“We’ll make it work, Brocha,” my father said. “We are family. We may be crowded, but at least we are together. There’s worse things in this world than not knowing where to put our belongings.”
“The children,” my mother whimpered, as though she couldn’t imagine us all crowded together in such a confined space. Tears stood out in her eyes. I reached for her hand again and squeezed.
We heard a shout on the street. Sam and Jacob opened the door to look outside. Other people were seeing their living conditions for the first time as well and did not seem happy. I heard tones of desperation, yelling from doorways, bargaining and negotiating between neighbors. Sam pulled his cap forcefully onto his head and stepped outside.
“Where are you going?” my mother asked.
“Out,” Sam muttered.
“But Sam—” my mother began, but my father silenced her. “Let him go, Brocha. Give him space.”
“I’ll go with him,” Jacob said softly.
“Make sure he doesn’t get into trouble, Jacob,” my mother begged. Jacob nodded as he turned and pulled his own cap over his curls.
“And remember the curfew!” my mother called after them.
We spent the rest of the day figuring out where everyone was to sleep. It was decided that my mother and aunt would sleep in the small room in back with the twins and me, while my father and uncle would stay in the larger room with Jacob, Sam, and Isaac. Isaac, my father, and my uncle unloaded the cart, placing my parents’ mattress, which we’d brought from home, onto the floor in the small room, while my father shook out the mattress in the main room. My mother and aunt investigated the old stove, wiped off the tabletop, and swept the floor and corners free of dust and cobwebs. Whoever had lived there before had left the flat in a filthy state.
Around twilight, Sam and Jacob returned with what we all agreed was a small treasure. Sam pulled three potatoes from his pocket, and Jacob unwrapped a wool blanket to reveal a cluster of turnips, a hunk of cheese, and a pack of cigarettes.
“Where in the world did you get this?” my mother asked.
“We traded for it,” Jacob said. “There’s already a small black market in place.”
“What do you mean?” my father asked.
“The Poles know a good opportunity when they see one. There’s a whole crowd bartering for whatever goods we want to trade with them. They say food won’t be easy to come by.”
“And what, exactly, did you trade?” my father asked skeptically.
With his eyes downcast, Jacob answered, “My violin.”
My mother was beside herself.
“How could you do that?” she demanded, reaching over and immediately wrapping the food back in the blanket. “How could you trade your violin, Jacob? We are not that desperate. We still have money enough to feed our family without you having to trade away something so valuable.”
“It’s already done, Mama,” Jacob said in a resigned voice.
“No,” she shook her head, thrusting the bundle of food back into his arms. “We must still have some beauty in our lives, Jacob. Look around,” she said, sweeping her arm at the small room where ten bodies crowded together. “Your music will bring us joy. We will need that in the coming days just as much as some extra potatoes. You will trade back for it. Go, go, before it’s too late.”
Jacob sighed and moved toward the door. I could see in his eyes a flicker of relief at the prospect of reuniting with his violin. Sam regarded my mother in disbelief for a moment then shook his head, following in Jacob’s footsteps.
Shortly before nightfall, Jacob returned with his violin case in hand. He stepped silently into the room, and we all stared at him as he gently placed the violin in the corner near the mattress. My mother turned back to the stove where she was boiling water, her shoulders squared, her mouth set. Throughout our meager dinner, as we ate elbow to elbow at a table half the size of the one we’d left behind, I glanced at the violin case, wondering if a time would come when we would indeed have to make the choice between music, between beauty, and our very survival.
Fifteen
Olkusz Ghetto, outskirts of Sikorka, late autumn 1941
It had been a month since we’d moved into our new home. I spent most of my time at my mother’s side, preparing small meals from what we were rationed or could afford to buy, and keeping the twins occupied. At first, they thought of it as an adventure, all of us sleeping together crowded on the mattress on the floor. But soon they complained about Uncle Berish’s snoring, a loud rumbling from the men’s room that shook dust free of the rafters, and how Aunt Tova kept brushing their hair from their eyes and scolding them for being too loud.
As winter approached, the draft that penetrated the thin, bare walls made us shiver under our threadbare blankets, and we woke in the mornings to a layer of frost on our floor, our noses feeling partially frozen. The stove barely worked enough to cook our food before it sputtered and died and provided no warmth to the small flat. I went to sleep fully clothed, my gloved hands up to my nose, watching my breath form little clouds through my fingers. Soon, our meals became a repetitive mix of potatoes, watered-down soup, and bread. “Not again,” the twins protested daily. “When can we have something sweet?”
Jacob, Sam, and Isaac set out each morning with my cousin Daniel. I wasn’t sure where they went, but occasionally they came home with a hunk of cheese, a tin of diluted preserves, or a satchel of flour. I heard them whispering about what they could trade. Each day they scavenged among our belongings for anything of value that wouldn’t be missed. I overheard them furtively talking about their connections outside the ghetto, about the Poles they met when the guards who patrolled the outskirts of the ghetto weren’t looking.
“Is it dangerous?” I asked, leaning toward them, but they pushed me aside, looking pointedly over their shoulders at my mother and aunt. “Hush, Sarah,” they said, and I stomped away.
