by Irma Joubert
At the edge of a forest she stopped. She wasn’t afraid, but there was always a wolf or a witch in a forest. Or a cruel stepmother, she knew. So she crawled under a shrub at the edge of the big forest and lay very still. She could smell the wet leaves, and the cold crawled under the shrub with her.
No planes.
No more bombs.
Just quiet. And terrible thirst.
After a while she fell asleep.
When she woke up, the sun was shining. Something had awakened her.
Thirst overwhelmed her entire body.
She had to find Elza. They should have got away from the railroad while it was still dark. That’s what Oma had said.
She crawled out of her hiding place and cautiously looked around. Then she heard it—a whistle. That was how Mutti had always called them in the forest at Oma’s house. Mutti was here!
She tried to whistle in reply, but her mouth was too dry, so she walked in the direction of the whistle.
“Gretl!” Elza called from the left. “Gott sei dank, du bist heil. Thank God you’re safe.”
“Elza? I heard Mutti whistle.”
“It was me.” Elza’s voice sounded strange. Maybe she needed water too.
“Do you have any water?” asked Gretl.
“No, we’ll go and find some.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mutti and Oma?”
“No.” Elza set off, heading straight into the forest. Gretl stayed by her side.
“Elza? Did you hear the bombs?”
Elza glanced down at her. “It wasn’t bombs,” she said. “It was thunder.” She looked straight ahead and quickened her pace.
Maybe Elza was afraid and had changed the bombs to thunder in her mind, Gretl thought. Elza was afraid of everything, even though she was fourteen. Gretl was hardly ever afraid, and she was only six and a half.
The tall trees made a roof over their heads. They walked through dense ferns, pushed branches out of their way, climbed over fallen tree trunks. “When are we going to find water?” asked Gretl.
“I don’t know.”
“Elza, are you crying?”
“No.”
She knew Elza was crying because she was afraid. “Don’t worry, we’ll be out of the forest soon.”
Elza said nothing, just kept walking.
“And then we’ll find Mutti and Oma.” She tried to comfort her.
Elza walked on.
After a while Gretl was tired. Her legs were aching, and she was very, very thirsty. Her tummy cramped, her throat couldn’t swallow. “I have to find water now,” she said.
“There’s probably water down there,” said Elza. Her face was red, her dark hair clung to her forehead. “There must be a river.”
Gretl heard the water before she saw it. She forgot all about the wolf and the witch, ran ahead, fell on her tummy, and drank greedily.
Elza washed her flushed face. “Don’t drink too much, you’ll throw up,” she warned.
Gretl rolled onto her back in the damp grass and looked up at the leaves overhead. The sun was glittering like gold through the trees. Now that she was no longer thirsty, hunger took over. “Elza, have you got anything to eat?”
“No.”
She sat up. “Where will we find Mutti and Oma?”
“I don’t know. Come, we must keep walking.”
Reluctantly Gretl got up. “I’m still tired,” she complained. “Where are we going?”
“To Switzerland, to find Onkel Hans,” said Elza.
“Who’s Onkel Hans?”
“Oma’s brother.”
“Is Switzerland far?”
“Yes, very far.”
“Elza, how will we get there?”
Elza began to cry. “I don’t know, I don’t know!” she cried. “Stop asking so many questions. My head hurts!”
Gretl kept quiet. After a while she said, “Never mind, Elza. Oma will know what to do. We must just find her.”
But Elza just cried harder. “Don’t speak about Mutti and Oma,” she said between sobs.
“All right.” She would think about other things. Then the hunger would go away.
Switzerland was where Heidi and Peter lived, in the mountains, with a herd of goats. “Do you think Onkel Hans is as cross as Alm U?” She forgot she wasn’t supposed to ask questions.
“Gretl, what are you talking about?”
“Switzerland, of course.”
“Oh.” But Elza didn’t answer her question.
When they came out of the forest, there was a farm with a fence, and behind the fence an orchard. “Wait here,” said Elza.
Gretl waited a long time. She looked at her shoes. They were very dirty. So were her socks.
Elza came back with her sweater full of apples. “Don’t eat too many, your tummy will ache,” she warned.
The apple crunched as she bit into it. It was a big, sour apple. “Why don’t you eat an apple too?” she asked Elza.
“I’ll eat one later. Give me your sweater. I want to tie two more apples in it, for our supper.”
“What if I’m cold?” asked Gretl.
“Then we’ll eat the apples. Come, there must be a road nearby. Maybe there’s a signpost to show us where we are.”
She wanted to ask about Mutti and Oma, but she was afraid Elza would cry again.
When they were near the road, Elza said, “Listen, Gretl, we’re in Poland now. They don’t like Germans here.”
“Aren’t we in Germany?” asked Gretl. She knew Oma’s little house in the forest was in Germany. So was the ghetto.
“No, Poland. You mustn’t speak German at all.”
“What must I say?”
