THEY ATE DINNER AT A LARGE TABLE IN A SMALL ROOM. The running of the trains had ended for the day and they were returning to the monotony of a winter wane. The leaves were trying to bud in places.
“They’re worse off than we are,” Jakub said. “I feel sorry for them.”
“I’d be careful who I sympathized with,” Mia said.
Karl drew in a deep, tired breath. “What do you know about them?”
“Enough.”
“Enough? Enough what?”
“They’re devious and greedy,” Mia said.
Jakub looked at his food. “They don’t look rich to me,” he said.
“They come in to a place and they close it off to everyone but their own,” Mia said. “They demand freedom, then cry about bigotry and tell everyone else how to live. They are the most bigoted people I know. If you aren’t one of them, you’re nothing.”
“If you aren’t a German, you’re a nothing,” Karl said.
“That’s different,” Mia said.
Karl looked at his mother and chewed his food. “How?” he asked.
“The war makes it different.”
“What do you know about Jews,” Karl said, “other than papa slept with one?”
Mia looked at her son and her jaw tightened.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Karl said.
“Say it again. What did you say?”
Karl kept chewing. Mia slammed her hand on the table. “Don’t ever talk to me like that.” She pushed her chair away and stood. “You disrespectful prick.” She went up the stairs.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” Jakub said. He drank some water. “She’s going to hate you for a week.”
“She’ll get over it.”
Jakub looked at the stairs. “She hasn’t yet,” he said.
“GOOD MORNING.”
Jakub saw Monsignor Starska coming down the narrow road toward the house. He felt a pang in his stomach. The day was bright and the priest was ready for it. He wore an oversize hat that would have looked perfect on a Spanish nun. The floppy brim waved up and down as he walked, like two dark wings. The priest rested his walking stick against the giant oak. He carried a leather tobacco pouch.
“I came to see how you were,” Starska said. He wiped his forehead. The morning air was humid but cool. “You weren’t at Ash Wednesday mass.”
“Mama wasn’t well,” Jakub said.
“Don’t tell him that.” Jakub turned and saw his mother. “Monsignor,” she said. She smiled and took the priest’s hand.
“I’m sorry to hear you were sick,” the priest said.
“I wasn’t sick,” Mia said. “It was my son who wasn’t well. We didn’t want to leave him.”
“I understand,” the priest said. He looked at Jakub. “I’ve brought the mountain to Muhammad,” he said. He placed his thumb in the tobacco sack and brought it to Jakub’s forehead. He drew a cross with fine gray ash.
“Thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.”
“Amen,” Mia said. Jakub whispered a refrain.
The priest repeated the ritual with Mia. “Is Karl about?”
“I haven’t seen him,” she said.
He closed the tobacco sack. “Some other time, then. The Archbishop would like to meet with you.”
“The Archbishop?” Mia asked.
He placed the sack in his vest pocket. “Yes. In Breslau.”
“Oh,” Mia said. She looked at her son.
“They’re very interested,” the priest said to Jakub. “It’s a good sign.”
“Breslau is very far away,” Mia said.
“We can’t afford it,” Jakub said.
“You won’t have to pay,” the priest said.
“I’m needed here for spring planting.”
“I can get help for the planting,” Starska said.
“I’ve never been that far,” Jakub said. “I’d be lost.”
“You won’t be lost,” Monsignor Starska said. “I’ll be with you.”
“It would be so much closer in Danzig,” Mia said. “Why isn’t the archbishop there interested?”
Monsignor Starska shrugged. “Politics,” he said.
Jakub looked at his mother. “It’s still a wonderful opportunity,” she said.
“I have to think,” Jakub said.
“About what?”
“Archbishop Bertram was planning for next month, before Easter,” the priest said.
“Well—I think the answer can only be yes,” Mia said.
Jakub spent the next few weeks moping and anxious. He never told his mother, but he did tell Karl, who liked Monsignor Starska even less than he did. When the day came, the Monsignor arrived. Mia was outside feeding the chickens.
