Death in Twilight

by Jason Fields

  “It’s light,” Aaron said gruffly, trying to hide his embarrassment. “We should get moving.”

  Teitel turned red-rimmed eyes to Aaron and then to Boris and Dov, asleep in the other cots. His eyes slammed shut again and he rolled over onto his other side. Aaron kicked him and then leaned in the other direction and shook Boris awake.

  When the man’s black eyes blinked open, all Aaron said was “Sun’s up.”

  Boris kicked Dov in turn.

  Cigarettes and a dash of plum brandy usually dispelled the men’s grogginess. But today they were able to add recently fresh bread to their usual “Balkan breakfast.” In fact, to celebrate last night’s success, Teitel suggested opening a few tins of a mystery stew that had been intended as German field rations.

  Dov voiced concern when he looked down into the can after its top had been removed.

  “Do you think if I say a brucha over it, it’ll become kosher?” he asked.

  “Try it and see what happens,” Teitel said. “But if you decide that’s not good enough, I’ll be happy to eat yours.”

  Aaron stuck two fingers into the gray glop and scooped something unrecognizable into his mouth. His taste buds were no help in unraveling the ingredients in the enigmatic mush, but the solidity of the food as it hit his stomach was both gratifying and a little nauseating.

  Aaron spared a moment for guilt at eating so well while surrounded by so many hungry people — but just a moment. He knew plenty of others who lived better in the ghetto by doing worse — collaborators, extortionists, thieves and murderers.

  Some of his best clients were men and women who still enjoyed tattered remnants of their lives of plenty, or had become “rich” through the positions they’d wrangled for themselves at the Judenrat. They took bribes from the poor for everything from ration cards to jobs.

  Aaron didn’t love them, but he took their money just like everyone else’s. He used the prices he charged them to help subsidize everyone else, as well as to provide for his own comfort. What he charged a rich man for a bottle of slivovitz was enough to bring in kilo after kilo of bread.

  And being rich, or even corrupt, didn’t necessarily make someone stupidly selfish. The Torah raiment that was being exchanged for the guns came from a thief who understood that money wouldn’t be enough to save his family from the Germans.

  Aaron knew that the twenty-five rifles he expected tonight wouldn’t make much difference against the Werhmacht, but it was better to have them than to be completely defenseless. What he’d seen the day before at Breslaw Hospital added to a certainty that had been growing for several months. Though the ghetto might seem like Hell, Jews would not be spending all eternity here. The ghetto, with its starvation and terrors, was merely a stopping point on the way to the real thing.

  So, the twenty-five rifles Yelena brought would, he hoped, become one hundred in week, two hundred in a month.

  In two months?

  Aaron had no idea. By then it might be entirely too late. The battle might have been fought and lost. Still, he hoped each rifle would kill a German soldier and send a message to the Reich. Like the Roman emperor Titus at Masada, Hitler would learn that Jews do not go quietly.

  Would providing weapons to a doomed resistance save his soul from the sin of eating while children starved? Aaron knew it wouldn’t, but he worked hard to convince himself otherwise.

  The curfew had ended at first light. By the time Aaron reached the building’s front door, several hand carts and other conveyances were waiting. It was important to get them loaded and on their way quickly, before the operation was spotted by the authorities.

  Aaron looked at his young couriers; grubby boys who sat on bicycle rickshaws, all of which had been built out of spare parts. To earn what amounted to loose change, the boys moved any cargo they could find from one side of town to the other, including passengers.

  Aaron was familiar with most of the boys who greeted him, either from working with them before or seeing them around the neighborhood. Some were working as the only support for their families, he knew, and many were simply orphans who had found a way to survive. They were all, without exception, dirty. They wore tweed caps and clothes that were raggedly patched with varying degrees of success. They seemed bright-eyed and eager in the early light, knowing that they would be fed some of what they transported.