I felt sad when I remembered how we used to take everything for granted—the fruit compotes my mother made, simmering on the stove, or the bowls of soup we had every Shabbat filled with fresh vegetables and kneidles. My mouth watered when I thought of these meals, while I picked at the bland, meager portions we ate each day.
“Rationing is happening everywhere,” my father said at our quiet evening gatherings. “We have to make do, just like everyone else.”
When we could, Gutcha and I met outside, recalling our school days and missing all the little things we used to complain about. Aunt Leah, Uncle Abraham, Gutcha, and Daniel now lived a few doors down with Aunt Leah’s relatives. Despite the cold autumn wind that stung our cheeks, we still preferred being outside to the crowded confines of our flats. The walls did little to keep us warm anyway.
“I would love to have homework again,” Gutcha sighed one afternoon as we stood outside her doorway.
“I know,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Remember Morah Schneider? Remember how she used to scowl all the time, and hitched up the back of her skirt whenever she wrote on the chalkboard?”
“And she never heard a word we said!” Gutcha added.
“What? What? Speak up, you’re mumbling!” I imitated our elderly teacher, turning in circles with my hand cupped to my ear. We started giggling. “I wonder what happened to her,” I murmured, and our laughter died.
“Have you seen Yosef recently? Does he still hang out with Sam?” Gutcha asked coyly. Our eyes met. A smile pulled on my lips.
“You still like him!” I exclaimed.
“Well, you like Benni now, don’t you?” Gutcha asked, and I punched her gently on the arm. “How do you know that?” I whispered, and she started laughing.
“It’s rather obvious, Sarah. I’ve seen how you look at him.”
I blushed, thinking of the boy who had caught my eye over the summer. Like so many of the boys I had grown up with and ignored in my childhood, I was suddenl
y aware of Benni’s presence, of his good looks and deep voice. Even here, in the ghetto, I couldn’t help but stare at him when he passed on the street.
“Remember how Rachel used to fawn all over him?” Gutcha asked. “I mean, I can’t say I blame you both for liking him, but she really did act silly whenever Benni was around.”
“Shhh!” I hissed. As luck would have it, Rachel was at that moment passing our doorstep. Gutcha turned, saw her, and instantly grew red in the face.
“What are you looking at?” Rachel asked, pausing before us with a frown. “I saw you both whispering. What were you whispering about?”
“Nothing,” Gutcha said quickly.
Rachel’s bright blue eyes flashed at us. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s none of your business, Rachel,” Gutcha said tersely. I looked at Gutcha in surprise. Rachel was one of her closest friends, but now something passed between them that made me wonder if they’d had a fight. Then, to my bewilderment, Rachel turned to me and accused, “You think you’re so special, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, feeling my own face grow hot.
“Gutcha told me everything. She told me how you like Benni. She told me not to make a fool of myself in front of him because he already has his eye on you.”
I turned to my cousin, feeling a mixture of excitement and betrayal.
“You think just because you have a nice figure that all the boys are going to like you?” Rachel taunted. “Don’t be so vain, Sarah.”
“I never said I was!” I shouted, standing up angrily.
“Well, don’t worry. You can have him. I’m not interested anymore!”
“I don’t want him, or anyone!” I insisted, turning on the spot to run away, my feet crunching in the dirt.
“Sarah, wait!” Gutcha called, but I didn’t turn around. My mind was racing with thoughts of Benni and what Rachel had said—I had a nice figure. The boys looked at me. Before I knew it, I was wandering along the back street that bordered a series of fields at the edge of the ghetto. I paused as the sudden sensation of being watched washed over me and looked around. A tall young man was standing half-hidden in the long grass, leaning against a hoe and staring in my direction. When our eyes met, I froze. He raised his cap in greeting and I swallowed, looking away, my heart beating. The man looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. To my surprise, he laid down his hoe and began walking in my direction. I watched him nervously. As his features came into view, I realized with a start that he was the same young man who had watched me as we’d left Olkusz. I felt my throat constrict in panic. What could he want? Why was he walking my way? Was I even allowed to talk to him?
I hastily turned, preparing to run back home, when he waved his cap again and called out, “Wait!”
I looked around. To my surprise, I was alone on this stretch of road. There were no soldiers patrolling the border. The clouds overhead were heavy with rain or perhaps the first snowfall. The wind whipped against my face, turning my hands red as I clutched my shawl to keep it from flying away. I could have left then, but something held me back. I heard his footsteps as he stepped onto the road. Taking a deep breath, I turned back to face him.
He glanced at my armband, then looked back at my face. Now that we were standing so close, I could tell that his eyes were a cross between green and gray, surrounded by lashes the color of sunlight. And those eyes were looking at me intensely, causing me to blush nervously.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I hesitated, then said, “Sarah. Chaya Sarah.”
“I’m Fryderyk,” he said. He took a step toward me and asked, “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
I shook my head, staring at my feet. “I don’t think so,” I whispered.
“I have,” he insisted. “That day—that day in Olkusz.”
