The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die

by Randall Platt

  Something else about the sewers: enemies have to want you pretty damn bad to follow you down here. Sniper and his gang taught me that. Once you get used to the smell and stop thinking about what you’re slogging through, once you learn to stop gagging, quit breathing through your mouth, and go slow so you don’t trip, it’s not such a bad way to get around.

  I go a few blocks, using my flashlight to get my bearings and looking for any news signs or warnings other sewer pilgrims might have scribbled on the walls: POLICE PATROLS, TOO WELL-TRAVELED, or BEWARE: FUNERAL PARLOR ABOVE! I hear plop! plop! and I feel a couple of rats race across my boots. Damn rats always catch me off guard. Then the rats plop! plop! again, back into the water, and I relax. The rats always leave, get on with their work. Unless you’re dead. Then you are their work.

  I look down the passageway, then at the ladder up. I know just where I am: two blocks from home on Pawia Street.

  “Hey, you! Boy! Get out of there!” a man shouts at me just as I shove the manhole cover up and out. Before I can sink back down, someone has me by the collar and he hauls me up onto the street. He whirls me around so the sun’s in my eyes and I have to squint.

  “It’s illegal to go in the sewers! Don’t you know it’s dangerous and—” My eyes focus and we seem to recognize each other in the same instant. Officer Winicki’s face softens. “Is it? Well. Look at you. Abra Goldstein. Or is it still Arab? Alive after all?”

  Officer Gustaw Winicki, our neighborhood foot patrolman, has hauled me home time after time. Always lecturing and hinting, but almost as though he cared about what became of me. Sorry to let you down. Again.

  “Of course I’m alive. I’m here, aren’t I? Just going home, Officer Winicki. No crime in that.”

  “No, no crime. But you can’t go home, Abra.”

  “I can if I want to,” I say, sounding about six years old.

  He pulls me back and says, “No, you can’t.”

  “Why not? What happened? Did something …”

  “No, nothing happened.”

  “Then why?” I demand.

  “Because … because you’re dead to them.” He’s looking past me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dead and buried.” His voice is now low and soft.

  “How can I be buried? I’m right here.”

  “Come with me.” He ticks his head, and I follow him.

  We walk silently the half block to the cemetery down the street from our home—past the posh Jewish section and ending in poor man’s land. He points down to a gravestone. I kneel down to read it.

  What the …? In Hebrew, it reads:

  ABRA GOLDSTEIN

  GONE AND FORGOTTEN

  “He buried me?” I ask, still trying to comprehend. “He buried me?”

  “He buried your memory.”

  “So, who’s in there?”

  “No one. It was a symbolic burial.”

  I brush away some dead leaves and pick up a twig sticking out of the ground. “Who gave the eulogy?”

  “This marker just showed up here, about a year after you were sent away.”

  It hits me. I remember the exact date: the phone call to my father, kicked out of school, hauled before the authorities in Vienna, the three months in jail—one month for each Reichsmark I’d stolen.

  “There was no funeral, no celebration, no prayers, no … what do you Jews call that prayer for the dead?”

  “Kaddish,” I whisper, unable to take my eyes off my name engraved on the gravestone.

  “We heard about your jail time in Vienna. Then, rumors, of course, about …” His words trail off. “There was even a report you really were … dead.”

  I stand up and tamp down some lose dirt with my boot. “Abra’s dead. Says right there, gone and forgotten.”

  I look at Officer Winicki, who is offering me his kindest smile.

  I return his smile. “And gravestones never lie. But I’m not Abra. I’m Arab.” I toss the twig back down on my tombstone, and it pings off to land in the dirt. “So think of me as the girl who wouldn’t die,” I whisper, feeling my fingernails dig into my palms as I form fists. “Well, at least that answers one of my questions. My father’s alive and kicking.”

  “Yes. He’s doing quite well. But your mother …”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s bedridden. Has been for these two years.”

  “And my sister, Ruth?”

  “Her limp keeps her from playing with the other children. You know how protective your father is. But there’s a governess, and a nurse. Your parents have all they need.”

