“I don’t want that,” Kaji said, refusing to look at Irena. “I want to go away.”
Irena put the money away. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.” She turned and started to depart, Kaji’s hysterical cries threatening to crush her. A few meters away she stopped and turned back. She could not do this. She felt responsible. She’d met this family, a little unit of humanity that the Germans had eliminated, except for this lone survivor. She motioned for Kaji to join her. “Come on,” she said.
Kaji ran to her, throwing her arms around her. “Thank you, thank you!” she cried.
“You must be quiet!” Irena warned. She looked around. There was a woman just down the street who had stopped and was staring at them. She was in real danger here. “Come with me,” she said, turning away from the woman. She picked Kaji up and marched quickly away, turning the corner and moving as rapidly as possible away from the ghetto. Where was she going to go? What would she do with this little girl?
Kaji clung to her as she moved. She hardly weighed a thing, but Irena felt her own breath coming in deep huffs as she labored to escape from the ghetto walls. She moved a block away then another, her mind a blank. Finally, she stopped, a kilometer or so from the Jewish Quarter on a deserted street corner. The little girl’s head was buried in her shoulder. She rocked her back and forth, humming a little tune as she considered what to do. Finally, she decided.
* * *
Two weeks later Irena sat in the smoke-filled environs of the Café Sztuka, sipping vodka. “To my friend Irena,” said Ala, sitting across from her with glass raised. “For keeping us alive.” She whispered these last words.
Irena understood her caution. Looking around, there were half a dozen uniformed German officers sitting at tables sprinkled through the little café. Some sat together, others were eating and drinking with prominent Jewish businessmen. “That one there,” said Ala, pointing out an elderly gentleman near the front. “He helps the Judenrat. He ran a clock-making factory before the war.” She leaned forward. “It’s rumored he’s selling smugglers to the Germans at ten thousand zlotys apiece.”
“That can’t be true,” said Irena. “Who would sell out their own people?”
“Look around,” said Ala. “This place is full of them.”
Irena didn’t need to see the people here to take in the surreal world of the café. Besides the vodka there was champagne at their table, along with caviar and fresh fish. She thought of the thousands of starving children standing around within a few hundred meters of the restaurant. But here in the middle of this hell was an oasis of milk and honey.
“Look who’s performing now,” said Ala, jerking her head toward the stage. Irena turned. Wiera was at the stage with Władysław Szpilman near her on the piano. She recognized him immediately. He was famous before the war too. Władysław’s fingers danced over the ivory and Wiera joined him, her voice waltzing through the space, enveloping them all.
“She’s wonderfully talented,” said Irena. “I’ve never heard her in person.”
“She’s certainly talented at singing. Among other things.”
“You still think she’s collaborating?” asked Irena.
“I don’t know,” said Ala, taking a sip of champagne. “I want to believe that she’s a good person. I always have. But she rubs me the wrong way. I don’t know why.” She leaned forward again. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Tell me about Kaji.”
Irena filled with joy as she thought of the little girl. “She’s still at my office,” she explained.
“Why don’t you take her home?”
“It’s too risky without papers. We have nosy neighbors. Besides, once I brought her there, I wouldn’t be able to see her during the day. As it is, I can spend my whole working week with her. She’s such a precious little thing. And so brave. She sleeps in that cold dark building every night by herself.”
“Aren’t you worried she’ll be discovered? There are so many people in your building.”
“She stays down in the basement during the day. We keep our records down there and I’ve carved out the perfect hiding space behind some cabinets and boxes. I can come down and see her many times each day.”
“What about the weekends?”
Irena laughed. “Have I ever taken many days off? The weekends are best of all. There’s nobody there and I can bring Kaji upstairs. With a little caution we can spend the entire day together.”
Ala’s face grew concerned. “Irena, what are you going to do with her? She can’t stay at the office forever.”
“Do with who?” came a voice behind her. Irena jerked in surprise but realized with relief that it was only Wiera. “Have a seat,” she said.
Wiera sat down between them. “I get a little break now,” she said, ignoring the looks of a half dozen men at different tables trying desperately to get her attention. “How better than to spend it with two of my favorite girls.”
“I haven’t been able to thank you for saving my life,” Irena whispered, taking Wiera’s hand.
“I hardly did that,” said the singer, laughing. “A pretty thing like you? At the worst you might have received a slap on the wrist, or more likely one on the rear. Who isn’t smuggling in a few luxuries these days?”
Irena shook her head. “You didn’t see his eyes,” she responded. “He was out for me.”
Wiera poured herself some vodka and quaffed the liquid down, her face grimacing for a moment. “Let’s talk about more pleasant things. Who are you hiding in your office?” she asked, winking. “Is it a handsome man?”
Ala’s eyes flashed a warning but Irena ignored her. She told Wiera all about Kaji.
“You found her the same day I saw you? It was a lucky one indeed. She sounds delightful! I wish I could get out of this rat trap and come to see the two of you.”
“I’m sure your connections would let you out,” said Ala.
Wiera turned to her cousin by marriage, her face growing cold. “What connections would those be?”