My gaze shot up and I swallowed. “So?” I asked, suddenly defensive. He regarded me silently for another moment, and I took a step backward. “Listen,” he said in an undertone before I could retreat, “my grandmother owns a farm just over the hill. I work in these fields every day, usually before the sun comes up.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply remained silent, watching him warily.
“We had a decent crop this year. We have eggs, and a little extra milk,” he whispered. “If you could manage to meet me, when it’s safe, I’d like to share some with you.”
I took another step back. My thoughts raced. I didn’t understand. Was this a trick? Why was he offering to share when food was so scarce? Why was he being so generous? And why would he risk his life to help me?
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said softly, shaking my head.
“When I saw you that day, were you walking with your family?”
I nodded.
“You have little brothers?” he asked.
“David and Majer. They’re twins.”
“They’re very thin,” Fryderyk commented.
I immediately took offense at his words. “We can take care of ourselves,” I asserted.
“It’s hard, though, isn’t it?” he asked sympathetically. “The Germans are being ruthless, to all Poles. Many of our neighbors’ farms were seized and they were forced to move. We were fortunate. I’m just trying to help. We want to help.”
I swallowed and looked away. He shuffled his feet. We were both still. Neither of us spoke. A few cows grazed in the pasture nearby. One of them gave a low moo, its tail swinging like a slow pendulum counting down the silent minutes. Finally, Fryderyk placed his cap back on his head and said, “Don’t make any decisions now. Just ask your family. If you’d like, I’ll be here again tomorrow at the same time. You can let me know then.”
I nodded and began to turn away, but he reached out for my hand to stop me.
“I just want you to know,” he said gently, his eyes on mine, “we don’t all feel the same way.”
Sixteen
My mother and father exchanged looks when I told them that evening. I could tell they were both eager yet wary at the prospect of Fryderyk and I meeting. I could see them mentally calculating the risk. Under normal circumstances, I knew they would never agree to such an arrangement, yet the idea of more food on our plates and in our stomachs was too enticing.
“Who is this boy?” my father asked, studying me skeptically.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Papa,” I said. “But he seems kind. He doesn’t agree with the Germans. He said his family wants to help.”
“Why us?” my mother asked my father. They both glanced at me, then back at each other. The knowing look in their eyes communicated something silently, but what that was, I didn’t know.
“Did he say anything else to you?” my father asked. “Did he ask you for anything in exchange?”
“No, Papa,” I said, confused.
Again, my parents were silent as they considered this.
“Can we trust him, Leibish?” my mother asked. “Is it safe?”
“Of course it’s not safe,” my father said, sitting down heavily in a chair and stroking his beard as he deliberated. “I don’t know,” he murmured at length. “Our only daughter, risking everything for some extra bread and milk.”
“I can do it, Papa,” I insisted, lifting my chin.
“Some extra bread and milk will make such a difference,” my mother said almost to herself. “How are we supposed to survive on what they give us? A few potatoes? And we have so little money to exchange.”
As if we were all thinking the same thing, we turned to see the twins sleeping in the corner. They were growing thinner and thinner each day, even though we all sacrificed part of every meal for them.
“Let me think about it,” my father said. “In the morning, I will tell you my decision.” Then he opened his arms to me, and I stepped into them eagerly. “My brave gir
l,” he whispered into my ear. “This is asking a lot of you. Please think carefully about this.”
I nodded against his chest. “I will, Papa,” I whispered, but in some recess of my mind, the idea of seeing Fryderyk again excited me as much as the idea of helping my family. I was not afraid.
It was Majer who ultimately decided the matter for us.
The following morning, we woke to his fitful coughing and whimpering. His arms were wrapped around his abdomen, and he was crying out in hunger. His face was blue from cold. My mother searched frantically for any extra scraps from yesterday’s meager meal. She only managed to find a few crusts of bread to give Majer and David for breakfast. Tears stood out in her eyes as they eagerly devoured the dry crusts, no more than crumbs. They had stopped complaining about the monotonous meals and now ate whatever they were given silently and without protest. My father turned to me and, with both hands squeezing my shoulders, nodded.
“You must be discreet and quick.”
“Yes, Papa,” I said.
“Leibish?” my mother whispered. My aunt and uncle lingered in the doorway. They all turned to look at me.
“I can do this,” I asserted again.
That afternoon, I walked through the streets to the road that separated the ghetto from the outlying fields. I was eager to see Fryderyk, to make arrangements. The sound of Majer’s crying rang in my ears.
As I turned the corner onto the small lane, heedless of my surroundings, I almost walked headfirst into two Nazi soldiers. I jumped back quickly, opening my mouth to apologize, but when I saw their tall black boots, the medals pinned to their lapels throwing sunlight into my eyes, my voice froze in my throat. Fear paralyzed me to the spot. I felt like my reason for being there was written guiltily across my forehead.
They regarded me silently at first. One of them held a cigarette between his teeth, while the other took off his cap and scratched the top of his head. The one with the cigarette exhaled a long stream of smoke, then smiled jauntily. “Guten Tag !” he said in a booming voice. “Going somewhere?”
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