“We must speak Polish. Oma’s language, remember? She used to speak it to us. And to Mutti.”
Gretl nodded. “It’s hard.” She frowned.
“Yes, but you’re clever.”
Gretl nodded again. She was clever, she knew. “Don’t they like Jews either?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” answered Elza. “I think they like Germans even less than they like Jews, but no one really likes Jews. I don’t think we should mention Jews either.”
“Oma is Jewish, I know,” said Gretl.
“Forget about it.” Elza looked as if she was about to start crying again. “Forget about Jews and Germans and everything else. You and I are two Polish children from the north, understand?”
She didn’t understand, but she nodded gravely. “Papa was a German soldier,” she said.
“Gretl, stop it now!” Elza said angrily.
So she stopped.
They walked all day. After a while her feet were hot and her shoes hurt her feet and her legs felt heavy. But Elza said they had to walk as far as they could. Not in the road, but in the bushes next to the road, where they could hide if they saw someone coming. Sometimes they rested. Elza complained that her head hurt. It’s from crying too much, Gretl thought.
When it got dark, Gretl asked, “Where will we sleep?”
“Under the bushes. Until we get to Onkel Hans we’re going to be sleeping under bushes and we won’t be eating very often. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Once we’re in Switzerland, it will be better.”
She just had to ask: “Elza, where will we find Mutti and Oma?”
“They’re not coming,” Elza said
brusquely.
In the night Elza curled up and trembled like a reed. She felt hot to Gretl’s touch, and she was sweating, but she kept shivering. And she kept asking for water. Just before the sun came up, she spoke to Mutti in her sleep.
Gretl was cold as well. But the cold was more inside her, because the earth smelled so wet. She didn’t rattle like Elza did.
When the sun was up, Elza got to her feet. “We must go on,” she said.
“I think you’re sick,” said Gretl.
“Yes,” said Elza. “Let’s just find water.”
There was plenty of water in Poland. They drank at streams and ate another apple each. But after a while Elza couldn’t go on. She fell asleep in the shade of a tree.
Gretl lay on her back, gazing at the leaves. She missed Mutti. And Oma, especially Oma. Why weren’t they coming along?
The branches and leaves closed in around her, almost like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Maybe she could sleep for a hundred years as well. No, that was a bad idea—she would carry on walking until she found Mutti and Oma. They’d be with Onkel Hans, she knew it, and they’d eat bread dipped in melted cheese. Just like Heidi.
I mustn’t think about bread and cheese, she thought.
She sat up and looked around her. After a while she got up and wandered a short distance. She found a place where she could sit and watch the road. It was a quiet road. Occasionally a horse-drawn wagon came by. Sometimes someone on foot. Only one truck rattled past, but with pigs in the back, not soldiers.
She spotted a strange figure in the distance, clanging as he walked. On his back was a big bag. Jugs and a kettle hung from a belt around his waist, making the noise. In his hand he carried another bag. In the other hand he held a stick.
He walked slowly. Very close to her hiding place he sat down on the grass at the side of the road and removed the big bag from his back. It was full of things, but she couldn’t see what they were. Then he opened the other bag and took out a piece of bread.
Gretl felt her tummy heave. It had been days since she last tasted bread. When he took some cheese out of his bag, her mouth filled with saliva.
The man cut off a thick chunk of bread with his pocketknife and picked up the cheese.
Gretl leaned forward to see better.
He turned. She knew he had seen her but she sat without moving.
He narrowed his eyes to see better. “Dziewczynko, czy nie chcialabys troche chleba?” he asked.
He was asking whether she wanted some bread.
Mutti had told her never to speak to strangers. But she had never been so hungry before. She nodded.
Come, he motioned. But she stayed in her hiding place. He shoved his stick into the ground and slowly pushed himself up. One shoe was broken, exposing a toe in a sock. He came up to her, leaned over, and handed her a piece of bread and cheese. His hands were dirty, the nails broken.
Her teeth sank into the bread. It was hard and tough, so she had to clamp her teeth together to tear off a piece. The cheese was also hard and dry, but it was the most delicious bread and cheese she had ever eaten.
“Gdzie jest twoja mama?” he asked. She understood what he was saying, but she didn’t want to speak. She nodded.
The man got up and peered into the forest. Gretl stayed where she was. Though she hadn’t told him about Elza, he walked straight toward her. Slowly Gretl got up and followed. The man stood looking down at Elza. Then he bent down and felt her forehead.
“She’s very ill,” said the man.
Gretl nodded.
“She can’t stay here. I’m going to take her to a house where there are people who can look after her,” he said. He looked up at Gretl and frowned. “Where are you going?”
“In der Schweiz.” She had forgotten she was not supposed to speak German.
“Schweiz? Switzerland?” he said, astonished. He shook his head. “Switzerland?” he repeated.
“Yes, Switzerland.”
He fetched his bags and hid them under some shrubs near the spot where Elza was lying. Then he bent down and picked up Elza. She groaned and her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t wake up. The man didn’t look strong. He was very thin. But Elza was thin as well, and probably not heavy.