  “Chaim, you’re first,” Aaron called to the boy nearest. Dov had come up behind Aaron and the two men quickly loaded several sacks aboard the rickshaw. When everything was set, Aaron handed over a thick slice of bread to the driver and asked, “You know where you’re going?”

  “Thirty-two fifty-one Lezno Street.”

  “Good. Go.”

  The next rickshaw pulled up and was piled high. The driver got a different address to go with his slice of bread.

  And then the next.

  And the next.

  “Police!” cried the boy who was the furthest away from the makeshift loading dock. He mounted his bike and, in a panic, began to pedal. Other boys tried to follow suit but got tangled together before they’d made it a hundred feet. Curtains were drawn in a hundred windows, with only a corner left open for spying.

  “Germans?” Aaron shouted to a boy who could see around the corner.

  “Jewish.”

  Aaron could feel himself relax somewhat. He was comfortable that the patrol would be happy to take a bribe. Especially from the man who was supposed to be finding the killer of one of their own.

  Aaron was even more confident when he saw that the man leading the patrol was Shemtov, one of the cops who had found Berson’s body. A personal connection would work even better than greed.

  Shemtov took his time as he walked up the block with an officer who Aaron didn’t recognize. The big policeman made a show of studying each young face he passed. He nodded slightly and in a way that told each of them that they would be remembered.

  Finally done with his hard looks, Shemtov walked straight up to Aaron, who stood on the stoop of the building.

  Shemtov showed no sign of having met Aaron before.

  “What’s going on here?” Shemtov asked, speaking in the exact same manner as every other cop down through history.

  Aaron had used that voice many times himself when he was a gendarme. It was a tone that could make a saint feel sinful and a newborn want back into the womb.

  “I’d be happy to explain, officer,” Aaron said.

  “Of course you would.”

  “Perhaps we could speak privately?” Aaron suggested. There was a form to be observed, after all.

  Shemtov nodded.

  “Ciarnakow, stay here and make sure everyone behaves.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Aaron imagined he could see the second officer licking his lips at the promise of a bribe. What would it be? Cash? Something even better?

  Shemtov took Aaron roughly by the shoulder and dragged him halfway down the block. Aaron noticed curtains twitch to get a better view of the action. But if the people behind them were hoping to hear anything, they were disappointed. Both men spoke in near whispers, their heads close together.

  “Have you found him?” Shemtov asked.

  “The man who killed Berson? No.”

  “Well, what have you been doing since yesterday? I figured if you were back to your usual business — yes, I know what you do — you must have found Berson’s killer already.”

  Shemtov hadn’t released his grip on Aaron’s shoulder and now tightened it.

  If Aaron felt the pinch, he didn’t show it. When he replied, his voice held no strain.

  “A prior engagement that had to be kept,” he said evenly. “Nothing I could have done overnight, anyway.”

  The grip stayed tight.

  “Did you find Gersh?” Shemtov asked.

  “I did,” Aaron said. “He said he wasn’t with Berson when it happened, of course. And he said he was injured in another incident entirely, meaning that he left Berson alone for the rest of the
shift.”

  Aaron saw no reason to reveal Gersh’s alter ego as a Polish national.

  “Did he say anything else?” Shemtov asked.

  “He didn’t have much of a chance before he was taken outside and shot.”

  “He was killed at Breslaw?”

  Aaron reached for a cigarette from the inside of his coat. When he opened the top buttons he realized his fingers weren’t frozen and that the air allowed inside the coat felt almost warm. After offering the pack to Shemtov, who took three, Aaron slowly nodded.

  “Shit,” Shemtov said quietly.

  Aaron agreed and helped light one of Shemtov’s cigarettes. Both men drew deeply.

  A minute passed.

  “Any progress at all?” Shemtov asked.

  “Some. You know anything about Berson’s rabbi? I found one of these flyers in his room.”

  Aaron handed it over.

  Shemtov looked at it carefully. His lips followed along silently as he read the prayer.

