by Pam Jenoff
I stop reading and look up, my hands shaking. My parents are going to be sent to the camps. Don’t think about it now, I tell myself, knowing that if I do I will not be able to function. I reread the text, trying to memorize the key portions to report to Alek. I quickly realize that there is too much detail for me to remember. There are dates and names of places and numbers that mean nothing to me but could be significant to the resistance. I hesitate. Originally, I had planned just to read the papers and report to Alek on what I had seen. That was all he asked me to do. But looking at the papers once more, I realize that this will not suffice. I am going to have to take them.
Or at least a copy. Holding up the papers, I see that they have been typed on carbon paper. I lick my thumb and work at the corner of the first page. The back sheet, a thin carbon copy, separates from the main page. I hesitate. Do I dare take it? The chances of the Kommandant noticing the carbon copy missing are slim, but if I am caught with such a document it would cost my life, not to mention putting those around me in grave danger. Still, the opportunity is too good to pass up. The actual document will be of much greater value to Alek than just my memorization of it. Gingerly, I separate the back copy from the front, then do the same with each of the remaining four pages. I return the original document to the secret compartment, then close the drawer. I look up at the clock on the wall. I have been gone from the office for nearly an hour. Malgorzata will be suspicious if I do not return soon. I fold the carbon copy twice quickly and put it inside the neckline of my blouse. Then I close the drawer. Taking a last look to make sure I have left the chair and desk exactly as I found them, I back out of the study and hurry through the living room. I did it, I think, a wave of relief washing over me as I exit the apartment and close the door behind me.
“Dzien dobry, Miss Anna,” a male voice says from behind me. I freeze, a wave of dread washing over me. I have been caught. It is over. I turn slowly to face Stanislaw, the Kommandant’s driver, holding a bag of groceries.
I try to breathe. “Dzien dobry, Stanislaw,” I manage to say. “Didn’t you drive…”
He shakes his head. “Because of the snow that is expected to the north, Herr Kommandant thought it best to take the train to Warsaw. He decided only this morning.”
“Oh.” I knew that Stanislaw sometimes came to the apartment on errands during the day when the Kommandant was at the office and did not need him to drive. But with the Kommandant traveling, it had not occurred to me that he might be here today. An awkward silence passes between us. “I—I was just dropping off some papers the Kommandant needs when he comes home tonight,” I offer at last.
He nods. “Of course,” he says evenly. His face is expressionless and I cannot tell if he believes me. Suddenly, his head stops mid-nod and his eyes freeze on my midsection. I look down. Sticking out of the top of my blouse are the carbon copies of the papers.
“Oh…” I raise my hand to my blouse. Stanislaw has seen the papers that I have taken from the Kommandant’s apartment. Frantically, I try to think of an explanation. If only it were raining so I could say that I had been picking up papers for the office and did not want them to get wet. At last I give up. “I need these papers,” I say helplessly. I can think of nothing else.
Stanislaw stares at me for several seconds, not speaking. I wonder if he is trying to decide what to do. Then a small smile appears on his lips. “Of course,” he says again. He reaches over and tucks the edge of the papers back under the corner of my shirt so it is no longer visible. Then, without speaking further, he walks past me into the apartment with the groceries.
I stare after him, too surprised to move. He’s letting me go, I realize with amazement. It had not occurred to me that the Kommandant’s driver might have anti-Nazi sympathies. He is a Pole, I think, but still…Not daring to linger further, I check once more to make sure the papers are hidden, then turn and start quickly back to the office.
CHAPTER 17
That night after work I race back to Krysia’s house. She sits on the parlor sofa, knitting, Lukasz sleeping soundly in her lap. “I need to see Alek right away,” I say softly. I do not show Krysia the papers and she doesn’t ask what I have found. It is better that she know as little as possible.
Krysia nods. “I will try to make contact first thing tomorrow.”
The next morning after breakfast, she asks me to watch Lukasz. She returns several minutes later, wearing one of her Sunday dresses.
“You are going to church?” I ask, surprised.