“Come,” he said and set off down the road.
Uncertain what else to do, Gretl followed.
“What’s this I hear about you blowing up the wrong train?” Stanislaw asked when Jakób arrived home two days later.
Jakób glanced around him quickly.
“There’s no one here, little brother, relax,” Stanislaw sneered.
“We didn’t blow up a train, Stan,” Jakób said, exhausted. “We blew up a bridge—the right bridge at the right time. But the information we were given wasn’t right.”
He went to the kitchen in search of coffee. Stan followed. The coffee pot had been rinsed out, and the cloth bag hung on the hook. The stove was cold.
Jakób looked around the kitchen. It was the heart of the home, especially during the cold winter months. Leading out of it on one side was his parents’ bedroom. The bedroom on the other side belonged to his oldest brother and sister-in-law. There was a porch at the front, where they sat in the summer when it was too hot in the kitchen, and where he and Stan were presently sleeping. Too many people were living under this roof.
The kitchen itself was sparsely furnished. The stove was black and shiny, pots gleamed on a shelf, and on the floor next to the stove was a box filled with firewood. In the middle of the kitchen stood a rough wooden table and six wooden chairs. Against one wall was a painted cabinet for tableware and provisions. Because of the war, the metal chest that usually contained their flour and sugar was almost empty. Against the opposite wall stood an upright wooden bench. The stables were a few yards from the back door.
He heard his father working outside.
“Where’s Mother?”
Stan shrugged. “Attending afternoon mass, I suppose. I’ve just woken up, I’m on night shift.” He took a big homemade loaf out of the cupboard. “Hungry?” he asked.
Jakób nodded. He was ravenous.
“Get the cheese,” said Stan, cutting thick slices of bread.
Jakób went out to fetch goat’s-milk cheese and a piece of ham covered with a moist cloth from the cooler. He dipped a mug into a pitcher filled with cold water and sat down on a wooden chair beside the rough kitchen table.
“Meeting tomorrow night, same place,” Stan said around a mouthful.
The members of the Polish resistance movement that met in Częstochowa were few but valiant, though their efforts had grown more desperate as the German occupation endured.
“We must improve our communication channels,” said Jakób. “It’s no good getting partial information.”
“We’re doing our best.”
“Our best isn’t good enough,” Jakób said. A helpless fury took hold of him again. “How many Jewish refugees has the Home Army saved from the Nazis? And here we go and blow up an entire train with—”
“It was unfortunate,” Stan interrupted. “But the train was unscheduled.”
They ate in silence.
“London has asked us to collaborate with the Soviets,” Stan eventually said.
“I refuse to help the Red Army,” Jakób said firmly. “I don’t trust the Communists.”
“They’ll give us the weapons we need.”
“And as soon as we’ve played our role they’ll disarm us and take us prisoner. Or force us to join the Polish Armed Forces in Russia. You know it as well as I do!”
> “Without the help of the Red Army we won’t make headway against the Nazis. Listen to what I’m telling you.”
Jakób did not want to listen. He rinsed his plate in the basin and went out onto the porch.
A green field stretched downhill to the outskirts of the city. Częstochowa was a beautiful place, a historic landmark. From the porch he could see the Aleja Najświętszej Maryi Panny, a wide street running all the way through Częstochowa to the foot of the Jasna Góra monastery. From where he was standing, Jakób could see only the thick walls surrounding the monastery and the top of the bell tower. Far to the left lay the industrial quarter, where he and Stan were employed at the steelworks.
Jakób ran his hand over his face. He felt the stubble under his fingers. Maybe he’d feel better after he had washed and shaved. And he still craved a coffee.
First Gretl saw two little boys wrestling on the grass. Then she saw three goats grazing—like Peter’s goats from the Heidi story. “Mamo! Mamo!” shouted one of the boys and ran on ahead. “Idzie Mejcio! Here’s Mejcio!”
When she rounded the corner with the man who carried Elza, she saw a low building, like a stable. It had a sloping roof and there was only one door. A woman came out with a baby in her arms. A small girl peered out from behind her skirt.
The man and woman spoke too fast. Gretl couldn’t understand what they were saying. They all went into the house. It was dim inside, and there was a bad smell.
The man laid Elza on the only bed. The woman felt her forehead. “She’s very ill,” she said.
“Yes,” said the man. He spoke some more, but Gretl didn’t understand.
The woman shook her head, spoke fervently, nodded again. “Yes, she looks Jewish,” said the woman. “But the little one”—and she pointed disapprovingly at Gretl—“is definitely German.”
Gretl took awhile to work out what she wanted to say. “To jest moja siostra,” she said. She’s my sister.
The woman turned to her and spoke so fast that Gretl didn’t understand a word. She fetched a moist cloth and gave it to Gretl. Gretl understood: she had to wipe Elza’s brow.