  “And now they’re rid of what they don’t need. I can’t believe he did this.” I have to turn my back on Officer Winicki and take a breath. No one sees me cry.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this. But, a few times, your mother tried to have me smuggle a letter to you. When your father caught on, he threatened to kick me out of my apartment. Well, decent rent is hard to find in this district.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I say, running my sleeve under my nose, then facing him again.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I tried every time. I was there when he washed his hands of you for the last time, remember? Even tore up your birth certificate. Didn’t think he’d go that far, but you know your father, Abra. After that jewelry store robbery with that petty thief schmuck … what was his name?”

  “Sniper.”

  “Sniper. That’s him.” Winicki shakes his head. “Worthless street-hound. You know how he’ll end up someday.”

  “There.” I point down to my own gravestone.

  “Time will heal it all, Abra. Just give it some time. Get yourself a job, clean yourself up, find a good man. Show them you turned out respectable. Prove them wrong. But now? Not now. Your mother is so sick. When you go back, go back a woman. Not … this.” He indicates my clothes—the only clothes a girl can wear and survive the streets I run in, the crowds I run with, unless she’s whoring and needs to advertise. But he wouldn’t understand that. “Come on. I need to get back on patrol.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out some coins. “Here, get yourself a—”

  “No, thanks. I have money.” I’ve done a lot of things, but I’ve never taken charity and I’ve never begged. Must be a bit of Goldstein arrogance in me after all.

  “Do you need anything? A place to stay?”

  “No, I have a place.”

  “Okay, then. Just give it time.”

  “Look, don’t tell them you saw me.”

  He smiles kindly. “You have my word, Abra.” He backs away and I give him a slight nod goodbye.

  Alone now with my gravestone, I try to laugh. So, I’m dead to them. Dead and even buried. Gone and forgotten. Not even a damn memory stone to show someone’s visited. I look around and raid an adjoining grave of the rocks placed there, tossing them down on my own grave. I wipe my face and walk back around the block toward our—their—house. Not sure why.

  Father always did do well with Mother’s money. They own several apartment buildings in this neighborhood. I wonder how many bank boards Father sits on top of, overseeing the Jewish Mercantile League. They all reek of respect like I reek of the sewers.

  I slow as I walk by, staying in the shadows. Just one quick look. Just a glance. I pause long enough to listen carefully to the squeaking sound. I know that sound! Now, her sweet voice! That song! I taught it to her!

  I look past the high, ornate wrought-iron fence holding in our yard. It’s her! Ruthie! Rocking on the wooden horse I bought her with stolen money. Look at her go! I wonder where she’s riding to, or who she’s riding from. She’s so tiny! She’s barely grown at all! At five, shouldn’t she be bigger? Stronger? But look at her! That porcelain face! We’re both blondes, but damn! She’s the beauty.

  “Well, as I live and breathe. Look who’s doing the same.”

  Sniper! Easy, Arab, easy. I turn around and see we’re the same height now. “Think of the devil and his imp appears,” I mutter.r />
  “Were you just thinking about me?” he asks, putting his hands to his chest. “How sweet of you.” He nods toward Ruthie. “Adorable little girl, huh?”

  “Yes. Very,” I reply, keeping a chill in my voice, my face in the shadows.

  “Word on the street is, you want to see me. I’m flattered. Fact is, I want to see you, too.”

  “And you just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I say, looking behind him in case I need a fast escape. “Nice coincidence.”

  “Come now, Arab. People in our line of work don’t rely on coincidences. Got a great gang now. Sees all, knows all, tells all.” He gives a sharp whistle and waves off a man in the distance. The man waves back and disappears into the shadows.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t hang around this area. The police are after you.” Seeing him here, this close to Ruthie, scares me. Ruthie is none of his business.

  He laughs. God, I remember that laugh! Arrogant, confident, dangerous. “If I stayed away from every area just because of the police—well, Arab, you can see that would be impossible. Maybe even unmanly.”

