The Girl in the Green Sweater

by Chiger, Krystyna

  Very quickly, I developed a sharp sense of hearing. When we first made camp in this underground chamber, I could not understand the whispering from the adults in the other group on the far side of our room. Now, though, after only a few weeks, I could hear Weiss and the men talking about fresh berries. The berries became a fantasy to them, to breathe the fresh air and eat the fresh berries that would now be in season. They talked about it all the time, but only among themselves and never in such a way that they appeared ready to go off in search of fresh berries. It was a fantasy, an ideal.

  And then, one morning we woke up and they were gone—Weiss, Weinberg, and Itzek Orenbach. The storm of leaving continued. The men had plotted their escape in secret. For some reason, Chaskiel Orenbach decided to stay behind. Maybe he liked his chances better under the protection of our sewer workers. But the other three slipped away while the rest of us were sleeping, never to be heard from again. For a second time, Weiss left behind his loved ones—his mother, Babcia, and the young woman Halina. Weinberg left behind his wife, Genia, who was pregnant with his child, probably unbeknownst to him. Itzek Orenbach left behind his brother, Chaskiel.

  It was unclear whether Babcia and Weinbergova and the others had known beforehand. Probably Chaskiel Orenbach had known, while the others had not. My father worried how to tell Socha, because he knew the sewer workers would be concerned for our secret. He imagined a scenario where Socha and Wroblewski would have to hunt down Weiss and the others before they could reach the authorities and report our location. But we did not even have a chance to tell Socha of their disappearance, because when he and Wroblewski arrived later that day with our delivery, they also carried the news that the three men had been shot and killed immediately upon leaving the sewer, so they never had a chance to give away our circumstance.

  This was the good news, we all supposed. The bad news was that we now numbered only twelve, and whatever strength and resolve we might have had going into this ordeal was now substantially diminished.

  Six

  ESCAPE, AGAIN

  We had only a few days to return to some kind of normalcy after the departure of our disgruntled cohorts and the death of my uncle Kuba before the next calamity found our group. Of course, to suggest that there was anything normal about our day-to-day existence is to understate our experience, but such things are relative. By normalcy here I mean a routine, because it was routine that allowed us to believe we were civilized human beings. It was inside our routines that we found the strength to continue.

  The next calamity came during the second week of July 1943, almost six weeks after our arrival to the small chamber beneath the Mari Sniezna church, and it put a swift end to our confinement there. My father had just returned from retrieving our freshwater, and his boots were especially wet. This was what happened when you crawled through several kilometers of sewer pipes. All over, you got wet. And in the fetid wastewater of the sewer, you got so filthy wet that you did not want to think what the water contained. My father always emptied his boots upon his return to our chamber. This, too, was part of his routine, only sometimes the routine held an unwelcome surprise. My father once lost a valuable gem in this way. He often taped his valuable jewels between his toes, and on this occasion the tape had come loose and the gem slid into the river as he poured the water from his boots. It was a particular disaster for my family because this was a multicarat gem worth a great deal of money. According to my father, it was so valuable that it could have paid our underground living expenses for many months. But on this day, there were no gems for my father to worry about. His boots were simply soaked through. This was his primary worry.

  It was still the latter part of the rainy season, and there remained an excess of water in the pipes, through which the men had to crawl to reach the main canal and the dripping fountain that was the source of our freshwater. Socha and Wroblewski, too, had to crawl and slog through an additional amount of water during this period. It was not as dangerous as it had been when the rushing floodwater claimed the life of my uncle, but it was a soggy nuisance just the same. My father knew that if he did not find some way to dry his wet boots, he would develop blisters and other ailments, which of course he could not treat properly in our primitive underground conditions. Plus, his boots were foul and uncomfortable so he hung them to dry on the iron ladder that was bolted into the wall above our chamber and which led to the manhole opening to the street. Very often, we would use the rungs of this ladder to dry our few things when they became too wet to wear, so this occasion was no different. At least, it started out no different. My father simply tied his boots to the ladder by the laces and hoped the little bit of fresh air from the manhole opening might help them to dry a bit faster than if he left them on the muddy floor with the rest of our things.

  My father’s drying boots were nearly our undoing, because another sewer worker, from a group other than Socha’s, made an unscheduled inspection of our manhole that very day. There had been another small uprising on the streets of the ghetto, and it was believed that the Jewish perpetrators had escaped into the sewer system. The Gestapo had hastily organized a search, in which all sewer workers were to take part. We could hear the noise from the street as this sewer worker lifted the heavy manhole cover and peered inside. It was a terrifying noise because we knew what it could mean. We hugged one another close at the far, dark side of our chamber, fearful of being discovered. It was as if we had stopped breathing, that is how still and silent we became. There were only twelve of us now, so it was easier for us to huddle in silence than it might have been if we were in full number, but we dared not make a sound!

