Together

by Ann Arnold

  “Is Ignash alive?” Silly, Sala. Of course he wasn’t. If he was alive, he would be here. So is Israel dead? As always, when she asked that question, she made herself stop looking for an answer. He isn’t here. This was all she could be sure of. But Ignash, her cousin, also wasn’t here. The blood covering these men’s chests didn’t portend a good outcome for him. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Manek was still asleep. Zosia would only wake if Manek shook her.

  “We ran as fast as we could.”

  “But they were shooting at us,” Fish said.

  “And Ignash was hit?”

  Fish and Romek shared a look that made her uncomfortable. What happened to her cousin? What did they do? “Yes,” Romek said. “Ignash was wounded by the police. We tried to help him. We carried him for what felt like miles. But, in the end, he was struck by another bullet.”

  “We tried, Sala.” Fish said. “We tried to carry him. He was so heavy and the police were getting closer.”

  She kept looking between the two of them. She saw the guilt in their expressions for not bringing Ignash away safely. They could be feeling badly for other reasons, she realized. But deep inside her gut, she didn’t think so. And now she had one more thing to fear.

  “How far away did this happen?”

  “Very far,” Romek swiftly answered.

  “This is why it took you so long to get back?”

  “No,” Fish said. “We made sure to go in a roundabout path so the police couldn’t follow.”

  “Just in case,” Romek assured her. “To keep you and the children safe.”

  “Right.” Sala gave him a small smile as she hid her clenched hands in the folds of her skirt. “That was wise of you.”

  “Ignash would have wanted you to be safe.”

  “And you,” she quickly told Romek. “Will one of you take watch?” Fish nodded. “Then I am going back to bed, gentlemen.” Sala walked over to her sleeping children. She lay down next to Zosia, Manek on the far side. Just as she was going to close her eyes, she saw Manek’s open. He nodded to her, then his eyes flickered downward. She followed his gaze and saw his hand was on his rifle, lying safely between him and his sister, covered by the ever present shawl. She let out a deep breath and nodded to him.

  Her son. Her rock. He already knew what she was trying to accept.

  The next day, they prepared to leave Romek and Fish behind.

  So many groups of people straggled along the roads, it would be easy to pick one to merge with. Sala tried to be smart. Fish and Romek warned her to keep their Jewishness a secret for as long as they could. Before they set out, Sala drilled the children on the new names they all had to adopt.

  Each year at the high holidays, Jewish people repented for their sins in order to be deemed worthy by God, written in the Book of Life. Sala hoped that should God be watching, he write both their Jewish and their new pretend names down in that book, and not the Book of Death. It was especially ironic, for rather than going to shul to hear the blowing of the shofar, the ram’s horn, they had only the thunderous explosions of the Germans’ heavy artillery to herald their fresh year.

  Sala wondered if any of the gaunt faces walking around had ever broken matzo or lit Friday night candles. Where were all the Jews? Was Manek right? Were they the only ones left? Almost a third of Brzostek was Jewish, and Israel once told her that almost ten percent of the entire population of Poland was Jewish. What did the Germans do with all those people? Surely they couldn’t all be in mass graves and labor camps. The entire countryside would be nothing but an endless cemetery.

  As she watched people passing from her hiding spot, she listened carefully for the names of the villages they hailed from. If she was to be responsible for their safety, she would need as much information as she could gather in order to pass as just another displaced person. She understood that knowledge would help keep them alive even more than food.

  Sala, Manek and Zosia started out with one group, and when she saw another group behind her, she let the children lag until they left the first behind and joined with the others. She wanted to do this a few times, counting on the children’s slower pace to mask the fact that they hadn’t been moving with the refugees the whole time.

  “Who are you?” asked an older woman, leading the pack she had just joined.

  “I am Francizka; this is my son, Maryan; and my daughter, Zofia.” Sala introduced them to the stranger. Her kids, as quick as they always were, gave the woman weary smiles.

  “Where are you from?”

  Resisting the urge to put the woman in her place for her inquisitive nature, Sala pasted a friendly smile on her face. She could not give in to frustration. She needed to act as “normal” as possible. She gave the woman the name of the farthest village she had heard from one of the other groups. They had been talking about how fierce the fighting was there.

  “Oh. That’s very far. No wonder you three are so skinny.”

  “The fighting was right near my house, so we had to leave.”

  Once they switched a half dozen times, Sala felt as if they had the routine down pat. She saw no hesitation in either child when she called them by their new names, and was thankful their old names were so easy to modernize. They didn’t even notice that she had changed her name. To them, she was, and would always be, simply Mamusia. Just what every other Polish child called their mother.

  It felt as if they walked for weeks. The winter was slow in coming, so sleeping on the side of the road was not so bad. But food? Finding something to eat was impossible. Empty fields were checked for a spare potato. If they were lucky enough to find one, the children were so hungry they were happy to eat it raw. Berries were gobbled straight from the bush; the entire time all three of them were scared one of the other refugee families would see the berries as well and they would have to share. Her two children, already emaciated beyond recognition, seemed to be wasting away right in front of her eyes.

