by Irma Joubert
That was a problem too, because she didn’t know how. In the ghetto Oma had prayed to God in a strange language. She didn’t know the language in which Aunt Anastarja and the priest prayed either.
After Gretl’s father died Mutti had stopped praying, but long ago, when Gretl was very young, Mutti had taught her to kneel beside her bed at night.
She didn’t go to the front. She was afraid someone would notice that she didn’t know what to do, so she knelt behind the first bench and prayed, “Lieber Herr Jesus, mach mich fromm, dass ich auch zu Dir in den Himmel komm.” She opened her eyes but remained on her knees. She had prayed for herself, not for Jakób. She closed her eyes again: “Dear God, make Jakób good so that he can also get to be in heaven with You. Amen.”
She got up, though she still had not said what she meant to say. If Jakób was in heaven, it would mean he was dead, and then he couldn’t take her to Switzerland. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t want to go to heaven either—not yet, anyway. So she knelt again and this time she prayed in her own words. “Lieber Herr Jesus, bring Jakób home so that we can go and look for Onkel Hans. Amen.” Feeling happier, she got to her feet and tiptoed outside.
She heard children singing and followed the sound.
Behind the cathedral was a red-brick building that turned out to be a row of classrooms. She walked past the first one. A woman in a long black robe was leading a group of girls in a song. They looked a little older than Gretl. In the adjoining classroom the girls seemed younger. They were drawing on their slates with slate pencils. The third classroom was crowded. A woman in a black robe and black headscarf was reading her young pupils a story. Gretl stopped and listened. She knew the story. It was about a brave man, Daniel, who loved God so much that he walked into a lions’ den. The teacher at the ghetto school had told them the same story.
The teacher looked up. She wore spectacles with thick frames. “Are you new?” she asked in a kind voice.
Gretl nodded.
“Come in, child, come to my table,” said the teacher. “What’s your name?”
“Gretz.”
“And your last name?”
Gretl hesitated a moment. “Gretz Kowalski,” she said.
“Well, Gretz Kowalski, how old are you?”
“Nearly seven.”
The teacher seemed surprised. Behind the thick lenses her eyes looked very large, but their expression was gentle. “Are you sure you’re nearly seven?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Gretl. “I can read and do arithmetic. I’m just thin, that’s all.”
The teacher gave a slight smile. “Fine,” she said, “but your mother will have to come and register you.”
Gretl nodded. “I’ll tell her.” She didn’t leave, but stood waiting.
“Um, all right, then. Starika, move up. Gretz can sit with you.”
Gretl turned to face the class. A sea of inquisitive faces looked back at her. They had dark eyes, like Jakób’s. Only the teacher had gray eyes, or maybe they just looked gray through her thick glasses. There was a shortage of desks, so that four girls shared the same one. The girls moved to make room for Gretl.
Starika was a little chubby, which was probably why there had been only three girls at her desk. Gretl sat down. It was a tight squeeze.
“Why are you so pale?” asked Starika.
“I’m from the north, near the German border,” Gretl whispered in reply. “That’s why.”
“You’re not German, are you?”
“No,” said Gretl firmly. “I’m Polish.”
During a break Starika gave Gretl a piece of her bread. “Tomorrow you must bring your own,” she said.
“Okay,” said Gretl.
“You sound funny.”
“It’s because I’m from the north,” Gretl explained.
“Oh. We can be best friends if you like.”
“Okay,” said Gretl. When the bell rang, Starika put her arm around Gretl’s shoulders and together they walked back to their classroom.
Jakób walked with Stan and Jerzy through the quiet streets, their footsteps hollow. They didn’t speak. Around them rose the skeletons of buildings. In some places chunks of concrete had been ripped off. Twisted steel girders pointed at the sky like gnarled fingers.
Jakób was filled with shock and disbelief. Was this really Warsaw? Was this what the proud Polish capital had come to?
He stopped beside a large crater in the street. He realized he was looking at the foundation of a house. It was as if a tornado had come from the sky, uprooting and funneling the entire house away.
A skinny dog was digging in the rubble.
“Come, Jakób,” said Jerzy.
They walked on. Jakób felt sick.
Ryszard Syrop was about forty, a teacher at a primary school, he told the young men. But it was getting harder every day—parents were afraid to send their children to school.
“Are there still children here?” Jakób asked. He had seen hardly anyone. And those he had seen seemed completely out of touch with reality, worn out, world weary.
Ryszard gave a mirthless laugh. “Yes,” he said, “thousands. They’re the ones we’re fighting for.”
“But where do they find food?” asked Jerzy.
“They don’t. Everyone is hungry. But we believe liberation is in sight.” Ryszard’s voice was firm.
In Częstochowa we don’t know anything about this profound kind of suffering, thought Jakób. There’s always food on our table—soup and goat’s cheese, sometimes ham, and usually bread, except when flour is unavailable. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe the Black Madonna was watching over her city.