  Little Pawel, he was so scared. He was trying to be brave, but he understood what was happening. He had been hiding for so much of his young life that he knew what it meant to be discovered. It was dark, but in the flash of light made by the opening of the manhole I could see my brother’s eyes, open wide in terror. I wanted to collect him in my arms and tell him everything was going to be okay. I was also scared, but at the same time I was curious. I did not think we would be discovered. I did not think this man wanted to actually descend into our chamber to make a more careful inspection. After all, who would choose to walk about in the filth and waste of the sewer? Even a sewer worker does not wish to spend any more time in the sewer than absolutely necessary. Also, I knew enough about the darkness to realize that even though we could see the sewer worker by the light of the open manhole, he could not necessarily see us. His eyes could only stare into the blackness, unable to discern our shapes among the shadows.

  It had been almost six weeks since we had escaped into the sewer, and in that time we had lived in fear of such a moment, and here it was upon us. As I suspected, the sewer inspector could not see us as he peered through the opening, and he at first had no reason to suspect any unofficial activity in this part of the sewer. But then he saw my father’s boots. It must have made for a peculiar picture, to see a man’s wet boots hanging by their laces from an iron ladder, so he climbed down for a better look. Still, he could not see us. He carried a lantern and pointed it toward our small chamber, but it did not give off a significant amount of light. All he could see were a mass of shadows, and soon he was satisfied that this particular area was clear. He must have thought there was a logical or long-ago explanation for the boots, so he made to leave.

  Just then, just as the sewer worker was climbing back up the ladder to the street, the strangest, most inexplicable thing happened: someone in our group lit a match. It was Dr. Weiss, the kindly lone character who was of no relation to Weiss our tormentor. A match! The rest of us could not believe it. To light a cigarette! Of all things! At such a time as this! All the men smoked. It was something to do to pass the time. Socha and Wroblewski brought them cigarettes along with our other more necessary provisions. And since all the men were smokers, all the men carried matches, and Dr. Weiss chose this moment to strike one. Probably he was lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves. Probably he was panic
ked. Probably he did it without thinking about it, as a reflex.

  The noise of the match sizzled against the stillness of our underground chamber like a firecracker. The fl ash of brilliant light briefl y illuminated our entire group, before quieting to a more subtle flame that still left us visible, exposed. Dr. Weiss realized the foolishness of his action the moment he fired the match, but it was too late. It was only a split second before he blew it out, but it was enough to give us away.

  Immediately, the sewer inspector raced up the ladder to the street. He shouted, “Jews! Jews! There are Jews in here!”

  We could hear the commotion and frenzy this pronouncement caused. We could hear the voices and footsteps of the other officers, preparing to organize a search and descend into our small chamber to capture us. Why this sewer worker did not take the ladder down to our chamber instead of up to the street was both a mystery and a godsend. Certainly we would have been captured if he had come down. But instead this man retreated up the ladder, which gave us the opportunity we needed to escape. Of course, we realized later, this man was not a soldier. He was not Gestapo or SS. He was merely a sewer worker—and so, not trained for confrontation.

  We grabbed whatever we could. Pawel was holding a blanket. My mother was holding Pawel. I was holding one of the household items—a small pot, I think. My father was soon holding me. The others also collected their few things, and we headed for the forty-centimeter pipe that led from our chamber. One by one, we slipped inside. Korsarz went first to lead the way. Old Mrs. Weiss, Babcia, was next, and then the rest of us followed. My family was in the rear of our group, just behind Genia Weinberg. This was significant, because after a short while of crawling, Weinbergova had some difficulty squeezing through a bend in the forty-centimeter pipe that led to the main canal. This pipe had been the way in, but the women and children had not left our small chamber for nearly six weeks, and in that time Genia had apparently grown. No one in our party knew she was pregnant as yet, but now her condition was apparent. Now, without her heavy black coat for cover, she was clearly pregnant. And stuck. My mother pushed her from behind, and in this way Genia managed to slither through.

  No one discussed Genia’s condition, as I recall, although such discussion might have taken place beyond my hearing—and, at seven, beyond my comprehension as well. It was simply understood by the other adults that Weinbergova was with child. There would be time for discussion later. Or, perhaps, we would be captured and there would be no need for discussion.

  My mother too had her own difficulty slipping through the narrow pipe. Her legs and feet had become swollen by the dampness of our underground chamber. She had been complaining about this swelling for some time. Among our many supplies, Socha had brought her several pairs of men’s shoes, because her own shoes no longer fit, and she was now wearing a pair of boots that were otherwise too big for her. Somehow one of her boots became stuck and she could not move. She tried to free her foot from the boot, but it was so difficult to move inside the pipe that she could not reach down to untie the laces. She struggled and struggled with this, and as she struggled the pipe began to fill with water. Somehow, in the struggling, my mother also turned her ankle in such a way that she could not walk properly for several weeks, but this was the least of our worries just then. There were so many of us trapped inside this pipe behind my mother that the little bit of water that had been there in the beginning was now being displaced, so the water level kept rising, and as the normal flow of water was slowed by our bodies, we worried we would be drowned.