  Yet Maryan and Zofia never cried or complained once.

  When Sala saw a home on the outskirts of a new village, filled with other refugees, she thought maybe they could rest for a while from their exodus. The woman who owned the house was rushing around helping people. Sala could tell the building was filled with others in need. “Please, please … can you take us in as well? I can see how many you are helping, I am just hoping you have space for three more, not really even three, just me and my two little kids.”

  “There’s no space.”

  “I am begging you. We don’t take up much room. We just need a place to stay for a little while to take a break from the walking.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “We just need some rest. I will go on my knees if you wish. You have so many people here, let me be your helper. I have two good working hands.”

  Finally, the woman relented. “All I’ve got left is the attic. You don’t want to stay there, we have nothing else up there.”

  Sala resisted the urge to confess that an attic would be pure luxury to them at this point, especially after months stuck in a hole in the ground in the stables. Manek and Zosia were so exhausted, and she was scared they would get sick. Any illness at this point could kill them, because their bodies were so frail from lack of food and nonstop physical exertion. “The attic would be wonderful.”

  In they moved. Sala, Manek, and Zosia. All they had were their coats and her shawl to sleep on. The attic floor was made of boards that were smooth from age, so at least they didn’t have to worry about splinters. They slept the first day away, luxuriating in the freedom of not having to worry about keeping moving with a group of people who were as defenseless and lost as they were.

  The second day she started to hear the rumors as they went about their business. As she was collecting food from the countryside, helping cook for everyone, Sala began to hear a dangerous buzz. Most of it was directed at the woman who owned the home. Who is she? Are you sure
she’s not Jewish? Look at all that dark hair and skin, she doesn’t look Polish.

  Her family had lived, worked and died in this country for hundreds of years. She couldn’t be more Polish if she tried.

  Still, their tongues wagged, all about her and the children and their suspiciously dark features. No husband? Something is suspicious there. What good Polish woman is walking through the country with no man?

  The owner’s son was the worst of the bunch. That night, Sala caught the young man sneaking up the attic ladder. She had sent the children to bed on their own a few hours before. When Manek started screaming, she flew up the ladder. The young man was struggling with Manek, trying to pull his pants down. Her little boy wasn’t giving in, though, holding onto his clothes and kicking out with all of his might.

  She started yelling at the young man, accusing him of trying to violate her son. He was no more than a coward. Caught red-handed, he quickly disappeared back down the ladder.

  After that she tried to keep the children close at all times. She wished she could leave, but where would she go?

  The trouble was, they were children, and sooner than later, they escaped her supervision.

  Sala had become aware that the men in the village brewed their homemade vodka at the house next door. She had seen their rudimentary work one day while taking out the garbage. They started with yeast-covered potatoes. Once that brew started to ferment, they would transfer it, to a large cauldron, cover it, and place it over a fire. Using a large stick through the hole of the cover, they mixed the mixture as it boiled to prevent any scorching. They had created some sort of pipe leading out of the mixture for the steam to escape, and the alcohol was captured in the glasses they lined up. She watched the men take turns stirring and tending to the pot, but as the German front got closer, the men started to get nervous. The approaching Germans, it seemed, did not appreciate what was seen as the Polish people’s right. If they were caught, they would be shot and killed. So they hatched a plan.

  They called Manek over one day to help them. The way they saw it, if the Germans did come upon their house and see their apparatus, all they would find is a kid making soup.

  Manek did not know exactly what he was making, but he did know that it was important, and the men paid attention to him. He was eleven years old now, and he had a “job.” These men lived in the same house as he did, they ate their meals together, and now they needed him. Being entrusted with the responsibility made him feel like a big shot.

  Sala was fine with Manek stirring the barrel’s contents and watching over the brew. They got extra potatoes, whether from the largesse of the men or when her son stole some extra from the crop. After a few days, when the brew was ready, they filtered it. She didn’t realize they had reached that stage, or she would have kept Manek closer to her side.

  * * *

  “Come, Maryan.”

  Night was descending, and Manek had never been asked to join the men this late, so surely they needed him for something important. He really liked feeling this important.

  “Remember the soup you have been stirring? It is called vodka. Do you know what that is?”

  Not wanting to look like a child, Manek hesitantly nodded his head.

  “Now we have to filter the liquid, to make sure no impurities are left. Come watch.”

  Another man pulled his hat off and started to use it as a strainer. A few others followed suit, and after an hour they had their vodka ready. They took their chairs and placed them in a circle.

  “Come into the middle, Maryan.” As he was ushered into the center of the seated drinkers, he was handed a small tin cup of their just finished vodka.

  “Na zdrowie!” the first man toasted, raising his glass. “Thank you for working so hard to help us make our prize! Here is to Maryan!” As the first man swigged the liquor back, he motioned for Manek to do the same.

  “Drink up, young man, you deserve it!”

