I give Lorenz a nudge with my knee. “You better stand back, Herr.”
On cue, Lorenz throws up out of the back of the truck, making a tremendous howl of agony after holding back for so long. It’s more than ipecac—it’s almost a knee-jerk reaction to the smell and the sound, or brotherly competition—because immediately Stefan joins him, projecting several feet and soiling the soldier’s uniform.
“I warned you,” I say. “Herr Hauptsturmführer, you have to go burn that uniform now. And you, take off that glove and burn it. Burn anything that has come into contact with any of us. Don’t you know how deadly Kinem Plague is? Haven’t you read the orders? We need clear passage. I beg of you, sir, get us through that gate.”
“If it’s so contagious, how come you aren’t sick? Those other nurses, they don’t look sick,” the soldier asks.
I give them a hard stare, wishing I could summon tears as easily as my boys can. “I got the first symptom this morning.” I run my sleeve over my eyes. “I’m dispensable, can’t you see? Why do you think I’m here?” I cough into my mask. “And they’ll get it soon.” Still the policemen hesitate. “For God’s sake! Himmelfahrtskommando!” I cry out.
The captain steps back. “Journey-to-Heaven Mission?”
“The driver too,” a guard reports to the captain. “He was coughing up a lung.”
The German looks at our forged papers again. “I knew about the medical studies, but Stutthof? I thought that was for political enemies. I think I’ll make a call.”
“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” I say.
“And a woman tells a captain what he should and should not do?”
Now I understand. This is all about rank, not about passage or plague. “Well, I might be just a woman, but I’m dying for the Reich. What are you doing, besides jeopardizing your men?” I force a serious coughing spell. I put a rag under my mask and spit into it, sounding almost as good as my boys. I drop the rag at their feet. The German takes a step back.
“Excuse me, sir, I’m only trying to help,” I say. “Our Red Cross pennant is on the dashboard.” My heart is beating so fast I just might pass out and fall at their feet. The first Kinem Plague death.
“Yes, I saw it. Easily made or stolen.”
“Please, please, in Polish,” the policeman says, looking very concerned.
“Of course,” I say, switching back to Polish. “Sir, haven’t you read the bulletins? The Stutthof Directive?”
I nudge Lorenz again and, on cue, he vomits. Not to be outdone, Stefan joins in. Even the sound they make brings similar moans from the woozy children close by. Now there are four little heads popping out of the back of the truck, puking.
The guards all take another step back. The German looks at me, the truck, and then the papers Otto has drawn up. “No one told me about this.”
“Well, this is only the beginning,” I chance. “Children are the ones hit first. There’ll be more, mark my words.”
I pinch Lorenz, who’s still at my side. He moans and grabs his stomach, then starts to twitch. The little ham.
“Very well,” the captain says, glancing down at his soiled boots. He hands me back the document. “But once you get through the gates, stay well away from Leszno Street if you know what’s good for you. Open the gates! Let them pass!” He shouts out.
“I beg of you, sir, burn your uniform,” I add as the truck starts to slip away, the children’s puke still steaming on the snow at their feet. “If you catch it, you’ll spread it! Burn everything!”
One of the policemen has already taken his gloves off and tossed them into the burn barrel they keep for warmth. The other guard looks at his glove as though it has snakes growing out of it. “How will we know if we … catch it?” he calls out to me.
“A horrible itch on your neck, and then all over your body,” I call back down. “Then a cough that brings you to your knees.”
“Then what?” the other calls, scratching his shoulder.
“Then, this,” I say, indicating the retching children.
We have made it past the first challenge. We’re out of the ghetto, now back on the Aryan side. But far from safe. I untie my mask and take in several long, deep breaths of frigid air.
Stefan looks up at me. “Hey, Arab. Want me to puke some more? I got lots left!”
I pull him to me and hug him, wondering how in hell we’re all going to keep each other safe.
“No. Save it for later. You did damn great, Jaguar.”
That brings Lorenz over. I pull him close and ruffle his hat. “You too, Lion. Damn great.”
Even through their sick makeup I can see the Lion and the Jaguar beam.
I use my surgical mask to wipe the sweat off my forehead. It’s one thing talking my own way out of something. It’s another having all these lives relying on my cunning or my lying—or lack of both. Hell, two little boys puking on cue—they probably saved all of us. I sit down on the bench, nearly crushing the foot of a dozing child.