  I watch his face carefully. This is what I’ve wanted for two years now. Or thought I wanted. What is he now, nineteen? Twenty? His dark stubble makes his fair skin look all the paler. There’s a fresh scar right through his lips, giving a slur to his speech. He has a steely grittiness to him. Much more than I remember. Well, I’ve got grit now, too.

  Ruthie stops rocking and I want to get him away from her, and fast. I start walking toward the nearest bus stop.

  “Hey, wait up! You don’t just walk away …” he calls after me.

  I keep walking. I don’t like this gnawing feeling inside me.

  He catches up, a little out of breath. “So, where you been hiding all this time?”

  “Finishing school.”

  “Well, you ‘finished’ into a real man-sized woman.” He pulls my arm and swings me around. He runs his eyes down and back up. “Or should I say a woman-sized man? Tell the truth, jury’s still out about you … Well, a couple of boys in the gang, you remember them, Digger and some other kid, found drowned in the river, I forget his name. Anyway, we had us a bet going. She a lezzie or not and who’s going to find out?” He pulls me closer to him with a fist in my sweater.

  I bat his hand away. “You’d be the last one to find out.” My heart’s going a full throttle and I can’t stop it. I join the line of people waiting for the bus.

  “My little Arab. All grown up. You know, let’s us go have a nice quiet drink some place and—”

  I indicate the flash of diamond on his pinky finger. “Nice ring. Wherever did you get it?”

  “Oh, come on now, Arab. You’re not going to hold that against me, are you?”

  “You set me up, Sniper.”

  “Nobody put a gun to your back and made you do it.”

  “You planned all along to throw me to the wolves when you needed an innocent, little sweet thing who just happened to speak Yiddish.”

  “Can I help it if the old Yid jeweler pulled a gun?” He shrugs his shoulders, mimicking the Jew he is.

  “I got tossed away for two years because of you, Sniper.”

  “Poor little rich girl Abra Goldstein. Got tossed into some sweet boarding school with all the trimmings. Yeah, I heard. Must be nice to have an old man with connections. Anyone else in my gang would have been tossed into Pawiak Prison for ten years. You froze, you got caught, so you can’t hold that against me,” he whispers, close to my face. His warm breath reeks of garlic, beer, and tobacco. He pulls me close. “But I know other things you can hold against me.”

  “You’ll never live that long.” I glare into his eyes and find all the same perilous opportunities glaring back.

  He slowly gives me his now-crooked smile. “Well, can’t blame a man for trying. You know, darling, I’m fixed up sweet now. Kinging a good gang. Sure could use you, if you’re looking to gang up again.” He nods his head toward my old home. “And say, bring along your sweet little baby sister. If she’s anything like you, what a shill I could make of—”

  I grab him and push him back, upsetting two people waiting for the bus. I shove him again and he stumbles, tangled in a hedge. “Don’t you ever, ever even mention my sister, Sniper, or I swear I’ll kill you!”

  My kick to his groin is hard, fast, and a direct hit. He folds in half, falls back, and writhes in pain, moaning as he grasps his crotch. Love that sound! He’s now an easy mark. I rifle through his pockets and take everything—cash, cigarettes, and switchblade. The pinky ring is on good and tight so I leave it for another day.

  “Oh, stop whimpering, Sniper. It’s so … unmanly,” I say down to him.

  I hop the bus, ignoring the looks from the other passengers. My outfit, my smell, my “I dare you” attitude. I watch the top of my parents’ apartment buildings two blocks down disappear into the tree tops. Nothing left for me there. All I have now is the memory of Ruthie’s song, the squeak of a rocking horse, an empty grave, and a switchblade.

  I pull my collar up, my cap down, and get off at the stop closest to the underside of Warsaw, where I feel right at home.

  IV.

  After a few nights’ sleep and some decent food, I turn my sights toward Lizard’s haunt, Three Crosses Square. Lizard, with his charming smile and affable manner—always a smile and a nod for the ladies, especially with unguarded pocketbooks; always a joke and a handshake for the gentlemen, especially with loose-fitting rings.