Ryszard said, “I hear the PPR are calling up their members to fight with the Home Army.”
“Yes,” said Stan, “I belong to the PPR. Those have been my orders too.”
“Oh,”said Ryszard with a slight frown.“Aren’t you and Jakób brothers?”
“We are,” said Jakób, meeting Ryszard’s gaze. He and Stan might disagree about politics in the privacy of their home, but here they were brothers.
“Good.” Ryszard seemed to hesitate before continuing. “The three of you will act as group leaders. We want to run this uprising like a military operation. Your groups will be known as sections. You’ll have the rank of corporal. We have very few experienced men; those who have been in the military are all fighting at the front.”
“Do you have any formal military training yourself?” Jerzy asked.
“Yes,” answered Ryszard, “I was honorably discharged from the army about ten years ago, after a back injury. You’ll all be in my company. I’ll be your captain.”
“Right, Captain,” said Jakób. Good, he thought, Ryszard seemed to know what he was talking about.
“There’s a planning meeting tomorrow morning at six. We will show you maps and aerial photographs. Did you bring any weapons?”
“We each have a Sten, Captain,” Jakób answered.
Stan opened his bag. The rifle had been taken apart and neatly stowed among his clothing. “We don’t have much ammunition, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Ammunition is a problem,” said Captain Ryszard. “The Allies have dropped supplies a couple of times, but it’s hard. The Americans drop their loads from such a height that the winds blow them out of reach.”
“What weapons do we have?” Jakób asked.
“We have a number of Mausers and Schmeisser machine guns seized from the Nazis,” the captain answered. “And mortar pipes and bombs supplied by the Allies. For the rest, we make do.”
It was dark outside when the four of them walked through Warsaw’s empty streets to a deserted metro station that served as the Home Army’s temporary headquarters. They walked through street after street piled high with garbage and waste. Ryszard seemed oblivious to the rubble and decay and the rotting garbage heaps on the grimy sidewalks.
Jakób’s initial shock changed to a deep, throbbing ache. This is the heart of my country, he thought, ripped apart, broken, collapsed, filthy, and stinking.
The metro entrance was half hidden behind a gigantic concrete block. The steps leading down were strewn with debris. The tracks had fallen into disrepair.
“It’s safe, come on down,” said Ryszard as he led the way.
A naked light bulb here and there cast dim light across the cavernous tunnel. The hundred or more men inside spoke in subdued voices.
When Jakób looked around him, his heart swelled with pride, which slowly replaced the pain. These people were ordinary Poles, men and even a few women prepared to give everything for the country of their birth. He was standing among his people, and he knew he would never be anything but a Pole.
General Bór-Komorowski entered from the side. His bearing was erect, his body lean, and his uniform immaculate. His face looked almost emaciated. His bald head glistened in the naked light, and his black eyes looked straight at the group in front of him. He inspired confidence. When he held up a big hand, the soft murmur of voices died down immediately.
“My brothers, my sisters, my fellow Poles,” the general began in a strong voice, almost a drawl, “my heart swells with pride to see you gathered here today. A gathering like this is a rare occurrence. That is why I want to tell you—Poland is proud of you. You are holding Poland’s centuries-old spirit of liberation in your hands.”
A short silence followed before the general continued, more gravely, “After almost a year’s planning, after almost five years’ suffering under German tyranny, we are ready to rise up, ready to show the world Poland will not submit.”
There was an audible murmur, but Komorowski held up his hand again. “We have about forty thousand men, counting the Home Army and the PPR. More than half our men are younger than twenty, with no formal training and very little experience. We have about forty-four thousand hand grenades, and we have rifles for only one in every six men.”
A murmur of concern went up.
“We’ll chiefly use guerilla tactics and our own initiative. You all have experience of underground activities. We’ll attack, drop out of sight, attack from behind, exhaust the Germans, break their morale. Our greatest problem is the shortage of weapons.”
Stan shook his head. “Our situation is dire,” he told Jakób. “The Red Army will have to help right from the start, listen to what I’m telling you.”
This time Stan was right, Jakób knew.
As if he had heard Stan, General Komorowski said, “The Soviet forces are ready to invade Warsaw. Marshal Rokossowski’s troops are advancing from the south and the east in a front that is almost fifty miles wide. In a matter of days they’ll be on the banks of the Vistula.”
“Surely the Allied Forces will help too?” someone asked. “Britain and America? And what about the Polish army in Russia and Italy?”
“They have promised to send reinforcements as soon as possible, yes.” The general nodded.
“And the Germans?” asked one of the other men. “What’s their situation?”
“On paper it looks better than ours,” said the general honestly. “They have an estimated twenty thousand well-trained SS troops with heavy arms. But the soldiers are showing signs of exhaustion. I expect the Wehrmacht to offer very little resistance on the Vistula front.” He looked around him, then said, “We’ll divide into smaller groups now. The company commanders will move to the operations room; the rest will stay here.”
Slowly excitement began to take the place of Jakób’s shock and pain. They stood bent over tables. At each table a colonel explained their battle strategy. They studied maps of roads, buildings, underground tunnels, sewers.
“Forget the Russians and their games,” Jakób said to Stan. “With or without the help of the Red Army, we’ll drive the Nazis out of Warsaw, then out of all of Poland.”
“I’m at school now,” Gretl told Bruni late that afternoon. “We read and do arithmetic. Jakób will be proud of me when he gets back.”
The goat looked at her with large eyes almost as gentle as her teacher’s. “We call my teacher Sister Zofia. She reads us stories from the Bible.”
The next morning Sister Zofia asked, “Will your mother be coming to register you?”
Gretl nodded.
“Today?”
Gretl shook her head. “She’s too busy.”
“Well, all right, then.” Sister Zofia looked doubtful. “But she’ll have to come before the end of the week, is that clear?”
Gretl nodded.
There were many children in the classroom. The teacher couldn’t help them all with their sums and also listen to each one read. And the children were rowdy.
Starika wasn’t good at writing. She held her slate pencil awkwardly. Gretl noticed she was using the wrong hand. “Why don’t you use your other hand?” she whispered.
“I can’t, the other one is stupid.”
“Oh.”
Her sums were also wrong. “That should be a five, not a four,” Gretl whispered.
“You don’t know everything,” Starika snapped.
“Be quiet and carry on working,” said the teacher. “Starika, come and read for me.”
Starika went to the front of the classroom. Her shoulders were slumped and she was dragging her feet. Ewunia, who sat across the aisle, said, “She’ll probably get spanked.”
After Starika it was Gretl’s turn. “You read very well, Gretz,” said the teacher. “Where did you learn to read?”
“My sister taught me, and my teacher,” Gretl said cautiously.
“Where did you go to school?”
Gretl shrugged.
The teacher looked at her closely. “Your arithmetic is good too,” she said. “I think you should move up to the next class. But first your mother must come and register you.”
The teacher in the next class was strict, Gretl had heard. “I’d rather stay here and help you. I’m too small for the next class,” she said firmly.
The teacher gave a slow smile. “All right then, we’ll see how it goes.”
For the first five days of the fighting, it seemed as if the Home Army stood a chance against the mighty German Wehrmacht. Street by street, block by block, the Home Army drove back the Germans, until almost three-quarters of the city was under Polish control. Of the Russians there was no sign.
“Not that I mind,” Jakób told Jerzy one evening. “The less I see of them, the better.”
On the morning of the sixth day Jakób was sitting on the roof of a once-graceful, double-story hotel on the outskirts of the city. He and Stan had taken the last shift of the night and were waiting for day to break. It had been drizzling all night, and they were wet and cold. In another week it will all be over, he thought, and we’ll go home.
Jakób frowned and squinted. He reached for his field glasses. Adjusting them, he tried to make out what he was seeing in the dim light. “Stan?” he said without removing the field glasses from his eyes.
Stan moved closer to where Jakob sat. “Yes, what?”
Jakób pointed with his finger. His brother looked, adjusted his own field glasses, looked again, then whistled through his teeth. “Lord have mercy!” he said at last.
Jakób felt his muscles tense in a kind of anticipation, almost excitement, a hunger for the possibilities ahead. “Are those German tanks?”
“A sea of German tanks and trucks and troop carriers,” said Stan.
Jakób bolted downstairs to where their men lay sleeping in an empty room. “The Germans are coming!” he shouted. “Get ready. Borecki and Alexander, see if you can get the radio to work.”
“Yes, Corporal.”
“Józef, send a Morse code message that a large German force is approaching from the northwest.”
“Right, Corporal,” said Józef, throwing off his blanket.
“You two, go upstairs to Stan and bring me reports every minute. I want to know how many tanks there are, how many trucks, heavy guns, how many of everything, the direction they’re moving in, every detail you can think of.”
“Yes, Corporal,” said the two boys and raced up the stairs.
“I’m ready to fight as well, Corporal, until I’m needed elsewhere,” said Haneczka. She was a young woman in her early twenties, but strongly built and clad in men’s clothing.
“Fine,” said Jakób. “Keep your medical equipment with you at all times.”
He felt the blood rushing through his body, a burst of adrenaline reaching the ends of his nerves. He looked around him. A skinny boy of no more than fourteen stood in front of him, eager to help.
“Waldus, stay with me. I need a messenger. Stan’s men, start making Molotov cocktails; we want to give the Germans a proper welcome. My own troops, check the barbed-wire barricades and come back at once.”
He heard the planes, their engines screaming. The roar became louder as they approached. There was a burst of machine-gun fire no more than two hundred yards away.
“Take up your positions,” shouted Jakób. “Leave the barricades for now! Felix, everyone in your group, go up, get behind your guns! Róman, go.”
A second squadron of planes swooped down. Guns blazed, shattering the windows, blasting chunks of plaster from the wall.