Ruth makes her way toward me. “You said ‘damn.’ I’m telling.”
I pull her onto my lap and want to laugh. “You are, are you? And just who are you going to tell?”
She holds her doll, Sofia, on her own lap as I hold her. “Hitler,” she says. She flips up Sofia’s arm. “Swine Heil Hitler! Swine Heil Hitler!”
I hold her tighter. “Hush, Ruthie. Sh. You’ll never say that again, okay? You and Sofia go back to Mrs. Praska now.”
“Why? It’s stuffy up there. We want to ride back here with you.”
“We still have a long, long way to go, and you better just get used to it like the others.”
“Or you’ll make me go to sleep like Hanna?”
“Yes, if that’s what it will take to keep you quiet.”
She leans back into my chest. I look down at her gloves and see her thumb sticking out of a hole. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Mrs. Praska made me a hole.”
“Why?” But I think I know the answer.
“So I can do this!” She pops her thumb into her mouth.
“Big girls don’t suck their thumbs.”
She pops it out. “Mrs. Praska says better to suck a thumb than to cry in the dark.”
“I see.” I let her sit quietly. I’ve never felt more important than I do at this moment.
The truck slows down after a few bumpy blocks, and we come to a stop. The truck pants beneath us. “You go up to Mrs. Praska now, Ruth.”
I stand up and venture a peek outside. There are only a few street lights on, but the winter whiteness makes Warsaw look like a crystalline war-torn wonderland. The snow covers so much destruction, so much death, that I almost feel a brief glow of warmth.
Mrs. Praska makes her way toward me. “Why are we stopped?”
“I don’t know.” Then the captain’s words hit me. Stay well away from Leszno Street.
Footsteps coming toward us. I stand up, my Luger close at hand.
“Arab,” Lizard whispers.
I pull open the canvas. “What’s happening?”
“Roadblock ahead.”
“We need to turn right. Tell Otto to turn right someplace. We can work our way north on the back streets.”
“The damn truck is stuck!”
A gunshot rings out, followed by more volleys from three different directions. Screams. Shouting. Then silence. Now a German voice on a loudspeaker. “Juden raus! Juden raus!”
Lizard and I look at each other. “Another roundup,” he growls. “Always the middle of the night.”
I jump down from the truck and look around for an escape—an alley or any side road we can take out of here. A building across the street is on fire, and people are filling the street. Soldiers have guns on them as they pour out of the burning building. Guard dogs bark, nip at legs, and pull at coats. Children cry, women scream, men shout obscenities. A formation of SS Cavalry guards ride into the street, scattering the Jews. The breath of the horses clouds the air. Just like Hitler’s victory parade a th
ousand winters ago, the unit seems to move as one.
It’s a sea of confusion all around us. Even more cavalry units fill the cross streets, and they hold their formation. The horses have been through this before. Heads toss, tails swish, legs dance. Then, soldiers push the barricades aside and the riders urge their horses forward. Each rider has a cane. They swat at people if they get too close, if they try to escape. Coming from the opposite direction is a line of soldiers, rifles at the ready. Corralled between the horses and the soldiers are at least a hundred people. Their circle gets smaller as the soldiers force them in closer.
I jump onto the running board. “For the love of God, Otto, get this truck out of here! Before they bring the flamethrowers!”
“I’m trying, I’m trying!” The engine grinds, the tires spin, and the truck inches a few feet forward. “Do you want me to just run these people over? Get your mask back up, Arab!” His words are muffled through his own mask. “Get out there and see if you can move people out of the way!”
Lizard and I go ahead of the truck, shouting, “Contagion! Contagion! Stay away! Contagion!”
An old man begins striking Lizard with a cane, and a woman spits on me. Now we’re the targets in our Nazi uniforms. The courage of one spreads to many. They shout and swear and spit at us.
Have you no soul?
May you rot in hell!
Fuck you, and fuck Hitler!
Foot soldiers shove them along using the butts of their rifles.
Lizard scrambles back into the truck while Otto tries to turn. I go around to the back of the truck and a man, clothed only in his nightshirt, is trying to climb in. I grab his leg and pull. He kicks back.
“Get down!” I scream.