“Monsignor,” she said.
He set his walking stick against the oak. Mia took his hand.
“Is Jakub ready?” he asked.
“He is. I’ll get him.”
She went toward the house. “Would you like to come in?” she called to the priest. But he waved her on. She came out of the house with Jakub, who carried a suitcase.
“Wonderful,” the priest said.
Mia turned to her son and wiped her brow. She saw gray streaks on her hand. She ran her fingers across her forehead and her fingertips turned black.
“Mama?”
“What is this?” she said. They looked around and saw fine white dust falling in the air.
Jakub felt urgent. “Go inside,” he said. “Go!”
He pushed his mother and Monsignor Starska followed. They hurried up the steps and Jakub pulled the door shut. “Sheets—quick!” Jakub said. Mia rushed upstairs and brought down a handful of sheets. “Stuff them,” Jakub said. “Around the door and the windows.”
They watched through the glass. The dust thickened and swirled.
“Where’s Karl?” Mia asked.
“Buying a belt for the tractor,” Jakub said.
“When’s he coming back? Did he tell you—he never says anything to me.”
“Tonight,” Jakub answered.
Mia stared out the window. “Tonight? Are you sure tonight?”
“I’m sure,” Jakub answered. “Yes—tonight.”
“Then who is this?” Mia said. She saw the outline of a person walking in the dust. She pulled the sheet away and opened the door. A lone man emerged from the storm holding a royal purple handkerchief over his mouth and nose. He was small and wore a hat.
“Jakub,” Mia said. They went down the steps together and took the man’s arms and led him inside. He took off his hat, wiped his face, and looked at his handkerchief.
“Ash,” the man said.
MIA TOOK RABBI GIMELMAN’S HAT. She looked at the ash on it. “Where did this come from?”
“I’m sure I don’t want to know,” the rabbi said. “This is the home of Jakub Chelzak?”
Mia looked at him. “May I know who I’m talking to?”
“Azar Gimelman,” the man said. “I’ve traveled a long way to see Jakub Chelzak.”
The monsignor intervened. “What’s your business with him?”
“I’ve come to ask for help,” the rabbi said. “His reputation reaches us in Warsaw.”
“Warsaw?” Mia asked.
“Frankly, the stories seem exaggerated.”
“You should sit down,” Mia said.
“Perhaps even grossly,” said the rabbi. He followed Mia to a chair.
“The stories are not exaggerated,” the monsignor said. “But Mr. Chelzak has other business.”
“My situation is dire,” the rabbi said. “We have a very sick family member.”
Jakub stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Jakub Chelzak,” he said.
The rabbi immediately stood. “Azar Gimelman,” he said. “Rabbi.”
“Oh good Lord,” Mia said.
“You flatter me, madam,” the rabbi said.
“A rabbi?” the priest said. “How did you get out of Warsaw?”
“Water. Cold water.” The rabbi looked toward the window, at the chickens in the winnowing ash. Mia handed the rabbi water. Jakub sat.
“They haven’t killed us all,” the rabbi said. He sipped the water.
“Are you Orthodox?” the priest asked.
“No one who knows me would call me that,” the rabbi said. “But I apologize. I’ve lost my manners.” He extended his hand to Monsignor Starska. They shook.
“Jarus Starska,” he said. “Monsignor.”
When the rabbi extended his hand to Mia, she hesitated. “I’m Jakub’s mother,”she said. He took her hand in both of his.
“A member of my synagogue is very ill—far too sick to travel.”
Mia and Jakub looked at the rabbi.
“I realize we don’t believe the same things about certain matters of faith,” the rabbi said. “But I’ve heard the L-rd is a mysterious mover.”
“That may be,” the monsignor said. “But right now, the Lord is moving us toward a more pressing engagement.”
“What could be more pressing than a life?” the rabbi asked.
Jakub looked at the monsignor, then at his mother. “What am I to be paid?” he asked.
