That night I was convinced I wouldn’t wake in time. We had no clock and I had no watch. Almost no light came through the windows as they were blacked out with tar paper. I decided to do my best to stay awake so as not to miss the dawn.
At some point I did doze off, because I woke with a start.
When I thought it must be well into the early hours of the morning, I crept out of our rooms, down the corridors and the back to where the boys were waiting. Karol said darkly, ‘Thought you’d changed your mind.’
‘Not a bit,’ I whispered.
Another figure appeared out of the dark.
It was Janusch.
Karol turned. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Janusch gestured at me. ‘Looking after her.’
‘Not this time,’ I said. ‘But thank you.’
‘Try to stop me,’ Janusch whispered, determined.
Karol shrugged. ‘All right, but make a sound and you’re on you’re own.’ He turned back to me. ‘You need to hide your hair.’
I had already figured this out. I took Adam’s woollen cap out of my pocket, pulled it on and tucked my hair inside.
‘Right. Let’s go.’
I nodded.
But how were we to get to Sienna Street during the curfew hours without being shot?
I had underestimated the boys’ resourcefulness. Instead of moving through the streets, their route involved climbing fences and crisscrossing backyards. We finally entered a bombed-out building where the boys led me through a tunnel dug under the house and into the dirt until we reached the ghetto wall. Janusch followed us in silence all the way.
At the base of the wall was a small opening for sewer pipes. By removing and replacing a few bricks, someone small, someone the size of a small child, could manage to wriggle through.
The ghetto wall rose many feet. Constructed from solid brick and concrete, it was topped by a thick layer of clay peppered with glass splinters intended to cut the hands of anyone trying to climb over. The gate that opened into the ghetto was just wide enough for a truck to pass through, and narrow enough for two guards to block.
At this morning hour, the guards seemed quite relaxed. They were dressed in their distinctive German helmets, warm woollen greatcoats and thick gloves. They sat smoking cigarettes, their bayonets propped beside them.
We peered out from a doorway in the shadows. Karol, Jacob and Moshe were tying burlap sacks around their middles. Their hands moved so efficiently, they had clearly done this before.
I whispered, ‘What do I do now?’
‘See the guard on the left, the taller one?’ Karol answered. ‘That’s your Pole. You’re to go over to him and greet him like you’re his son.’
In the dusty early dawn light, I could see the guard’s face. How anyone could imagine we were related was beyond me. He had flattened cheeks, pale protruding eyes and a mean small mouth.
‘Won’t the other guard wonder why I’m in the ghetto, and not on the other side of the wall?’
‘Nah,’ said Jacob. ‘He’s to tell the other guard you’re running a message for him. They’re expecting you.’
This was it then. My tummy was full of butterflies wearing boots. But my fear had disappeared. What I felt was more like excitement. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I was no longer scared. Wasn’t this just like the Scarlet Pimpernel? Like him, I had to fool the enemy.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the doorway, and slowly made my way to the Polish guard.
‘Dzie dobry, Papa,’ I said, my voice gruff enough to sound like a boy’s.
The guard turned, smiled and waved. Turning to the other, he said in broken German, ‘This is my son, Oskar. He is quite a useful fellow, aren’t you, Oskar?
I nodded towards the German guard.
‘Oh, yes, he runs messages for me. He’s become my personal postman.’ The Polish guard gave a small laugh. ‘And he keeps us entertained. You’ll see.’ He turned to face me. ‘Come, Oskar, show us what you can do.’
‘Of course, Papa.’
There was just enough space to perform the routine I had practised so carefully. As I began, I could feel both guards’ eyes fixed on me. I had to keep their attention as long as possible. Just in case I hadn’t given the boys enough time, I repeated my routine, this time far more slowly.
‘That’s fine, son,’ the Polish guard said, as I finished. ‘Good work, that will do for now.’
The German guard spoke to me.
‘Yes, fine work. Why don’t you head on home now, with your papa?’