“Sometimes I can make contact that way.” After she leaves, I reflect on the irony of the Jewish resistance using church as a means of communication. I suppose it makes sense, I conclude. It is one of the few places in town that there are no Nazis.
Several hours later, Krysia returns home. Her face is grave. “They’re gone,” she says, breathing heavily as she walks into the kitchen and falls into a chair.
“Gone?” Frantic, I kneel in front of her. “What do you mean?”
“I went to church to meet my contact, but he did not appear at his usual time. I waited there as long as I could, but I didn’t see him or any of the others. So I went to…to a secondary site where I know I can usually make contact.” I notice for the first time that Krysia’s fine leather boots are caked with mud and wonder where the secondary site might be. “I saw a friend who told me that there was a raid on resistance headquarters. No one was there at the time,” she adds quickly, seeing my expression. “And no one was arrested. The Gestapo didn’t find any papers or things of significance, either.” I nod, relieved. Alek is much too careful for that, I think, remembering the night in the ghetto he gave me the note from Jacob, then insisted on burning it. Krysia continues, “But Alek has moved headquarters to an even more secret location and has ordered all communications to be temporarily suspended. The resistance has gone dark.”
“Dark?”
“Yes,” Krysia replies. “No contact in or out until they are sure that it’s safe.” She bends over and loosens the laces on her boots.
I try to process what Krysia has said. No more contact with Alek, or Marta, my only links to Jacob. “But I have critical information,” I persist. “There has to be a way.”
“I’ve tried every way I know to make contact. I’m afraid it’s impossible.” Krysia stands and starts from the kitchen, then stops and turns back toward me. There is a faraway expression in her eyes and I can see her mind working.
“What is it?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s too dangerous.”
“What is?” I stand and walk over to her. “Krysia, if you have an idea, tell me.” I pick up her hand and squeeze it. “Please.”
She hesitates. “It’s probably nothing. But before the invasion and in the early days of the war, Alek and the others used to frequent a bar on Mikolajska Street called the Dark Horse.” I nod. I have walked past the place a number of times but have never been inside. Krysia continues, “The owner, Francisek Koch, was somewhat sympathetic to their cause. I am wondering if he might know something. But I cannot go there. It would attract too much attention.”
“True,” I agree. For an old woman to go to church was one thing, but to walk into a bar full of young people was quite another. I, on the other hand, could go. I open my mouth to start to tell Krysia this, then close it again.
“What is it?” she asks, studying my face.
“Nothing,” I reply. There is no point in telling her my idea; she would only forbid it. “I understand. It’s too dangerous.”
Krysia studies my face, unconvinced. “Why do I think that you will be going to the Dark Horse this evening?”
“I’m not…” I start, but she raises her hand.
“Never mind, don’t bother denying it. I don’t want you to lie to me and perhaps it’s better if I don’t know. I think it’s too risky, but it’s your decision.” She presses her lips together, smiling slightly. “You’ve earned that right.” She turns and walks slowly from the room, shoulder
s low.
That night after we’ve put Lukasz to bed, I make my way downstairs to the foyer. Krysia follows me, watching silently as I put on my coat. “I won’t be late,” I promise, tucking the papers inside my coat.
“Here.” Krysia reaches in her pocket and pulls out several coins and bills. “Take these. Pan Koch may talk more easily if you leave a large tip with your drink.”
I take the money reluctantly. “Thank you.”
Outside it is bitterly cold for November and now snow has begun to fall. I start down the road toward the city. Ahead, I see a bus and hesitate. If any of our neighbors see me, they may question why I am going to the city at such an hour. But I do not have a lot of time and it will save me nearly an hour of walking. I run toward the bus and board it. It is nearly empty, but I sit toward the back, hunched over, my coat drawn high around my neck.