  “Amen,” he said, and after a pause, “I’ve seen a few of the flyers around the station. I’m not sure it was Berson who brought them in, though now I guess it must have been. From what I’ve heard, the congregation is run by some kind of holy man from the hinterlands. His people were transported here from the back of the beyond. Very strict sect, a little secretive.”

  “And they’re reaching out for new parishioners?”

  “I guess so,” Shemtov said with a shrug. “Maybe they don’t have enough for a minyan anymore. They wouldn’t be the only ones.”

  “I guess not,” Aaron said. “They’re my next stop. If Berson was so religious, his rabbi might know what he was up to.”

  “I guess it’s worth a shot.”

  Aaron turned to go.

  A rough hand stopped him, grabbing the same shoulder it had so recently released.

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “This,” Shemtov said, pointing to the boys and the pile up of their vehicles. “I can’t just let you go without paying the tax. People would be suspicious.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, I guess I could just let it go, and we can tell everyone here that you’re working with us.”

  Shemtov’s smile was ugly.

  Aaron sighed.

  “Take what you want then.”

  The two men walked back to where the second officer was standing.

  “We’ve reached an agreement,” Shemtov told the other man.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, it turns out all of this is part of Mr. Kaminski’s charity work,” Shemtov said. “He’s known around town as quite a humanitarian. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”

  “Very surprising.”

  “He’s very, very generous.”

  Shemtov slapped Aaron on the back. Aaron gritted his teeth and displayed them in a smile filled with so much acid that it could have burned through the armor of a German tank.

  After one more slap, the two officers borrowed a cloth sack and began to go shopping. In a few minutes, the sack was full and some of the most precious commodities, including a dozen eggs and two cartons of cigarettes, were in it.

  But still they didn’t leave. Instead, the policemen walked to opposite corners of the block and stood looking out.

  “What are you doing?” Aaron asked Shemtov.

  “We’re a full-service department,” Shemtov said. “You get value for what you pay for, which in this case is safe passage. So, get this stuff out of here quickly, before I have to be somewhere else.”

  The bicycle rickshaws had finally been untangled and, seeing how things were, the boys began to line up again to pick up the supplies.

  Dov and Boris did most of the loading now, while Aaron sat on the stoop thinking about his next move.

  Sacks and cartons were placed on the rickshaws as quickly as possible. The ritual was repeated until there were no more rickshaws and the supplies were running thin. Only the rusty rifles hadn’t been moved from the building. There were some things even the Jewish Police would have a hard time overlooking.

  As both a thank you and a plea for silence, the smugglers left a large pile of supplies, from flour to fuel, in the hall of the building they were using. Aaron trusted the woman who led the building’s house committee with ensuring everything was parceled out fairly.

  After the boys were gone, Shemtov offered Aaron a mockery of a salute, grabbed his bulky package and walked off with his partner. Not even 8 a.m. and he’d already done a good day’s work.

  Aaron took his leave of Teitel and the others with the promise they would rendezvous back at the building that night. Dov would stay in the basement, guarding the guns they already had, as well as the Torah vestments.

  Aaron took a small sack of the remaining goods for his own, intending to ingratiate himself with Berson’s rabbi by way of an offering. If he walked quickly, he would arrive just after morning prayers.

  Chapter 10

  Berson’s shul was located on a street without a synagogue. Instead, it was lined with stables and funeral parlors. The mix was no coincidence. The primary use of horse-drawn carts in the Jewish district was to haul away bodies.

  It was later than Aaron had hoped it would be when he arrived. The walk had taken longer than he’d anticipated, and the streets had filled early with hungry people hoping to find something they could afford from the various vendors. The selection, as ever, was poor, with bread made partly from talc and sawdust to make up for a shortage of flour.

  Aaron had noticed a stand or two where his own runners had already made their deliveries. He received a wink from several of the proprietors and returned a smile. In more than one case, he was shocked to see how much the prices for his goods had been marked up. But then, a carrot that showed hardly any sign of rot was a true rarity in the ghetto.