The canvas pulls back and Mrs. Praska appears, holding a wooden box over her head. She crashes it down on the man, who falls off and into the snow. She looks at me, then skyward. “May God forgive me.”
“Otto! Move!” I scream. “Now!”
We rumble a few feet forward.
I climb back inside the back of the truck and I’m hit immediately with the children’s questions and complaints.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t feel good.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I’m not afraid of any German!”
Then, from my own sister, “I want to see the horses.” She inches forward and sits down close to the tailgate, clutching her doll.
I sling my knapsack around Ruth’s neck. “Here. You and Sofia can guard my knapsack.” I go back out on the running board.
Otto backs the truck around and we wait for the mass of people to be herded toward the center of the block. Then we ease forward. Shots are firing above heads—and into heads. A man fights hand to hand with a German soldier and they fall into our path. Otto slams on the brakes, but the truck starts to slide on the ice. It bounces up as it runs over the fighting men. Their screams are hardly audible above the din. We finally come to a hard stop against the corner of a building. Our cargo of children cry out. I’m nearly bounced off, but I hold tight.
“Oh Christ,” Otto says out his window.
“You’ve got to back up. Get us out of here!” I shout.
“But … those men … they’re under us.”
“Otto, back up!” Lizard says. “Hurry!”
Otto grinds it into reverse. The chained tires spin and we back up, clunking again over the bodies. Otto searches for another gear, turns the steering wheel, and we inch forward. We travel only another half block, up a slight incline, and then start to slide sideways. I dash around to the back of the truck to see if anyone was hurt in the crash.
Ruth! I don’t see Ruth!
I rip my face mask off. “Ruthie!” I pick up Ruth’s friend, Sofia—she’s curled into a little ball, tears falling down her face. “Sofia! Where’s Ruth?”
“You said not to talk,” she whimpers.
I shake her. “Where’s Ruthie?”
“She’s not here! God, Arab, she’s not here!” Irenka says.
“Sofia, did you see Ruthie get out of the truck?”
She nods her head.
“What happened? Why?” Irenka asks.
“It’s okay to talk, Sofie. Tell us what happened,” I say.
“When the truck went ‘bump,’ she fell out. She was sitting right there, on the edge. Then she was gone! I screamed, but no one heard.” Irenka picks the crying child up and holds her.
I have my Luger and my knife in my pockets, my identification in a pouch around my neck. That’s all I need. “Keep going, Mrs. Praska. I’ll catch up with you if I can. If not … shalom.”
“You can’t choose one over all, Arab! We need you.” Mrs. Praska says, gripping my arm.
“She’s my sister. I need her!” I nod toward her children. “You couldn’t choose, could you?”
She loosens her grip. “Then go with God,” she whispers in Hebrew, and she gently squeezes my arm.
I jump out of the back of the truck and pound on the driver’s door to signal Otto. “Keep going!”
“I can’t! All these people!” he shouts back.
“Lizard knows the roads! Go! Now!” I hit the door once again. My farewell.
I run back toward the commotion on the street behind us. A formation of mounted soldiers are splitting the crowd in half. Two soldiers blow whistles and motion the crowds to move right, move left. I hide behind a snowbound car and watch. A path is clearing for the truck. Our truck is free! It rumbles along then disappears around a corner. Gone! The soldiers on the perimeter urge the crowd back into itself, moving again as one.
I’m frantic! Calling for Ruthie is useless in this chaos. The rounded-up Jews are huddling closer and closer together. Surrounded now by soldiers, they quiet, as though just beginning to understand their predicament.
A soldier stands on the bumper of a truck, speaking into a loudspeaker, telling the masses to separate into two groups—women with the children, and men. “You will be going into the Jüdischer Wohnbezirk—the Jewish Quarter. There you will be given housing and selected for either work or deportation to other facilities. Remember, work will set you free.”
I dash from alley to shadow to alcove, searching the faces of the crowd, now moving east, toward the Leszno gate. Ruth must have been pulled into the roundup. Maybe she grabbed some woman’s hand, or scooped up by some kindly man, maybe followed another crying child.
The soldiers are ushering the two groups away. “Ruthie!” I scream out. “Ruth Goldstein!”
No one even turns their head toward me. What’s one more voice pleading for help?
I catch my reflection for an instant in a shop window. I have on my German officer’s coat and nurse’s uniform over my trousers. But my surgical mask is gone. