The three women Rabbi Gimelman spent a fortune to protect had grown weak. Leiozia developed a cough, a first sign of tuberculosis. Shosha retained her ornery coloring but lost her appetite and wasted. Rebekah dressed in garments that hid her body, but her face was gaunt and distressed. They had food some days and clean water and warmth, but their appetite for comfort had waned and they found themselves victims of a paralysis of the spirit that made it difficult to move.
“COME, COME, COME, COME, COME.”
The rabbi’s pitter patter delivery of this simple word helped moved one foot on one woman down one stair, but he kept the cajoling cadence, and Shosha stepped again, and again, until she was on the first floor. Three other men, members of the Underground, escorted Leiozia, Rebekah, and the last two boarders down from their rooms.
“Lev,” Rebekah said. “What if he comes and we are gone?”
“He’s been sent word,” the rabbi said. “He knows where to find us.”
“But what if the word doesn’t reach him?”
“It already has,” the rabbi lied. “He sends his love to everyone, you especially.”
“You heard from him?” Shosha said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“There wasn’t time.”
They went out the door to the alley and an awaiting carriage, a rickety contraption harnessed to a thinning ass. Rebekah grabbed her escort’s hand and looked back, at the open door and the light inside. She looked up, at the windows and the moonlight on the glass, lackluster there, but brilliant in the sky. The rabbi and the other men loaded her family and the boarders, but Rebekah stood. Her breath rose in the cold air.
“We have to go,” her escort said. “We only have a little window.”
“How can we leave?” Rebekah said. “Where else is there?”
“We have to go.”
“Where?”
“Problem?” The rabbi stood with them now.
“She doesn’t want to go,” the man said.
Rebekah gripped the railing to the steps and looked at her feet. She felt warmth in her face and tried in her mind to push everything back. Her legs shook with the effort. The rabbi took her arm.
“We have to go,” he said.
“Where?”
“Anywhere but here. This is death to stay here.”
Rebekah held fast and the rabbi squeezed her arm.
“Mama. Come on,” Shosha called from the carriage. “Time’s wasting.”
Rebekah looked at the rabbi.
“Was he joking?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Lev,” she said. “In the letter, he said he saved you.”
“He wasn’t joking,” the rabbi said. “He saved me.”
Rebekah looked at the rabbi’s hands. “How?” she asked.
The rabbi took her arm. “It’s not important,” he said.
“It is,” she said.
“Mama!” Shosha said from the carriage.
The rabbi waved at her and gently tugged Rebekah.
“It’s important to me,” Rebekah said.
“There was fighting outside the city,” the rabbi said. “We were near the river.”
“The Wisla?” The Wisla runs through Krakow.
“Yes,” the rabbi said. The carriage driver came up to them.
“We really need to go,” he said.
“Lev may come back,” Rebekah said. “I can’t be gone then.”
“Lev won’t come here,” the rabbi said.
“Where will he go then?” Rebekah said.
“Where we’re going.”
“Where? Where are we going?” Rebekah looked up at the shanty she once called her home. “The letter looked like his handwriting,” she said. Her voice broke and tears trickled down her cheek. “Where are we going?”
The rabbi placed his hand along her shoulder and her neck. He squeezed her and moved his face close to her. “To life,” he said.
Ten
The tunnels led under the wall beyond the ghetto and, it seemed, were always being dug out and extended. Short walkways led to bunkers that came off the main tunnels like pouches. Some bunkers sheltered weapons, some sheltered food, others sheltered people. From the bunkers, they could hear the shots on Mila Street. On the Aryan side, it looked like the entire ghetto was burning.
Underground, everyone ate and worked. Rebekah joined three women filling glass bottles with a mixture of kerosene, gasoline and sulfuric acid. Shosha corked the bottles and glued a cloth strip soaked in a crude, diluted solution of nitroglycerin. Leiozia rested on a straw bed over cold dirt near a little pool of fire. The damp in the tunnels aggravated her lungs and they seized with phlegm. Her face was hot in the afternoon and the heat crept into her arms and legs at dusk and into her hands and feet by night. Her eyes were hot and she couldn’t sleep but she kept them closed until she saw irrational thoughts that forced her to open them and look into the dark. So long as the thoughts vanished, she knew she wasn’t hallucinating and she took no more than lukewarm tea made from a packet of bitter root that came with a donation from Montana.
“They’re filling the Pawiak again.” Icchak Cukerman, known as “Antek,” a deputy commander of the ZOB, lit a thick cigarette in a pit of fire. He stood with the other deputies in a large cellar—the command bunker.
“What about Schultzie?” asked one of the men, referring to Schultz the factory director at the Sheds.
“Not good,” Antek said. “I stood across the street from the workshops. Idiots didn’t see me. Too busy with the beatings.”
“I thought they needed good workers.”
“Not so much, apparently. The courtyard’s full of people. We’re cutting a hole in the fence—see who we can get out. Szymek got the money for the bribes.”
“Kac?”
Antek dragged the cigarette and nodded his head. Szymek Kac.
“Get the bottles—we go tonight,” said another deputy who stuck his head into the entryway.
SHOSHA SAT BESIDE LEIOZIA AND WIPED HER hot forehead with a damp towel and spoon-fed her thin cereal made of mashed oats. The rabbi walked in and Leiozia looked up at him and smiled.
“How are you?” he said.
“Edelman was just in to see her,” Shosha said. Marek Edelman, a medical doctor, was second in command of the ZOB.
“And?” the rabbi said.
Shosha fed Leiozia the rest of the cereal then kissed her forehead and stood and walked with the rabbi out of the bunker into the tunnel hallway where two men were stacking crates and bundles.
“Edelman can’t do anything else,” Shosha said. “He’s given her antibiotics, but only time will tell on that.”
“What does he think?” the rabbi said.
Shosha looked up and sighed.
“Too bad we can’t get her to Marienburg,” said one of the men near the crates, about a town in East Prussia on a branch of the Wisla River known as the Nogat.
“Where?” Shosha said.
“To the Healer,” the man said. “He lives near Marienburg.”
“We have a doctor,” Shosha said. “We have two doctors, in fact.”
“The Healer is not a doctor,” the man said.
“He’s been verified,” the other man said. “I’ve read two stories about him and no one can explain his gifts. Not even Szarzynski.”
“Szarzynski?” the rabbi said. “The surgeon?”
“Yes.”
“The Healer’s name is Chelzak,” the other man said. “First name of Jakub. He bleeds from his hands and feet. Szarzynski verified him for the Church.”
Anatol Szarzynski was the top surgeon in Prussia and one of the top surgeons in all Europe. The public knew Szarzynski from his early days as an enfant terrible of the surgical suite and his later pronouncements on the fate of ailing politicians and other important persons. An astute self promoter with a sixth sense for the sensational, Szarzynski accepted a commission from Adolf Cardinal Bertram, the Archbishop of Breslau and leader of the German Catholic Chur
ch, to investigate claims surrounding Jakub Chelzak. An affirmation would boost his renown. A debunking would die in a day.
Szarzynski verified “the wounds on the wrists and palms are genuine, from the perspective, at least, of a medical examination. What is in this man, Jakub Chelzak’s, heart—i.e., whether or not he is saintly—is another matter best left to those who can ably judge such things.”
“Waste of time,” Shosha said. “Szarzynski’s a very public asshole.”
“It’s not just Szarzynski,” the man said. “Everyone knows about the Healer.”
“I don’t believe in such things,” the rabbi said. “And the Church is not our friend.”
“He heals the sick. It’s documented.”
“By whom? By Catholics?” the rabbi said. “Who knows how true any of it is.”
“He’s healed some very tough cases,” the other man said. “Hopeless ones.”
“How does he feel about Jews?” the rabbi said.
“Why would he care?”
Shosha sighed. The rabbi looked at her. The men stacked more boxes.
“You should go see him,” the second man said.
“Out of the question,” Shosha said. “Too dangerous. And for what? To see a fake Jesus?”
The man stacking boxes shrugged. “There are ways to stay safe,” he said. “If anyone knows those ways, it’s Rebbe.”
“It’s always problematic,” Rabbi Gimelman said. “Everything’s problematic.”
“You need to stay here,” Shosha said. “We need you here. This man can do nothing for Leiozia.”
The rabbi thought. “Does anyone else here know anything about him?”
“Antek has talked about him,” said the first man.
SPRING WOULD ARRIVE IN LITTLE OVER A WEEK. The weather was cold but calm. The fighting was worse.
“Mama,” Shosha said. “Marian is here.”
“Oh. Oh!” Rebekah stood and brushed flour from her dress. She looked at three loaves, rising on a wooden table. She smoothed the hair from her face and joined Shosha. They walked down the tunnel and up some steps into the cellar of a house on Mila Street that had become an informal headquarters for the fighting groups. The cellar was large, its walls thick stone and soil. Candles on crates and hanging sconces lit the area. The lights were low and flickered in the dirty faces of the men. Shosha, Rebekah, and a young woman grasping the arm of the man next to her were the only women. Marian—aka Colonel Mordecai Anielewicz—commanded the ZOB. He sat on a crate, talking and smoking with the other men. Shosha pointed him out. Leon Fajner, a lawyer who moved between the ghetto and the Aryan side, stood.
“Please—all stand,” Fajner said.
The twenty Underground leaders stood and each person placed a hand on a weapon.
“Repeat after me, please” Fajner said. “We fight this battle not only for victory, but for the dignity and honor of the Jewish Nation.”
“We fight this battle not only for victory, but for the dignity and honor of the Jewish Nation,” the group repeated.
“This meeting shall now be called to order.”
They sat, on the ground, on flour-filled burlap sacks, on crates of ammunition, wherever they could.
“Progress?” Marian said.
“ZZW killed five traitors at the brush manufacturing workshops in Swietojerska Street.”
“Floor rats?” Marian asked. The speaker nodded. Floor rats were Jew turncoats on the workshop floors who stood watch over the workers and beat them.
“ZOB?”
“We got Nossig,” came the reply.
“How?” Marian asked. Dr. Alfred Nossig was a Gestapo agent.
“Through the window.”
“Through his big fucking head.”
“At home?” Marian asked.
“Muranowska Street, right?”
“Yeah—forty-one, forty-two. Something like that.”
“Who sent the stuff to Brühl?” Marian referred to Brühl Palace, German Governor Ludwig Fischer’s headquarters. The men looked at one another. “Mail bomb—exploded there,” Marian said. Still no answer. “No one knows? Okay. What else?”
“We got the warehouses at Nalewki.”
“Yes,” Marian said. “I saw the flames—I wondered who did that.” He turned and picked up a stack of papers. He looked at Shosha. “How is Leia?” he asked.
“Better,” Shosha said. “A little, anyway. Rabbi was in to see her. He’s worried.”
“Rebbe always worries,” Marian said. “He was worrying to me about Pesach. I was kidding him about the need to be more rabbinical.”
“How can anybody worry about that now?” Rebekah asked.
“I haven’t met you,” Marian said to her. He reached over.
“This is my mother,” Shosha said.
Rebekah smiled and extended her hand demurely. “Rebekah Mordechai,” she said.
Marian took her to his cheek. “I was only kidding Rebbe,” he said. “I promised to get him some matzo if he promised to cook it.”
“He blessed the food,” Rebekah said. “He always does.”
Marian turned to the group. “Let’s see if we can’t get this fucker Georg,” he said. He looked at the women. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s the only word I know for him.”
Eleven
From all other sides, taller buildings obscured this roof, but on one side, it overlooked the Umschlagplatz. Three men had got up here at night. They wore black vests, black gloves, heavy black pants and black shoes. Shosha and two other women spent half an hour rubbing the men’s cheeks and foreheads with fine coal dust. They blended with the darkness.
This building of flats was almost abandoned so the men weren’t quiet when they walked up the stairs. Wild tenants and an elderly man stepped out doors and when the old man saw the rifles he raised his fist, big and white. A woman in tattered bedclothes whistled through bad teeth.
On the roof, the men crawled to the narrow space that overlooked the platz. Christien and Mosze had the rifles; Antek stood watch and chewed gum. Christien stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and patted his hands on his legs. He brought the rifle scope to his eye. The lens steamed over, so he held it farther from his face. Mosze assembled his rifle.
“Sveet!” Christien whistled through his teeth. Antek slid over and looked through the scope. A figure in half a uniform walked toward a group of men and women on the train platform. Karl Georg wore an SS coat but the dress slacks of a man about to enjoy the evening. He wore dress shoes that shone in the light from the overhead lamps around the platz. Antek handed the rifle back to Christien, who held it up and focused himself through the scope. He watched Georg, who headed the Befehlstelle, the command team charged with liquidating the ghetto. He stood on the platform with Mendel, who was always with him. Everyone talked about Georg and Mendel—the Germans, the Jews, and the Poles on the other side of the wall. The two men were always together. Georg smashed the butt of his gun into a woman’s face.
“Oh! Fucking bastard,” Christien said. Mosze took up his position. He looked at each of the lamps through his scope. “Oy.”
Christien and Mosze watched Georg drag the woman from the line, kick her, and pull her to her knees. The soldiers grabbed an old man from the line who stood straight and had a short, groomed beard. The snipers were too far to hear much. They watched the noisy drama until they heard a faint but continuous chirp. They saw soldiers blowing whistles. A group of women in grubby uniforms took to the platform and started stripping each person in line.
“Werterfassung,” Antek said. A special stripping team.
“Crazy bastards,” Mosze said.
Christien nodded. “Hard to get a shot.”
The woman on her knees turned and Mosze saw her face. “It’s the Nightingale,” he said. “She has her hands out.”
“She’s begging,” Christien said.
“She sings like that.”
“She’s not singing—don’t be a fool.”
“She’s begging a
nd crying.”
“You can’t tell,” Mosze said. “You can’t see tears, can you?”
“I can tell from her face,” Christien said.
“I thought she was protected,” Antek said.
They heard a gunshot and Christien saw the bearded man fall. He moved his scope to see the soldier who held the pistol. Around the soldiers and the deportees, the Werterfassung piled shoes, coats, hats, socks, and undergarments. Antek pushed Christien aside and looked through the scope. Two women from the stripping crew descended on the fallen man.
“That’s Nightingale’s father—I’m almost sure,” Antek said about the bearded man. “He used to come to the club. Rabbi knew him.”
Christien watched Georg, who stood near the Nightingale. “I wish he’d move. I can’t get a shot.”
“Take out a light,” Antek said to Mosze.
Mosze took off his gloves. He raised his rifle and aimed at a lantern near the platz and squeezed the trigger. The rifle echoed and the lantern burst and the soldiers dropped on the platform. Antek and Mosze dropped at a second shot. Then they saw Christien had fired again. “Missed,” Christien said.
“Fuck!” Antek said. “You scared me to death.”
Mosze scanned the platform for Georg. “Fucker’s hiding,” he said.
“I’ve got Mendel,” who had left the platform and was running low toward the street. Christien squeezed off a shot and the bullet tore Mendel’s cheek and spun him around and dropped him. The snipers whooped and whistled. By now the platform was deserted except for about twenty deportees crouched and naked, with their hands over their heads and their bodies tucked together. The Nightingale stood and raised her arm and pointed. She looked up, toward the source of the gunshots. Christien and Mosze could see her mouth.
“She’s singing now,” Christien said. With the scope, he followed her pointing finger and saw Georg, ducking below the platform. Something in Georg’s hand glimmered in the lantern light.
The Fires of Lilliput Page 8