  Starvation and malnutrition in Miasto weren’t caused solely by lack of quantity. Just as serious was the quality of the bread and produce. The Judenrat was responsible for using money collected in taxes to buy in supplies. They placed orders with both Polish and German contractors and, often enough, the food would arrive.

  The problem was that the food delivered was made from the scraps of the German empire: turnips that were unripe or overripe, misshapen or too small, flour that wasn’t entirely flour. Worse, entire shipments were often spoiled or contaminated in some other way.

  The challenge to the ghetto’s cooks, stomachs and doctors was considerable. Many people ended up on the street where Aaron now found himself because of contamination and spoilage.

  Sheinin & Sons was the biggest of the ghetto’s funeral homes. Aaron could see that business was good. Hearses and carts were queued up and a funeral procession was just beginning its journey to the large cemetery on the border of the ghetto.

  The cemetery was no longer just a place for the dead, but, as the only open space now permitted to the citizens of the sealed district, it was also used as a park. Unfortunately, its capacity was limited and the supply of newly dead did not seem to be. It would not be long before bodies would need to be piled on top of each other, in addition to the mass graves that had already been dug for those who died in total anonymity.

  Still, the rituals were carried out with care for those who could afford them. The group in front of Aaron put on a fair show of mourning. Both men and women wore respectable black, the men’s lapels were torn to demonstrate their grief, the women’s heads covered. The family was not, perhaps, overly religious, as none of the men had side locks and the women wore their own hair. Still, it was a distinctly Jewish affair in that the men, women and children were humiliated by wearing the armbands the Nazis had forced on them even as they buried their loved one.

  An old woman — perhaps now a widow — was at the center of the procession. She was supported by those around her, including a middle-aged man who Aaron decided was her son. The woman herself appeared to have crumpled under the weight of her grief. She would be joinin
g her husband soon, Aaron thought to himself.

  A beautifully appointed hearse led the procession. The wagon was constructed largely of engraved glass with the Star of David prominently etched into it, along with a few words of Hebrew prayer. The rest of the wagon was black, of course, the casket inside a simple pine box — the most elaborate coffin allowed under Jewish law. Drawing the hearse was a horse in shockingly good condition. Certainly not fat, but neither were its ribs prominent. It was brown with a white star on its forehead, and clearly somebody loved it very much.

  Aaron was also fairly certain it would be a good advertisement for business. Everyone who saw it would remember.

  After the funeral had passed him by, Aaron checked the number on the mortuary’s building. It wasn’t the one he was looking for. Next-door was the stable where the still-vigorous horse probably spent its nights. From what Aaron could tell, they must have been lonely ones. There was hardly a whiff of manure on the air as he walked past.

  He had to peer carefully at every structure on the street. None of their numbers were prominently displayed. When he reached under his coat for a cigarette, he was surprised to find sweat under his arms. The wind had been defanged, swirling well above zero degrees centigrade. Even the gray of the sky was a lighter shade — brighter than the gray of German uniforms. It was weather that boded better times soon to come. Aaron willed himself to believe it, but failed.

  Finishing his cigarette, he reached into the bag he was carrying and tore himself off a crust of bread. Young eyes caught the motion and followed hand to mouth. Faster than thought, short legs sprang to action, propelling a girl toward the sack Aaron carried at great speed. As she ran past she snatched it from his lightly clenched hand.

  His reflexes were good, though. One of his arms shot out and grabbed the girl before she had a chance to get out of reach, catching her by the collar of her coat. She tried to shrug it off but, luckily for Aaron, it was buttoned, holding her up just long enough for him to wrap an arm around her middle.

  She struggled for another minute, quickly exhausting herself. He looked down at her and saw that she couldn’t have been much more than eight years old. Her hair was dirty, stringy, even matted in places. The eyes in her smudged face stood out, piercing green. To look at her, it would have been impossible to judge her either Aryan or Jew. And yet here she was on the Jewish side of the wall.