Fifteen minutes later, I get off the bus two stops before the market square. It is snowing more heavily now and the ground is slippery as I make my way to Mikolajska, a small, winding street not far from the market square. The Dark Horse is one of the many bars in Kraków that is located in a brick cellar underground. I stand at the top of the stairs, hesitating, listening to the music and voices coming from below. I have never been in this, or any other bar, in the city, except to retrieve my father from the small café in Kazimierz where he used to play bridge with some of the men from the neighborhood. Taking a deep breath, I walk down the stairs and through a heavy door at the bottom. Inside the bar, the air below is thick with the stench of cigarette smoke and beer. It is emptier than I expected from the noise outside. A few older men huddled in a far corner of the room look up and eye me curiously. I do not return their gazes, but move quickly to the bar. “A coffee, please,” I say to the large, bearded bartender, climbing onto one of the stools. He looks to be about thirty and I wonder if he is old enough to be the owner.
He sets down the steaming drink. “Anything else I can get you?”
I take a deep breath. “Is Pan Koch here?”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”
I hesitate. “My name is Anna Lipowski,” I say softly. “I am the niece of Krysia Smok.”
A flash of recognition crosses his face. He moves closer. “I’m Koch. What do you want?”
“I am looking for Alek and the others. The resistance.”
His expression hardens and he takes a step back. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please, it’s very important that I find them.” I reach in my pocket. “If it’s a question of money—”
“Don’t!” he snaps. Then he lowers his voice. “It isn’t safe. Those men over there are informants. If they see or hear anything, we’ll both wind up in prison.”
I chill runs through me. “Krysia didn’t tell me…”
“She didn’t know.” His eyes are dark. “Those cretins only began coming here a few weeks ago.”
“So you do know Alek, then?”
“Not by name. I think I know the man you’re talking about, though. Tall, light hair, goatee?” I nod. “He and some others used to come in here and sometimes meet in the subbasement. I haven’t seen them in a long time. I heard maybe they gave up after the last arrests, fled into the woods and abroad.”
My heart sinks. “Thank you.” I start to stand up.
“Wait,” he says. “Finish your coffee. Act normal. You don’t want any of those men getting suspicious.” I nod and sit back down again. Koch turns and walks to the far end of the bar where he begins drying glasses. I watch his back, processing what he has said. He doesn’t know where Alek and the others are. Maybe they really have disappeared. That’s ridiculous, I think. Jacob would never give up, never leave me. But doubts fill my mind, overflow. What if the cause takes him to another country? What if another girl really has stolen his heart? No. I stop myself. I cannot think these thoughts, not here. I have to concentrate on getting out and back to Krysia’s safely.
I finish my coffee and put some coins on the bar. I consider leaving all of the money Krysia gave me for the tip, then decide against it; Pan Koch has told me all that he knows. He looks over and nods slightly as I stand up and head for the door. Upstairs, I pause in the doorway, wrapping my coat and scarf more tightly around me. I step out into the street. The snow is still falling heavily and the wind has picked up. It is the first real storm of the season. As I start walking toward the market square, I hear footsteps scurrying behind me. I freeze. One of the men from the bar must have followed me. Perhaps the informants overheard my conversation with Koch. There is no point in running, I decide, turning around. In front of me stands an older, bald man. “Excuse me,” he says quickly, blinking behind his glasses. His voice is gruff. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What is it that you want?” I ask.
“I could not help but overhear your conversation with Pan Koch.” His breath is smoky in the cold night air.
I hesitate. Is he one of the informants Koch mentioned? I do not recognize him from inside the Dark Horse. “I—I was only…” I start to explain, but he raises his hand.
“Save your explanations. There is no time. Koch doesn’t have what you are looking for, but I do. Follow me. Quickly.” He starts walking in the opposite direction down Mikolajska Street. I hesitate. It could be a ruse, a trap leading me right to the Gestapo. Trust him, a voice deep inside me says. I have no other choice. I set off after him down the street. He does not speak as we cross the southwest portion of the city. We are going toward the river, I realize a few minutes later. The buildings here are dilapidated, industrial. Then the road gives way to an uneven, snow-covered path that slopes down toward the water’s edge. “Mind your step,” he says as we make our way down it. At the end of the path, close to the river’s edge, sits a lone shack, not visible from the main road. The man leads me to the front door. “Wait here,” he orders, disappearing inside. I stand alone in the dark and cold staring back and forth between the river and the road.