  I spot him on some steps, lean up against a pillar, and watch. What an artist! Look how he flashes those newspapers. Wonder what newsstand he stole them from. What is Lizard now? Eighteen? Let’s see now—I remember he’s a loyal Pole, so no talking politics; he’s a good Catholic when it’s convenient, so no talking religion. But mostly, I remember he’s the best confidence artist in all of Warsaw. Could con a baby out of its mother’s arms.

  There’s a younger boy not far away, attracting customers. Lizard’s great with those little urchins. Much more patient that I ever was with the babies in my gang. I grin, seeing Lizard’s pockets bulging with other items to sell: candy, cigarettes, lighters, hell, maybe even a moving picture camera or two! It’s too hot for a coat but his is there on the steps—his portable department store.

  I watch in awe for several minutes. I have to wonder where I’d be now, if not for Sniper, if not for the jeweler, if not for Vienna. I take a few steps closer.

  “Got a cigarette for an old friend?”

  He whips around and, look there! He doesn’t recognize me. I take my cap off and ruffle my short hair. That does it.

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” he exclaims.

  “No, just Arab.”

  “Arab?” The gold tooth he used to brag about is missing. “You’re alive!”

  “To some I am.”

  “How long have you been back in town?” He offers me his hand and we shake.

  “About a week.”

  “Well, why’d you take so long to look me up?”

  “It’s just been a mad social whirl.”

  “Last I heard, your old man sent you to some ooh-la-la girls’ school somewhere.”

  “Vienna. Wanted to learn how to waltz.”

  He laughs hard. “Well, I’m glad you waltzed back into Warsaw!” He pulls me aside, taking me in from head to toe. “Look at you! You’ve grown, you’ve …” He turns me around. “But we need to find you a new couturier. You’re getting too old—dare I say pretty?—for this tomboy shit.”

  “It’s what all the fashion-monger street arabs are wearing this season in Vienna.”

  He hands out a newspaper and takes a coin. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Say, Arab, I’ve been walking around with a rock in my shoe for some time now.” His voice is now low and sincere.

  “Well, I thought you’d be smart enough to stop and shake it out, Lizard.” I give him a playful shove.

  “No, I owe you one. You got to believe me, I had no idea Sniper would put you up t
o that jewelry job. I never would have introduced you to his gang. Can you forgive me?”

  “Ah, don’t worry. I was young and stupid.”

  There’s an awkward pause and then our eyes meet.

  “Well, we were all young and stupid,” he says. “All of us. But hey, let’s talk about success, not failure.”

  “Always the optimist, eh, Lizard?”

  “Well, you either laugh or you cry.”

  “Yeah. And if you cry, you die,” I say, my voice a bit harder. A little piece of me wants to show him how much I’ve changed.

  He catches my eye. “Guess you’ve grown wise, huh?”

  “Wise as Solomon. Had my own gang in Vienna.”

  “Thank you, sir!” he says, selling another paper. “Come on, I know a place. I’ll buy you lunch. You look like you could use some meat on your bones.”

  Lizard hands the remaining stack of papers to the little boy. “And don’t take any slugs,” Lizard warns him, pretending to bite down on a coin to check it.

  The little boy smiles up at him, displaying two missing front teeth. Lizard smiles back. “Okay, just watch, then. And make sure you go find your brother after. He’s shining shoes on the corner. I want you off the streets before dark.”

  The little boy nods, holds up a paper, and lisps to the passersby, “Ga-sthzety! Ga-sthzety!”

  “You’ve always looked out for your gang, haven’t you?” I say as we walk down the steps.

  “Wish I’d looked out better for you. Anyway, someone has to watch out for these brats.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Six. Warsaw has never lacked for orphans and little beggars.” He leads us away from the square, down an alley to a cheap alehouse.

  We order beer and sandwiches. “So tell me, what’s the news on the outside?” Lizard asks. “I mean, you say you were in Vienna? Were you there for the Anschluss? Saw the newsreels. Impressive! Tens of thousands of people cheering Hitler’s—what do they call it? Unification?”