The Fires of Lilliput

by Michael Martin

  “Mama—no.”

  “Shopping?”

  “No.”

  “Well—how many guesses do I get?”

  “She’s at Madame Krushenski’s.”

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sure?”

  Shosha looked at him.

  “I know—it’s a dumb question,” he said.

  “Have you heard from Jakub?” Shosha asked.

  “I was going to ask you that,” the rabbi said. “I thought he might have written.”

  Shosha turned away and leaned against the wall. She shook her head. “What do you take me for?” she asked.

  “What?”

  She turned to Rabbi Gimelman. “You let the soldiers have him,” she said. “Just when does he write?”

  “To me or to you?” the rabbi said.

  “To either of us.”

  “You asked me if I’d heard from him.”

  “You have your ways. You might have at least heard about him.”

  “No,” the rabbi said.

  “When do you think you will?”

  “I told you—I explained that.”

  “You didn’t explain anything,” Shosha said.

  “I did.”

  “Just like you explained Jerczek,” she said.

  The rabbi rubbed his ankle then sat back and looked up at her. “If I could stand up, I’d slap you.”

  “You’d slap me?” Shosha said. She walked to him and knelt down before him. “Then why don’t you?”

  The rabbi looked at her. “You want that we should sacrifice all of us—you, your mother, the good fathers, the fighters, me—for one man?”

  “Good fathers?” Shosha stood up. “One of them was a lunatic.”

  The rabbi looked away.

  “What do you know about sacrifice?” Shosha asked. “You’ve spent this war fed and fat.”

  “And keeping you alive.”

  “Well,” Shosha said. “If this is life.”

  She went toward the stairs to the second floor.

  “I made a choice,” the rabbi said. “Whether you like it or not, this is life and I chose it for all of us.”

  Shosha turned to him. “Who asked you to make choices for us?”

  The rabbi rubbed his ankle. “Whom do you think?” he said.

  “Whatever debt you owed my father, you’ve long ago repaid.”

  The rabbi stopped rubbing and lowered his foot to the floor. “How do you know?” he said.

  Shosha went up the stairs. Then she stopped. “What could you possibly owe him by now?” She walked the rest of the way and the rabbi heard the bedroom door close behind her.

  WITH REST AND NOURISHMENT, SHOSHA WAS ABLE to work and she did—as an assistant at a clinic on Grochowska Street run by Dr. Jablonski, who was active in the AK. He re-introduced her to the Underground and set her up with his AK cell. Each cell had five to eight members who knew one another, but only by aliases. Shosha became “Sheba,” from Bathsheba, wife of Solomon.

  AK fighters took a Christian oath. “In the sight of Almighty God and the Holiest Virgin Mary, Queen of the Polish Crown, I place my hands on this Holy Cross, symbol of suffering and salvation, and swear that faithful and unbending, I will guard the honor of Poland. I will fight for its liberation from bondage with all my strength, including the sacrifice of my life. I will obey without question all orders of the Armia Krajowa and will preserve its secret come what may. So help me God.”

  For Shosha, the oath became, “In the sight of the Almighty L-rd, I place my hands on the hands of my fellows, and swear that, faithful and unbending, I will guard the honor of Poland. I will fight for her liberation from bondage with all my strength, including the sacrifice of my life. I will obey without question all orders of the Armia Krajowa and will preserve its secret come what may. So help me, G-d.”

  The month was September 1943, and preparations were under way for a general revolt that would involve not only the Jews but all Warsaw. Small handguns, bullets, newspapers, drawings, plans and maps circulated around Praga within and beneath loaves of a simple but delicious potato bread Shosha and Rebekah baked every few days. After making a large batch one afternoon, Rebekah leaned back from the cutting board. She placed her open hands in the small of her back and stretched backward and blew the hair from her eyes. She looked at her daughter.

  “Look at us,” Rebekah said. “We’re a mess.”

  Shosha rolled a slab of dough.

  “I heard you last night,” Rebekah said.

  “Heard me what?” Shosha said.

  “Crying.”