  It was just like what happened to my uncle Kuba, only here the water that could have drowned us managed to save us instead, because when it reached a certain level the pressure became so great that my mother was finally able to clear her boot from its mooring and in this way continue forward. The water pushed her free.

  Yet the water would continue to threaten us. Once we safely left the narrow pipe, we reached once more the slippery ledge along the Peltew. Here we attempted to move a little bit faster, to find a new place to hide from the German officers we knew would be coming, but the floodwater was a constant danger. My mother slipped once more on her bad ankle as she carried Pawel and tried to keep his little head above the rising water. Even my father had difficulty carrying me in his arms, held high so I would not be swallowed up by the river.

  By some new miracle, Socha and Wroblewski managed to find us. At least it seemed a miracle, although in truth they discovered us by some cleverness and forward thinking. They knew from the commotion on the street what had happened, and they could guess in which direction we would flee, so they tried to intercept us. It was a logical course: we could leave only by the single forty-centimeter pipe that opened into our chamber, and this pipe in turn led only to another pipe, and then another. Eventually, they knew, we would snake our way back to the river, where they hoped to meet us. However it happened, the light of the sewer workers’ lantern up ahead was a welcome sight indeed. We could tell it was their lantern because of the way they swung it back and forth. They had told us they would swing the lantern in this way so we would not be alarmed when we saw them approaching.

  Together, we continued through the tunnel until we were beneath the riverbed, where we stopped to consider our next move. Socha reported that the search of our abandoned chamber had concluded and that the other sewer workers had already taken to teasing the inspector who had come upon us for seeing ghosts. That was how the sighting was described, as an apparition. The sewer worker’s colleagues were saying that maybe this man was drunk, maybe he was seeing things. Certainly, a careful inspection of our chamber would have revealed our recent presence there, but apparently no such inspection was made, and we were therefore free to resume our uncertain lives in the sewer in a new location.

  Socha led our group to a small room that looked more like a cave than a chamber. This was where Socha and Wroblewski left us—temporarily, they said, while they waited for word from Kowalow on a more permanent location—but we could not stay in this place for very long. There was hardly enough height for even me to stand straight, and it was so damp, so dirty, so horribly cold. A ripping wind sliced through us as we counted the hours until Socha returned. At some point, the men grew tired of waiting and encouraged us to follow them back toward the main canal, because they could not remain one moment longer in this terrible hovel. We did not like going against Socha’s directions, but we felt we had no choice.

  Here again, we met up with Socha and Wroblewski a short time later. It was inevitable that our paths would cross: there were only so many twists and turns you could make in the sewer if you meant to keep close to the main canal. It was at this moment that Dr. Weiss asked the sewer workers to escort him safely to the streets above. Now that he was out of our initial chamber, Dr. Weiss said he could not imagine returning to such a difficult internment. Our few hours in that abysmal cave confirmed this for him. He said he had some Aryan friends who would give him shelter. He said he had been thinking about abandoning the sewer for some time. No one was worried about Dr. Weiss giving away our location to the authorities, as they had been with Itzek Orenbach, Shmiel Weinberg, and the other Weiss. That group had been devious and scheming. This Dr. Weiss was a good and decent man, and apart from the silly mistake of lighting his cigarette at such an inopportune moment, he had never once jeopardized our group; and because of this, Socha agreed to lead him from the sewer after he had relocated the rest of us to the new hiding place Kowalow had selected.

  Our next hiding place was no improvement over the cavelike hovel we had just abandoned. In some ways it was worse. It was colder, if such a thing was possible. The winds were fiercer, louder. There was no place to sit. The ceiling was lower still, and there were more rats than we could even consider. Indeed, the sea of rats would not even part for us as we crossed the small area. Ironically, we learned that this was not the place Kowalow had intended for us. Kowalow, who knew the sewer like his own name, had described for Socha the place he ha
d in mind, but Socha made a wrong turn and so we did not have any choice but to stay here for the night.

  This was where we made our good-byes to Dr. Weiss. Remarkably, this was the last my family ever heard of him. Unlike the other refugees from our group who were immediately shot and killed upon leaving the sewer, Dr. Weiss was not a reported casualty, and the efforts my father made after the war to locate him did not turn up anything. It was as if he had vanished, like the wisp of smoke from the burned-out match he foolishly struck while we were trying to hide. In any case, now we were a group of eleven—a big change from the commotion and tumult of the night of the final liquidation, when we numbered over seventy, and a complete transformation from the mistrust and tension that characterized our group when we numbered twenty-one.

  As we strained to find sleep and replenish our energy after the ordeal of the day, we counted ourselves lucky yet again for escaping the sewer inspection beneath the Mari Sniezna church. My father stayed up the entire night trying to keep the rats from our huddled-together bodies with a candle. He found that they did not like the flame, but there was only one flame and there were many, many hundreds of rats. Everywhere you looked, there were rats. It was, everyone agreed, the most miserable night we had passed underground since leaving the Ju-Lag. I do not think anyone slept, not even me or Pawel.