This was something we hadn’t reckoned on. I had to think quickly.
I looked at the Polish guard, hoping he would be able to help. ‘I still haven’t had time to deliver the second message, Papa,’ I said.
My pretend father nodded at me, and then turned to the German guard. ‘I’ll have to wait for Oskar. You might as well go, there’s nothing to do here. I’ll wait for our replacements. Our relief is due anytime now. ‘
It was starting to drizzle. The German guard looked up.
‘If you’re sure. Don’t want to stay out in this weather, if I don’t have to.’
Once he was out of sight, I waved to the Polish guard calling, ‘Thank you.’
I headed back to where I hoped the boys were waiting for me. I found them carrying sacks of flour. I was speechless with admiration.
Moshe’s arm was bleeding.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Caught it on some barbed wire on the way back. It’ll be fine.’
Karol pulled a filthy rag out of his pocket and pressed it against Moshe’s arm. Perhaps the wound might have been better without that bandage, but I didn’t dare interfere. They seemed to know what they were doing.
‘How did you go?’ Jacob asked me.
I felt a broad grin split my face. ‘I’m back aren’t I? And so are you.’ For the first time in a very long time, I was proud of myself.
The day of the concert arrived. After performing for the guards, under fear of being shot if the truth was discovered, I had thought that performing in front of an appreciative audience should be easy. But I think my fear had worked in my favour in front of the ghetto wall. Now I was overcome with stage fright.
Adam was scheduled to play before me. The notes flew from his violin strings like melodious birds, filling the hall. It seemed to me that in a world that still held such beauty, that maybe Zaida had been right, that justice must win out in the end. When Adam finished playing, the audience cheered and clapped like mad. I was incredibly pleased for him, but his success made my stomach heave more than ever.
‘Don’t worry, Hanna,’ Mama said comfortingly. ‘I’ll be there too. If you’re nervous, just look at me. Forget anyone else is there.’
‘Pluck and audacity,’ I murmured to myself. My heart slowly settled down to its normal pace. I no longer worried that I might disgrace myself. I knew I could do this.
My turn had come. Mama walked onto the stage first, heading to the piano. She was greeted with polite applause. I stood in the centre of the stage and looked out at the people below me. I saw a sea of faces. In the third row, I glimpsed the woman who’d caught me practising in the hall and thrown me out. To my astonishment, she smiled and waved.
I was ready.
Mama played the first few bars, and what remained of my stage fright disappeared entirely. As soon as I began, I was lost in the music and the movement, and my whole routine passed in a blur. I don’t know how I managed it, but I do know that I didn’t fall. When I landed on my feet at the end of the routine, I looked up to see Mama smiling, gesturing towards the audience.
The audience smiled and nodded. Clapped and cheered. I slowly realised they liked my performance. On the side of the hall I glimpsed Papa, standing up, beaming at me with pride. Ryzia, in his arms, was waving a tattered handkerchief and laughing.
I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my family so happy.
Eating soup at our table in our rooms that night, Pap
a told us how much money the concert had raised for the refugees. He said, ‘Even in the midst of all the deprivation, we must still do what we can to take care of each other.’
‘I am so proud of you both,’ Mama said.
I wondered if I should confess to Mama and Papa what I had done with the boys. But they might think it too dangerous and stop me from doing it again. Because I had decided that I would.
Once again Janusch refused to be put off. He followed me down to the courtyard where I met the boys.
‘All right,’ Karol said. ‘But this time you will have to make yourself useful.’
‘You bet,’ agreed Janusch.
I was no longer worried about the Polish guard. After last time, I felt I could trust him. This time he was with a different German guard. I didn’t mind. It gave me the excuse to show off my routine to a new audience. I slowed it down as much as I could, even adding a few movements to make sure the boys had time to come back through the wall. Janusch was now on watch duty. He was to keep an eye on me and to call out if trouble was on its way.