  “I wasn’t crying.”

  “I cry too. I cried last night, a little.”

  Shosha shaped three loaves and placed them on a tray.

  “It’s all right to cry,” Rebekah said.

  Shosha set the loaves into the warm oven. The heat poured over her face.

  “I miss them, too,” Rebekah said.

  “Miss who?”

  “Leiozia. Papa especially. Jakub.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed it,” Shosha said. “You haven’t let on.”

  Rebekah looked at her daughter. “I don’t know how you can say that,” she said. She took off her apron. “I talk about papa all the time.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of papa,” Shosha said. “Leiozia either.”

  Rebekah thought. “I miss Jakub as much as you do,” she said.

  “Really?” Shosha said.

  She undid her apron, laid it aside, and walked past her mother on her way out.

  Rebekah followed. “I don’t like your disrespect,” she said. “It’s not fair, not to any of us.”

  “Tell that to Jakub,” Shosha said. “Tell him about respect.”

  “He knew the risks,” Rebekah said. “He stayed willingly. Rabbi told him to leave, begged him to leave. But he didn’t.”

  Shosha looked at her mother. “You’re right,” she said. “He knew the risks. He wouldn’t listen. He was well paid for his services.” Shosha went out the front door, into the street. Her mother watched her pass the window.

  Twenty Six

  Word of plans for a Warsaw-wide revolt reached the enemy and by fall, the occupiers had stepped up their attacks on the Polish population, with open-air executions on both sides of the Wisla. On the Aryan side, hundreds of Poles, lined up and shot, at the Plac Teatralny; on Pius XI Street; and on the corner of Senatorska and Miodowa Streets. Gunfire and soldiers also provoked constant anxiety in Praga.

  “I was out the other day walking when I heard shots around the corner,” the rabbi told Shosha and her mother.

  “You shouldn’t be out,” Rebekah said.

  “I have to—just to get fresh air.”

  “They taking good care of you?” Rebekah asked.

  The rabbi shrugged. “As good as can be expected.”

  In the weeks since their arrival in Praga, Rabbi Gimelman had become a scarce and mysterious character, moving from house to house and cellar to cellar with help from the AK. Everyone knew the enemy wanted him. The ghetto had fallen like skin from bone, revealing the skeletal remains of the rabbi’s network of financiers, informants, spies, suppliers, and functionaries. The razing of Sztuka was itself informative, like beheading a Medusa at the right spot and watching the Resistance crumble. The enemy considered Rabbi Gimelman a key “behind-the-scenes” player, an arranger of alliances with a sharp, pragmatic mind willing to resort to any strategy, creative or simple, planned or momentous, that circumvented death or trumped the other side. Rabbi Gimelman had become an elusive adversary the more thoughtful commanders regarded with the care of chess players.

  He may have played the game with cold intent, but the rabbi was affected. He happened on scenes of heinous devastation, where the smell of rifles still lingered and blood ran in streams to the street. He prayed in quiet and often wept. Sometimes when he was alone, he started to pray and ended up raising his voice to G-d and asking over and over, “Why?
” Lately, he spent entire days in bed, hearing shots and voices in the street, wallowing in darkness until night, then rising with pangs in his stomach. When he slept, it was only for a few hours and the deeper the sleep, the worse the awakening, the greater the panic, the more rapid his breathing and the wetter his perspiration-soaked clothes. He lost more weight in Praga than he had in the ghetto. He kept his hair short and his beard shaved. Unlike his anxiety, he couldn’t keep his thinning frame and sinking cheeks from the people who knew him.

  “Rabbi worries me,” Rebekah said to her daughter. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “He’s feeling the weight,” Shosha said. “Of all his choices.”

  Two days later they saw Rabbi Gimelman at a small outdoor farmer’s market.

  “We’re walking to Jagiellonska later.” Rebekah stood with a bag, from which peeked the top of a wreath made of sticks and fallen leaves. “Come with?” she asked the rabbi.