  Manek did not want to insult his new friends. He swallowed the clear liquid, and almost choked as it went down.

  He had never tasted anything like it and hoped to never again. The back of his throat burned so badly, he was sure that he had torn a hole right through his neck. This horrible-tasting drink was something they had spent so much time making?

  The man filled his glass again and gave him a wicked smile.

  “Now it’s your turn.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be a child, be a man. I drank to your health. It is only proper that you now make a toast for my health and drink to me.”

  “I can’t.” Manek shook his head, trying to figure out how to escape the circle of men.

  “Oh, don’t worry, the first time is always the worst! You won’t feel it soon, I promise. Take another drink.”

  And so he did. Before he knew what was happening, the next man in the circle stood up, refilled Manek’s glass, and cheered again. “Na zdrowie, to Maryan!” and they all downed the vodka again as if it was water.

  “Come, Maryan, your turn.” And so it continued.

  Soon Manek blearily looked at the men from his vodka-fueled haze. He had so many of the little glasses of clear liquid. What number was he on? Three? Four? He felt really good, though. Mamusia had never told him that vodka made you feel so good. The man was right. Sure, the first few shots burned like fire all the way down his throat. After that, though, he felt that fire warming him up from the inside. His tummy was full, and even his burps felt sweet.

  For the first time since the war began, Manek was experiencing an unexpected bounty. There was so much vodka, and just he and five adult men to share it. He soon liked it, and every time the men refilled the little metal cup they gave him, he was just as happy as the others to slam it down.

  “Na zdrowie!”

  “Maryan, do you know any songs?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Sing us a song, little one!”

  Manek knew plenty of songs. He opened his mouth and began to sing at the top of his lungs.

  He could sing forever if they kept giving him vodka.

  He was so absorbed with his singing, he barely noticed when one of the men approached him. Before he knew what was happening, the man started to unzip his pants. Manek did not know if he was singing or screaming at this point, but he did know he badly needed his Mamusia.

  * * *

  It was late, and Sala had no idea where Manek had wandered off to. As she started to search outside the house, she recognized her child’s voice. Was that singing she heard? She crept up to the neighbor’s house and peered into the window.

  There he was, standing in the middle of the village men, drinking and singing. He barely registered the fact that the man behind him had an evil gleam in his eyes. Before she knew it, her child started to scream as the man reached for his pants zipper. Manek tried to push the adult man away, his breath coming in panicked gasps.

  The terror Sala felt fueled a towering rage. She burst through the door breathing as much fire as a dragon in the stories Manek liked to tell Zosia. “You dirty old men,” she bellowed. “Are you all queer? You try to rape my son? He is a little boy. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Dirty Jew,” one of the men hissed.

  “We’re just trying to prove what a liar you are.”

  “It isn’t enough you try to rape my son. Now you insult me on top of everything else? I am going to the police and telling them everything you have been doing. Not to mention everything you tried to do to a little boy.”

  Sala grabbed Manek’s hand and led him from the house, leaving the men with shocked expressions. They were much more afraid of losing their precious vodka than interested in proving she was a Jew. She helped Manek settle down in the attic, and she stayed up all night watching over them.

  In the morning, even though he was so sick, she insisted they take off immediately. Manek was not sad to leave the house, and the strange men, far behind.

  Sala could no longer keep track of the
days or the direction they walked. She just knew they had to keep moving. The incident with the men turning on Manek constantly haunted her. Hiding the fact she was Jewish was clearly keeping them alive, but how long could she do that when it was emblazoned in the tint of their skin and the curl of their hair? Keeping them together meant everything to her, and she was terrified that should someone discover the truth, she would have no choice in the matter.

  When they entered the village of Jaworze, she hoped the people might be more compassionate. The townsfolk lacked the antagonistic sneer she’d seen in so many faces. Hearing the hungry growls of her children’s stomachs, she decided to try the one thing she hadn’t so far. Going up to a couple standing outside a well-tended house, she took a deep breath. “I am so sorry to trouble you. My children are starving. Is it possible you have something, anything, you can share? They’re so hungry, and we haven’t been able to find anything to eat.”

  The couple looked at the two children, their cheeks hollowed out, eyes pits of need. “All we have is a boiled egg.”

  “We’ll take it.”

  Sala almost swooned when the woman handed her an actual egg. She held it in the palm of her hand. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Looking at her stunned children, she lifted her head, and rushed them a little way down the road. “Sit children.” They sat on the curb and she carefully placed the egg in her handkerchief. Next she broke two small pieces from it, determined to keep the rest for the children to share later. Proving to her how desperately hungry they were, her children slowly savored their little pieces of egg, trying to make the sensation of eating last as long as possible.

  Turning her head to keep the little ones from seeing the tears in her eyes, she caught the eyes of a woman in her early fifties walking by. Her long, straight blonde hair was caught in a brightly colored red shawl. Her eyes smiled as widely as her mouth. “Hello, you three. You look like you’re enjoying a good meal.”