But there was nothing he could do when trouble did arrive. The sun was up now, and the guard couldn’t convince his companion to leave early. He no longer had the excuse of my staying behind and I was forced to follow my ‘father’ out of the ghetto, alongside his German colleague.
On the other side of the wall, I walked into a totally different city … almost a totally different country. A tram trundled by. A cyclist rode past. Though one building further along the street had suffered from earlier bombings, there were very few signs of war. I could have been in a time warp. It was the Warsaw I remembered from 1939. I caught a whiff of frying sausages. Another unmistakable smell that could only be fresh baked bread. My mouth watered. But what astonished me most, was how empty this street was. How different it was to the crowded ghetto where it was barely possible to move without walking into someone. It was all so unbelievably, so incredibly, normal. It made what we were living through seem merely a bad dream, something from which we might hopefully wake.
The German guard took his leave, saying ‘Auf weidersehn’ to my supposed Polish father. As soon as he was out of sight, I doubled back to where the sewer pipe ran through the wall. Thankfully, there were no guards on this side of the wall to see me.
I prayed that Janusch had let the boys know what had happened.
He had. Karol was waiting for me. ‘I thought this might happen,’ he said.
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘Would you have gone through with it if I had?’
He had brought an extra sack and I wrapped it around my body. Following him, I managed to wriggle back through the sewer and back into the ghetto.
Three weeks later, the boys asked me to play my role again. They had to wait until the Polish guard had a different guard sharing his shift at the gate. This gave me another chance to display my routine.
I felt less scared this time. Having crossed to the other side of the ghetto wall, we now had a plan to get me safely back. Now less might go wrong.
Or so we thought.
There was no sign of my Polish ‘father’. Maybe he was sick? I had a sudden horrid thought that maybe his collaboration with us had been discovered.
Whatever the reason, two German soldiers blocked the entrance to the ghetto.
If I intended turning back, now it was far too late. The boys had already set off on their mission. They trusted that I was confident enough to manage what I had to do. They needed me to distract those guards, otherwise they would be caught.
I shuddered and turned to Janusch. He had been so useful last time, we were all happy to have him here.
He whispered to me, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I have to do something,’ I murmured back. ‘But what?’ The curfew was still in force and there was a great chance I would be shot for being out on the streets. I no longer had the protection being the Polish guard’s son.
‘Sleepwalk!’ Janusch hissed.
‘What?’
‘Pretend you’re sleepwalking. Like you don’t know what you’re doing.’
It wasn’t a bad idea, though it did flit through my mind that there was no reason why those guards wouldn’t kill me anyway.
I walked out of the doorway slowly, acting as if I didn’t see them, hoping that they might be curious or amused enough not to shoot. After all, the streets were quiet, and they had probably spent a long, boring night.
One guard reached towards his holster.
He pulled out his gun.
The other guard laughed.
‘Pluck and audacity.’ That voice was there again, helping me find my courage.
Pretending I was half mad, and as if I was on my way to a market, I muttered loud enough for those guards to hear, ‘Cabbage, onions, cabbage, onions.’
The guard laughed loudly. ‘Silly Jew. He’s got no idea where he is.’
At least they believed I was a boy.
‘It could be a trap,’ the other warned.
‘A trap? Some skinny kid, walking in his sleep? My Joachim does it all the time.’
‘These Jews are cunning, remember?’ The first guard’s voice was malicious. ‘Don’t forget why we’ve herded them in here.’
I was terrified. But in order to keep distracting them, I kept muttering, ‘Cabbage, onions, cabbage, onions …’
I was at the street corner. Surely they would expect me to keep going if I really was a sleepwalker.
What now?
I turned and walked back towards the guards again. Still pretending not to see them, I murmured, ‘I forgot the box from Mama … cabbage, onions, cabbage, onions …’
‘Go home you stupid kid,’ the nastier guard yelled. ‘Go home before we shoot you!’
I started as if suddenly woken from a deep sleep and stared blankly at him.
His hand had moved back to his pistol.
He pulled it out and pointed it straight at me.