  Rebekah and Shosha were going to pay respects at 36 Jagiellonska Street in Praga, where an earlier massacre had defied even the twisted logic of war. Thirty or so twenty-somethings gathered for a friend’s wedding reception at the bride’s third-story apartment. Someone informed the local SS. Large groups were verboten. Four SS officers showed up at the reception. The bride and her father answered the door of the apartment. The SS could see the people, dressed in tuxedos and fine clothes, standing inside and out on the balcony. Some stood in the hallway.

  “You know this is not allowed,” one of the men told the bride’s father.

  “It’s only a wedding,” he said. “My daughter was just married.” He kissed her head.

  The SS didn’t know anything about the groom—that he was Christian, or his Germanic ancestry. They only saw people, drinking and celebrating.

  “We have to come in,” the uniformed men told the bride.

  “What’s wrong?” Her new husband stood at the door.

  “These men say we can’t have our friends here.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a rule,” one of the SS said.

  “It’s my wedding,” the groom said. “See?” He flashed his lapel.

  “That’s not an issue.”

  “Then you’re not invited,” the groom said. He pushed past his wife and father-in-law and shut the door.

  The SS shot the door and kicked it in. People screamed. The soldiers invaded the room and fired into the crowd. People fell and screamed and blood soaked white clothes.

  Some people jumped off the balcony. The soldiers stormed the hallway and the bathroom and the bedrooms. They fired at everyone. When the room was clear, they went back to the door. One of the men saw a cushion moving on the couch. He walked to it and pulled it away. A four-year-old child peered up at him. The soldier shot the child and left the room with the other men.

  Rebekah, Shosha and Rabbi Gimelman stood with a crowd outside the apartment a week later. Rebekah laid a wreath where others lay, with flowers and candles that burned with jittery flames. Women knelt and crossed themselves or clenched their fists and prayed. Men wept and children stood and looked, at places where blood stained the pavement under the balcony. Somewhere distant, the rabbi heard marching boots and the hum of war machines. He sidled up to Rebekah. She stood with Shosha and their heads were bowed.

  “Listen,” he said. He tugged on Shosha’s arm. She turned and the rabbi whispered in nearby ears. “Soldiers,” he said. “Pass it on and go—quickly.”

  They looked up the street. In one direction, the nearest cross street was far. Toward the other direction, they listened.

  “That’s where they are,” Shosha said.

  They crossed the street and walked away. They saw the crowd dispersing as the rabbi’s refrain passed from person to person. They stepped into a hat shop and closed the double door as the first soldiers rounded the corner a ways off. Two cars followed the soldiers, who fired into the fractured crowd. Some people panicked and ran toward the soldiers and fell. Others ran toward shops and pushed past shopkeepers who hurried to lock their doors. Shosha watched people run up to the door of the hat shop. She went to open it and the hat maker grabbed her hand.

  “You crazy?” he said. He pushed her back.

  People fell in the street. The hat maker stayed low and crept from window to window pulling down the blinds.

  “Shosha—get away from there,” the rabbi said. “Stay down.”

  They heard shots and screams and feet, marching and running, fleeing and halting. They heard bodies crash against the door and hands and heads strike the glass. The shades over the windows were thin and the sun shone through them and they could see from the back of the shop blood running thinly down the leaden panes. The hat maker peered out the window at the soldiers.

  “Sons a bitches,” he said. He saw the rabbi whispering prayers on the other side of the room. “Where you from?” the hat maker asked.

  “Targowa Street,” Shosha said.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” the hat maker said. “I know everyone there. You know Cetkowski?”

  “No,” Shosha said.

  “Hmm. Well, I see you’re saying your prayers. Say a few Hail Marys for me.”

  The shooting stopped but they still heard voices and cries, soldiers yelling, engines idling, and a sound that kept repeating, like latches locking or shutters closing. The sound came closer and they heard boots on the sidewalk. Latch—boots—latch—boots—latch—boots. The hat maker crept to a window and peered out.

  “What are they doing?” Shosha asked.

  “I can’t tell,” the hat maker said. Then the boots were in front of his shop.