“Jakub?” his mother said.
“I don’t think pay will be an issue,” the rabbi said.
“He doesn’t work for free.” Mia looked at her son.
“I wasn’t suggesting you did,” the rabbi said to Jakub. “I mean to say, money is not an issue with this family.”
“Then what were you thinking?”
The rabbi pulled some money from his coat. “I was thinking in the range of two hundred zlotys per day, against an advance of one thousand.”
“A thousand.” Mia gasped. “That’s five hundred Reichsmarks.”
“You may be away for some time,” the rabbi said. “Once we get into Warsaw, leaving will not be so easy. It will take a lot of time. There’s a high level of danger.”
“Mama?” Jakub said. Mia looked at her son.
“Your expenses will be paid,” the rabbi said. “We can get the rest home to your family.”
Mia brought her hand to Jakub’s cheek. His eyes pleaded.
“Mr. Chelzak and I are going to Krakow,” the priest said.
“The ghetto there?” the rabbi asked.
“No. The cathedral.”
“What are you offering?” Mia asked the Monsignor.
“Mama!”
“The rabbi is offering two hundred zlotys a day; one hundred Reichsmarks.”
“Advanced against one thousand,” the rabbi added.
“The archdiocese is paying our expenses,” the priest said.
“But nothing additional?” Mia said. “We need additional.”
“I can inquire,” Starska said. “But I doubt they will pay anything more.”
Mia looked at her son. “What do you think?”
Jakub stood up. “The Archbishop is not ill. The young woman is.” He felt relieved.
“He’s already committed,” Starska said.
“We can meet the Archbishop another time,” Jakub said. He kissed his mother’s cheek and looked at the rabbi.
“This gift of yours,” the rabbi asked. “How long have you had it?”
Jakub looked at him. “Gift?”
The rabbi smiled. “You knew I was speaking about a young woman, but I never said so,” the rabbi said. “It is a young woman who is ill.”
Mia was about to say something but Jakub stopped her. “It’s money,” he said. “A lot.”
Mia took his hand. “Rabbi—you write down what he tells you and you post it to me? We have no phone here.”
“I have a phone,” Monsignor Starska interjected.
“But you never let anyone use it,” Mia said.
The rabbi looked at Jakub.
“He reads but doesn’t write,” Mia said. “I’ve known some rabbis, and they could always do both.”
“We can leave after Karl returns,” Jakub said.
BATTLEFIELD
Seventeen
On a rooftop perch higher than where they killed Mendel and Georg on the Umschlagplatz, Christien and Antek watched a black car moving between the lights along Okopowa Street, outside the ghetto walls.
“I’ll tell the others,” Antek said.
The building was empty but the stairs were unsafe. Antek crawled along the tiled roof and lowered himself down a pipe over the side of the brick wall and into the alley. He ran out of sight of the gendarmes, toward ZOB headquarters in the dark. Air raid sirens stayed with him part of the way, then moved as he moved, far then close again, an auditory illusion amplified between the walls. Christien stayed atop the roof. He saw the black car he recognized as SS stop
at the Chlodna Street gate. The car surprised him by turning his direction.
JAKUB CHELZAK HAD ENTERED THE GHETTO. The rabbi took a folded stack of bills from a pocket sewn inside the lining of his pants and leaned forward and tapped the driver with it.
“You’re pushing your luck, excellency,” the driver said. “But I appreciate your pushing it my way.”
“We’ll be out of here before long—maybe before you,” the rabbi said. He spoke over the sirens.
“You’ve paid me well enough to desert,” the driver said. “I’m seriously considering it.”
The car pulled tight with the opening of an alley. The rabbi reached across Jakub and opened the door.
“You know, you’re the only Jew I think who’s ever sat there,” the driver said.
The rabbi swooshed his hands toward the open door motioning Jakub, who slipped out. The rabbi stuck his leg out the door and the driver caught his arm. The rabbi could only see the driver’s left cheek and his chin in the faint light. He squeezed the driver’s arm and slid out, into the alley.