Ala shrugged. “Look around.”
The singer sighed. “I’ve told you a dozen times, Cousin, I don’t have those kinds of contacts. I work here, nothing more.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?” said Ala. “There’s twenty Germans in this room who would sell their soul to sit at this table with you.”
“Ala,” interjected Irena.
“That’s all right,” said Wiera. “I can defend myself.” She turned back to Ala. “You refer to the unfortunate circumstances I find myself in. I am a performer, Ala, nothing more. I can’t choose my audience. The curse of fame, something I’ve never wanted, is people out there who come to know you through your art, believe you know them in return. The whole sordid mess breeds a familiarity that is both distasteful and misplaced.”
“So you are a helpless victim in all this?”
“Entirely.”
Ala raised her glass. “To my helpless victim cousin then.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm.
Wiera set her own glass down and rose, turning to Irena. “Thank you for coming today,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Irena said, starting to rise.
“Don’t be,” Wiera said. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Irena thought about that for a moment and then answered. “I do.”
“That’s enough for me.” The singer smiled down at her for a moment and then turned to Ala. “Goodbye, dear cousin.”
“Goodbye.” Ala kept her eyes on her drink.
“I’ll see you soon, Irena,” said Wiera, and turned to walk swiftly away.
“Why do you have to be so rude to her!” demanded Irena.
“Keep your voice down,” whispered Ala, glancing this way and that.
“I’ll do better than that,” said Irena. She rose and pushed in her chair. “Thank you for the meal, Ala. I think I’ll show myself out.”
“Irena, don’t . . .”
But she was already stepping away, weaving through the closely set tabl
es until she found the doorway. She marched out into the streets and headed toward the ghetto gate. She’d planned to visit Adam today at the orphanage, but she was too angry. Why couldn’t her friend see past her own prejudices? Wiera had saved her life and had only been kind to her. She was clearly a woman stuck in her circumstances. If she were a nurse and Ala was the performer, would they not simply be in identical but opposite roles?
She shook the thoughts from her head. She wouldn’t worry about this right now. She wanted to see Kaji. She left the ghetto and strode through the relatively barren streets of Aryan Warsaw. On the way she stopped at a cake shop and purchased a little bread and some pastries. She counted her zlotys. She was running low again now that she’d stopped smuggling food into the ghetto. The extra cost of food for Kaji was another problem. She and her mother had hardly made it, even without another mouth to feed. She didn’t care, she would figure out what to do somehow.
As she moved toward her office, she considered the bigger question Ala had been preparing to ask her. What was she going to do with Kaji in the long run? She had been working through that question ever since she took her to the office. She knew she couldn’t keep her at work in the long run. Somebody would start asking questions. She was surprised there hadn’t been a problem yet, despite her precautions. There were simply too many people in the building, and not all of them could be trusted. She couldn’t take Kaji home either. She knew that. Someone in the building would eventually turn them in.
She had to do something, and she had to do it soon. But she still had no idea what. As she reached her work building the problems melted away. She could tackle these problems later. For now, she would have the day with her Kaji. Today was Saturday and she would have the building practically to herself. She could bring the little girl up to her office and they could spend the time together.
She unlocked the front door, closing it behind her, and she rushed down to the basement. Kaji was there in the hiding space, a tiny area Irena had fashioned with stacks of boxes in the very back of the file area. Kaji was asleep and she gently woke her. The little girl threw her arms around Irena’s neck, practically pulling her over. Irena laughed and picked her up, holding her close.
“How’s my little girl?” she asked.
“It was scary here last night,” she answered. “There were shadows and noises everywhere.”
“You say that every night,” said Irena, laughing. “But you’re my brave little girl.”
“When can I come home with you?” Kaji asked. She made this inquiry every day they were together and it crushed Irena’s heart, for she knew the answer.
“I don’t know, my dear. I’m trying to figure out what to do with you, but I’m still not certain.”
“You have to bring me to your house. I want you to be my mother from now on,” she pleaded.
Irena wanted more than anything to make Kaji her daughter. She didn’t know what to do. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll think of something.”
She carried Kaji upstairs to her office and set her in the seat across from her desk. While Kaji told her all about her morning, Irena busied herself with preparing an afternoon meal for the two of them. She glanced over as she was cutting up the bread. She smiled to herself, noting Kaji’s flushed, healthy cheeks and bright eyes. She had gained a little weight over the past week. She had more energy and was excited and lively, like a four-year-old girl should be.
Irena wondered again what might have happened to her parents. She’d asked her, but Kaji always started crying, and she didn’t want to press her too far. She’d tried to learn something about her family, to see if there was anyone in the ghetto she should contact, but Kaji didn’t even know her last name.
She handed her a small vanilla cake and the bread. Kaji grabbed the cake, licking the frosting and shoving the pastry in her mouth before Irena could stop her.
“You’re supposed to eat the bread first!” Irena protested, laughing with her. “The cake is for after.”