  The hat maker crouched. The others saw a shadow through the blinds and they heard hands fumbling with the doors. The bottom half of each door was solid but the top halves had three small windowpanes covered by a single blind. The person outside pushed and shook the doors, then called to someone up the street. He spoke German and his voice sounded young. More boots ran to the door and they saw another shadow and heard a second voice that was older. The older shadow stepped back and the butt of a rifle smashed the lowest pane in the first door, blowing the curtain forward and spitting glass on the floor. The rifle withdrew and smashed the bottom pane of the other door. They heard a third pair of boots and something metal hit the sidewalk. Gloved hands thrust a heavy chain through the first broken window and looped it through the second. The chain pulled tight and they heard its links lock. The gloved hand pushed back the blind and a soldier peered in. The rabbi and the women saw the face of a boy but they were huddled far back in the shop where it was too dark for him to see them. The shadows withdrew. They heard rope scraping across wood and then they heard nothing.

  Shosha stirred behind some boxes. “Are they gone?” she asked the hat maker. He didn’t reply. “Are they gone?” Nothing. “Hey—you there?”

  Shosha crouched and moved toward the front of the shop.

  “What are you doing?” Rebekah asked.

  “They’re planning something bad,” Shosha said. “We can’t stay here.”

  “I’ll look—you stay back,” the rabbi said.

  “I’m already here.” Shosha lifted the curtain and looked out. She saw three bodies in the street but no soldiers. She looked up the street as far as she could. She looked at the heavy locked chain that shackled the doors. The breeze stroked her cheek and the temperature was perfect. In a month of rain and clouds, this was a perfect day. “No soldiers.” Shosha saw the hat maker from the corner of her eye. She crawled to him.

  “Where’s the shopkeeper?” Rebekah asked.

  Shosha looked at the hat maker’s open eyes. “Here,” she said. She lifted his hand and felt his pulse.

  “Is he hurt?”

  “No,” Shosha said.

  “Is he shot?” the rabbi said.

  Shosha took his chin and turned his head from side to side. She looked at his clothes. “Not that I can see,” she said. “But he’s not living.”

  “Oh,” Reb
ekah said. “We have to get home.”

  “We can’t go out the front,” Shosha said. “Not without breaking down the door.”

  “The windows are too small,” the rabbi said. They were thick panes about six inches square, nine to a window, glazed into iron frames. The rabbi stretched his legs. He looked around the shop. “There’s a door,” he said. He crawled to it and turned the handle. “Not locked,” he said. He opened the door and saw a staircase. “I’m going up,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Rebekah said. “Is it safe?”

  They heard the rabbi climb the stairs and heard him walking around overhead. They heard him walk back and down the stairs.

  “There’s a balcony up here.”

  The women followed him upstairs to a room filled with boxes and hats. In another room where the hat maker lived alone, Shosha opened the door to the balcony.

  “How do we get down?” Rebekah asked.

  The rabbi found quilts but they were too thick to tie or wind.

  “There are ropes out here,” Shosha said.

  They walked on to the balcony. Rebekah gasped and covered her mouth.

  Hanging from the balconies of neighboring buildings, people swayed in a gentle wind. They hung from hands where necks were too slender or feet where arms were too weak. They were young men and boys, old women, girls, gray clothes, dark clothes, and clothes with colors that twirled like piñatas in the bright afternoon sun. The rabbi held Rebekah’s hair and pressed her head under his chin. Shosha ran her hands through her own hair and looked up the street, at doors barricaded with ropes or chains. She reached across to the balcony on the building next-door.

  “I’ll go first,” she said.

  “What—go where?” the rabbi asked.

  Shosha climbed over the balcony railings.

  “You can’t jump,” the rabbi said. “You’ll break your neck.”

  “I’m not jumping.”

  “What are you doing?” Rebekah said.

  “Escaping.”

  “Shosha!”

  Shosha looked at the ropes and slipped over to one on which a man hung from his ankles. He was young and she thought he would hold so she grabbed the rope and let her self down.