raised the jug and let a little bit of water run over my dried lips. It tasted stale, but not like blood. So I lifted it again and drank a bit more water. Slowly, so as not to choke, I took another mouthful. And one more. And another, until the jug was empty.
Then all of a sudden I could think clearly again.
There was no thirst left to confuse me. I still wanted to die. Yes. I did. Even more than before. But I wasn’t going to slit my wrists. Or jump. I would die in a different way. A very different way. And not yet. Not today. Suicide was pointless. I wanted my death to have a purpose. It was the only way to give Hannah’s death any kind of meaning. Or her life.
Or what was left of mine.
36
“Here are the weapons,” Esther said matter-of-factly, and pointed toward a brown bag standing on the floor beside what was left of the printing press. The SS had destroyed it when they arrested Zacharia. There were five pistols in the bag. A real treasure for the resistance. For the Jewish resistance that is. For everyone else, the weapons were a joke. They were from the First World War, and they had cost a lot of money on the black market. The Polish dealers probably still couldn’t believe that we had paid fifteen thousand zlotys per gun. I was certain that one of them would jam when we needed it.
“You are to take them to Breul’s group on Karmaliicka Street,” she ordered. “You’ll be given hand grenades in return.”
“I’m to go alone?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes.”
I didn’t like this, but I didn’t want to refuse. It was my first mission for the group. At last, I could prove I was useful and show that the money the resistance had paid for me at the Umschlagplatz hadn’t been wasted.
Esther didn’t say goodbye when I grabbed the bag and left the kitchen. She didn’t like me. She didn’t think that I had what it took to be a fighter. I couldn’t care less. I only cared about one last thing these days. When I died, I wanted to take as many Germans with me as possible. I wanted to watch them burn for what they’d done to Hannah.
That was why I didn’t like this messenger job. Getting killed taking weapons from point A to point B wasn’t the heroic death I had in mind.
Before I went out, I nervously straightened out my new winter clothes. I’d found the thick coat and lined men’s trousers in an empty flat last week. The trousers flapped round my skinny legs and ankles. Then I went out into the empty street. Since the end of the Aktion two months ago, no one was ever seen in the ghetto during the day. The Germans had allowed no more than thirty thousand Jews to stay alive—or so we reckoned. Another twenty thousand were in hiding. That meant that only one in nine ghetto inhabitants was still alive. One in nine!
Jews only gathered on the streets in the early hours of the morning, on their way to work as slave labor in the workshops and factories, or on the Polish side of the city. And they didn’t come back till night. Anyone found on the streets at any other time was executed on the spot by the SS, day or night.
The cold November wind blew feathers up into the air. They floated about like snow. The feathers were everywhere in the ghetto because the pillows and bedding they had previously filled had been collected by the Germans’ slaves and taken to the depots along with everything that might make money for the Reich: jewelry, furniture, musical instruments, absolutely everything. The Germans called this pillage of dead Jews’ homes Werterfassung or the acquisition of “former” Jewish property.
I was living in a city of ghosts where it snowed feathers. The ghosts were the Jews still left alive in the ghetto. We were the living dead. Some of us were kept alive by hatred. The rest just by the bit of watery soup and bread they got at work. Nobody had any hope left. The Germans had halted the Aktion for the moment, but everybody knew that even the few of us left alive were going to be murdered. In a month. Or two. Or tomorrow.
I could hear the sound of a car in the distance. The SS was on patrol in another part of the ghetto. So I thought there was no danger. Though it was never a good idea to feel safe in the ghetto.
I turned a corner, and someone grabbed hold of me from behind. Panicking, I tried to get away. But it was no use. I could smell my attacker’s foul breath, but I couldn’t see him. Was he a German? A desperate Jew? He didn’t say anything. Until I kicked him in the shins to get away.
Then he started swearing, “You little slut!”
But instead of letting go, he held me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. While I choked for air, I saw the sleeves of his coat and realized that my attacker was wearing a blue uniform. So he was a Polish policeman. Not a German soldier who was going to shoot me any minute.
I gave up resisting. The Pole loosened his grip slightly, but didn’t let go. I could breathe. My chest hurt. It was probably badly bruised.
“What’s in the bag?” the Polish policeman asked, and his breath stank like a carrion eater’s.
There was no point in lying. Even if I managed to pull away and flee, I would have to leave the weapons we had paid so much money for behind. I couldn’t do that. My only chance was to make the policeman fear for his life more than I feared for mine. As I didn’t fear for mine all that much, it could just work.
“I’m a member of the Jewish Fighting Organization,” I said.
The carrion eater took a sharp breath. Was he scared? He was definitely worried. Unfortunately he didn’t let go.
“I’m carrying weapons in the bag. If I fail to deliver them, my people will come and kill you,” I said as calmly as possible.
This wasn’t a completely empty threat. The resistance had executed several Jewish collaborators. Though no Germans had been killed so far. Much to my regret; I wanted them all to drown in their own blood. Like Mama. Ruth. Hannah.
Also, we hadn’t killed any Polish policemen so far, which weakened my threat somewhat. It didn’t sound like a joke; it just wasn’t quite as convincing as I would have liked. Would he give in, because his fear was greater than his greed? Or would he beat me to death and then enjoy his winnings?
The carrion eater had other ideas. He twisted my arm behind my back. I gasped in pain. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of groaning out loud, or screaming.
“If you try to fight, I’ll break your skinny little arm!”
He marched me down the street to the Jewish bank. It was still run by the Jewish council and was where Jews who worked for the Nazis stashed their filthy money. It seemed that the Polish policeman’s real job was to guard the bank. He hadn’t been on the lookout for Jews. I’d just been stupid enough to run straight into his arms.
“Pawel!” he called. “Pawel, give me a hand!”
Another policeman came out of the bank. He was tall with a beard. He was taken aback at the sight of me. The carrion eater told him, “There’s a little treasure here, and I’m not talking about the girl.”
“She’s too skinny anyway,” the one with the beard replied in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. He tore the bag away from me, almost breaking my fingers. Once again I clenched my teeth and merely gasped in pain.
He looked into the bag. “Only Jews would pay anything for this junk,” he said.
The carrion eater knocked me over and said, “Tell your friends they can have the bag back for two hundred thousand zlotys.”
I looked up at him and saw his face for the first time and his rotten teeth. “Hurry up!” he ordered, and laughed.
I got up and ran off as fast as I could. But as soon as I was round the next corner, I stopped. I could never go back to Esther, Amos, and the others like this. Not having blown a simple mission and cost the resistance even more money. That would be the final proof that I was useless.
I leaned against the house wall and felt a wave of despair. A gust of wind blew feathers in my face. Once upon a time, a Jew had cushioned his head on those. He was probably turned to ashes by now. Thinking about death brought Hannah to my mind again. I closed my eyes, and there she was lying in her own blood. She would never be able to tell another story. But I was going to have to make one up if I wanted to get the guns back.
37
I waited a bit because if I was too fast, the story I’d devised for the Poles wouldn’t work.
After about half an hour, I went back. The lion door knocker was lying broken on the ground, so I banged against the heavy wooden door with my fist. The bearded policeman with the high voice opened the door, and before he could ask for the money, I walked past him into the bank. It was pretty dark inside; the windows were all broken and had been boarded up. That must have happened some time ago, maybe during the Aktion and they’d never been replaced—there was no point in repairing anything in the ghetto.