“So you’ve finally brought your little surprise upstairs,” said a woman’s voice. Irena jolted in her seat and looked up. It was Maria Kulska, a cigarette dangling from a twisted grin. She stood at the doorway, swimming in a faded dress, watching Irena with a sardonic flare in her eyes. The social worker reached slowly up and took the cigarette between thumb and finger, taking a deep drag before pulling it out of her mouth. Irena did not know her well. She worked in another department and they’d rarely spoke.
“Maria, you startled me. Have you met . . . my niece.”
“That’s not your niece,” said Maria, her words exhaling lazily through a cloud of smoke. “That’s the Jew girl you’ve been hiding in the basement.”
“What are you talking about?” Irena’s heart froze at the words. “I’m not hiding—”
“There’s no point in lying, Irena,” said Maria, taking another puff. “Half the office knows about it. Did you think you could hide a whole person in our office and get away with it?” She looked down at Kaji, pinching her cheek roughly. “Even such a little one.”
“What’s wrong?” Kaji asked, wincing from the pain and responding to the tension in the air.
“Nothing, darling,” said Maria. “I’m just having a little talk with Irena here.”
“What are you going to do?” Irena asked.
“I’m not going to do anything. But you are going to have to do something before you get us all arrested. And you’ll have to do it fast.” She finished her cigarette and dropped it on the floor, crushing the burning butt with her shoe.
“I’m trying.”
Maria looked over her shoulder. “You better try harder. This secret won’t keep much longer.”
“Are you going to turn me in?”
Maria reached down into her pocket and retrieved another cigarette. She raised it to her lips, lighting the end and taking a deep breath. “Handle the problem.”
Irena heard footsteps, to her horror. Maria turned her head down the hallway and then back their way. She pursed her lips. “It looks like you’re out of time.”
A man appeared in the doorway. It was Jan Dobraczyski, her boss. He stared at Irena and then at Kaji, his eyes narrowing. “So, this is the little girl you’ve been hiding?” he demanded.
“Why are you here on a weekend?” Irena asked.
“I came to investigate a rumor I’d heard. A story about you hiding a Jewish child at our office. I see it’s true.”
“She’s not a Jew, she’s my niece.” Irena knew the words were hollow even as they left her mouth.
“Don’t lie to me, Sendler. I warned you when I gave you that pass that there would be no more problems, but here you are defying me again. This is the last time.” He turned and marched away. Maria still stood in the doorway, a cynical smile on her lips.
“Time’s up.”
Chapter 14
Eyes from the Mountaintop
February 1941
Warsaw Ghetto, Poland
Klaus and Peter sat on the trolley next to Colonel Hans Wagner. The streetcar rolled slowly through the ghetto and the colonel craned his neck back and forth, watching with deep interest as Klaus explained the layout and conditions in the ghetto.
“What about those bodies over there?” asked Wagner, gesturing toward a pile of corpses on the sidewalk near an intersection. “Aren’t you in danger of disease?”
“The cold keeps the problem at bay,” said Klaus. “Besides, that is merely a collection point. The Jews provide their own disposition teams throughout the city. They will collect these units in the next hour or two and transport them to the cemetery.”
The colonel nodded. “Very efficient. You say you have a Jewish police force as well?” Wagner raised a peppered eyebrow. “They are actually willing to guard themselves?”
Klaus nodded. “Hunger is the ultimate incentive. They receive much better rations for themselves and their families. Of course, we don’t trust them with wall security or any major investigations of wrongdoing
, but they serve a role in watching and reporting. Without them I would need double the force to patrol and secure the ghetto.”
“Excellent,” said the colonel, making some notes in a small leather notebook he held. He blew on his fingers as he wrote. “Damned cold out here, isn’t it?”
“We won’t be much longer,” said Klaus. “I just wanted you to see the situation up close. It’s so hard to get a real feel of things on a ledger.”
“I admit it gives me a new perspective.”
The Germans were the only occupants of the back streetcar. The forward unit was full of Poles, crammed together and keeping their faces away from the second car. As Klaus watched them for a moment, he noted that the trolley was slowing down. Oh no, not now. He rose and moved toward the adjacent trolley, but it was too late. As he watched, a young man jumped off, a burlap sack over his shoulder, and sprinted into the crowd.
“What the hell was that?” demanded the colonel.
“An unfortunate reality of the ghetto,” explained Klaus.
“Was that man smuggling food in?”
Klaus nodded.
“And he got away with it?”
“You have to understand, Colonel, there are hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. We catch a dozen a day, but another dozen rise to take their place.”
Wagner was silent the rest of the way on the tour and in the car ride back to their headquarters. They settled into chairs in Klaus’s office as servants scurried around serving lunch.
“Well, what did you think of our operation?” asked Peter.
The colonel set his sandwich down. “I don’t think much about it, to be honest.”
Klaus was shocked. “Surely this can’t be about that smuggler.”
“Not about that smuggler in particular,” said the colonel. “But about smuggling in general. I was sent here by Hans Frank to look over your operation. Word has reached him about the black market in the Warsaw ghetto.”
“How could we avoid it?” demanded Klaus. “Three hundred calories a day? There are bound to be rule breakers.”
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