A moment later the door reopens and the man grabs my arm. “Inside, quickly.” He pulls me into the cottage and shuts the door behind me. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the dim lighting. It is a tiny room, freezing cold and unfurnished except for a table and lone chair. A tattered brown leather glove lies on the table.
“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice demands.
I spin around. “Marek,” I gasp. He is barely recognizable in a thick coat and ski hat pulled low over his face.
He glares at me. “You should not have come here. It isn’t safe.”
“I need to talk to you. It’s important.” I hesitate, uncertain how much I can say in front of the stranger.
“Thank you, Avi,” Marek says to the bald man.
“Thank you,” I echo.
The man nods and walks out of the cottage. Marek goes to the window, then draws the tattered curtain back and peers outside. “Do you think we were followed?” I ask.
Marek shakes his head. “Avi is too good for that.” He lets the curtain drop once more. “Now, what is it?”
I look around the small, dank room for any sign of the others. “Where’s Alek?” I ask, my teeth chattering from the cold.
“He is not in the city. It is too dangerous for him right now. So what’s the emergency?”
I hesitate. I had envisioned talking only to Alek. I know, though, that Marek is one of his closest allies. He can be trusted. “This.” I hand him the paper.
He takes it from me, scans the first page. “My German is not good. Tell me what it says.”
I take a deep breath. “It says that the Nazis are going to liquidate the ghetto and send the Jews either to Auschwitz or Belzec instead of to the Plaszow labor camp.”
Marek appears unfazed. “Yes, this is nothing new. We have heard it before.” I stare at him in surprise. The resistance has known about the liquidation all along. I realize once more how little I know about what they are doing, this group for whom I risk my
life daily. He continues, “The question is when.”
“January,” I reply.
He does a double take. “What?”
“They are going to start moving the Jews when the new barracks are finished being built at Birkenau in early January.”
A look of revelation flashes over his face. “January!” He grabs the papers from me.
“Yes. It’s all in there.” I cannot help feel a bit pleased with myself. “The memo is less than three weeks old.”
“That is what we needed to know. It’s much sooner than we thought.” He folds the papers and tucks them into his coat. “I need to get this to Alek.” He opens the door to the cottage and I follow him outside. Perhaps he will take me with him to the others, I think. Surely I have earned the right to go with him by finding this information. But he points to the path from which Avi and I had come. “If you go back that way, you can pick up the road to Krysia’s,” he says.
I open my mouth to speak. I want to ask him about the others, whether he has had any word from Jacob. How will I find him and the others if I need them? “You are not to come here again,” he says, reading my mind. Then he turns and starts walking in the other direction. Watching his back as he strides off into the night, I realize that he had not even said thank you.
I look back at the cabin once more. Has it been a resistance hiding place for some time? Suddenly I remember the brown glove on the table. A flash of hope surges through me. Jacob had gloves like that. Perhaps he has been here recently…I shudder, thinking of him staying in the cold, unheated room. Anyway, if he had been this close by, surely he would have found a way to come and see me, wouldn’t he?
Enough, I tell myself. I have done what I set out to do, delivered the papers. I have to get back home. It must be close to ten o’clock, the city curfew, and Krysia will be worried. I start up the riverbank, trying not to slip on the slick slope. I think of Marek. His expression was so strange when he received the information. He was almost smiling. Then I remember the conversation I overheard at the apartment on Josefinska Street after my last Shabbes dinner in the ghetto. Marek is one of the more hawkish leaders of the resistance, he wants to strike the Nazis hard and often. This information about the ghetto liquidation probably supports his position. Now they will try to do something, I realize, my stomach twisting hard. Suddenly, I am seized with the uneasy feeling that even as I had provided information helpful to the resistance, I may have also placed Jacob in grave danger.