“That man was a soldier?” Jakub asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” the rabbi said.
They moved along alleys in air that betrayed death. The rabbi kept Jakub close. The lights were out in the buildings and only the sirens moved. Jakub saw open doors and broken windowpanes and a corpse, white and stiff in the street.
“They’ll bury him,” the rabbi said.
They entered a basement door off Gesia Street and walked through blackness.
“Watch your head here,” the rabbi said. He patted a stone overhang and ducked under it. They crawled for several meters and the rabbi stuck his head through a larger opening and immediately felt two cold rifle barrels against his temple.
“L’Chaim!” he said.
“Rabbi!” One of the men bent to help him up. He stood and Jakub stuck his head through. The men aimed their rifles.
“It’s all right,” the rabbi said. “Where is Leia—have they moved her?”
“Leia?”
“Leiozia, of the Mordechai house.”
The men looked at one another.
“Well?”
“Leiozia is dead, Rebbe.”
Rabbi Gimelman staggered and caught himself. “Dead? Oh, G-d—may I speak your name. How long?”
“Two days.”
“Oh L-rd, L-rd, L-rd.”
Jakub laid his hand on the rabbi’s shoulder.
“Our journey is wasted,” the rabbi said.
When Rebekah saw Rabbi Gimelman, she dropped to her knees and threw her arms around his waist. She had cried two days but didn’t cry now. She pressed her head against his chest.
“She’s dead,” Rebekah said softly.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” the rabbi said. “We meant that she would live.” He didn’t look at Jakub. “Where is she?”
“At the far end,” Rebekah said. “Where it’s coolest.”
“We have to bury her,” the rabbi said.
“It’s too risky.”
“Shiva?” the rabbi said.
“Not until we bury her.” Shosha emerged from a shadowy place and her voice carried in the catacomb. �
��It has to be Kirkut, not the Skra.”
“That’s not realistic,” Rebekah said to her daughter. “We’ve discussed this.”
Shosha looked at Jakub. “Is this the man you left us for?”
Before the rabbi could answer, “Leiozia asked for you,” Shosha said.
“You can’t imagine my grief,” the rabbi said. “You can’t imagine it.” His voice broke and he hugged Rebekah. He felt bones through her flesh.
“I can help you bury her,” Jakub said. “I’ve got a strong back and I’ve eaten.”
“That would almost be appropriate,” Shosha said. “The man who came to save our Leia’s life now puts her in a grave.”
“Shosha—your tongue,” Rebekah said. “I think it’s a crazy idea to take her out there. We can bury her here, cover her with lime. Marian has said so and I think he wants it done soon.”
“She should be buried with Jews in the right place,” Shosha said. “Can you consecrate this ground?” she asked the rabbi.
“I could pray over it,” the rabbi said. “But how sure we would be, I cannot say.”
“How far is the cemetery?” Jakub asked.
“Less than a kilo, but through the fighting,” Shosha said. “I can go with you.” She squeezed Jakub’s arm. “He’s right—it’s solid.”
“To go out there to bury the dead—what if you end up dead?” the rabbi asked.
“This is Leiozia!” Shosha said. “You’ve hired this man already—have you been paid?” she asked Jakub.
“I wasn’t expecting it until my work was finished,” he said.
“If anyone has to go, I’ll go,” the rabbi said.
“No,” Rebekah said.
“They know me,” the rabbi said. “Every German here has received a gift or three from me.”
“And they kill you now because the gifts have stopped,” Shosha said.
“The gifts never stop,” the rabbi said. “They know that after the war, those who helped will have means.”
“Yes? And how are they so sure of this?” Shosha asked.
“What other hope do they have?”
“A lot more hope than we have.” Shosha turned away and started to walk. “We have to do this soon,” she said. “Antek says the gendarmes have left Kirkut. But they could always return.”
The Fires of Lilliput Page 12