I darted across the street into the doorway where Janusch was hidden.
A shot rang out. It was followed by the acrid smell of cordite.
My ears rang from the whizzing sound of the bullet.
Just in time, just before he could fire again, Janusch pulled me further into the shadows. ‘You’ve been hit.’ He took off his shirt and pressed it against my shoulder. Only then did I see blood seeping down one arm. Pain immediately followed.
I was so frightened. Janusch did all he could to comfort me, saying, ‘It doesn’t look too bad. But we need to stop the bleeding.’
Karol, Moshe and Jacob appeared carrying full sacks, and looking pleased with themselves. Karol baulked when he saw Janusch leaning over me.
‘What happened?
‘Shot,’ I managed to squeak.
‘Can you walk?’
‘I think so. It’s just my shoulder.’
Jacob wasn’t sure if it was best to wait until after curfew ended. Then I could walk through the streets without fear of being shot again. Or was it better to take a chance of returning through the back ways and tunnels?
‘I’ll chance it,’ I said, though I knew my shoulder would hurt, which it surely did.
As soon as I got home, I woke Mama and Papa.
‘I don’t know whether to be angry or proud,’ said Papa as Mama fussed about me trying to clean the wound.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Adam. ‘How long have you been part of the gang?’ I could tell he was jealous, even though I’d been shot. ‘Do they need more help?’
Mama’s hair just about stood on end. ‘Don’t you even dare think about it,’ she cried glaring at him.
Papa went to look for a doctor he knew living on the ground floor of the next door building.
Doctor Robowski was small, totally bald and though painfully thin, his skin had so many folds, it hinted he’d once been plump.
He examined my shoulder very carefully. In the end he said, ‘You were lucky. It’s only a graze, though the wound is quite de
ep. Would have been a different matter entirely if the bullet had entered your body and stayed there.’
He cleaned the wound a little more and bandaged it with strips Mama tore from a clean old rag. Then he placed my arm in a sling and told me to keep it that way until my shoulder healed.
That put an end to any gymnastics. At least for a while.
Mama and Papa made me swear I’d never try anything as dangerous again, even after I got better. Papa said, ‘I’ll admit I’m impressed with you, bubbala. You have shown great selflessness and bravery, and I can’t ask for more than that.’
In the light of his praise, I felt myself redden.
But Papa hadn’t finished. ‘Still, I am going to ask more of you. Your life is precious, and we have already lost so much. We owe it to ourselves and to each other to stay alive. There are other ways you can help. Think of how you helped at the concert. When you are feeling better, perhaps you could perform again?’
I hugged him, but Papa’s face fell. ‘More and more the Nazis seem to want us all dead. There’s no pretending otherwise. Let’s foil their plans a bit longer, eh?’
Mama squeezed my hand. ‘And remember, you stand a much better chance at helping others while you are alive.’
‘Yes, Mama. Yes, Papa. I promise.’
By early December sleet and snow had turned the streets into icing skating rinks. The black ice was hard to see and it was only too easy to slip and fall. I had grown out of my only pair of boots. Water leaking through the cracks turned my toes to ice.
Soon it would be Chanukah, the Festival of Lights, and also Christmas. Though few Jews celebrated Christmas, before the war Mama and Papa had always set up a small tree surrounded with presents. They wanted to combine both festivals so we children didn’t feel we were missing out. As Christmas went for only one day and Chanukah eight, we were lucky to have both.
Each day of Chanukah a new candle was lit on a special candelabrum called a menorah. We no longer had our menorah, and any candles we had were too precious to use in any other way. The ghetto was gloomy and dark, only lit by searchlights fingering the underside of clouds. It didn’t feel festive at all. Mama was particularly upset. An edict had been issued that anyone owning a fur had to surrender it to the Germans. Her beautiful coat, though now shabby and tattered, had managed to make it with us to the ghetto. That coat had kept Ryzia from freezing these past two long, hard winters.
My Holocaust Story: Hanna Page 9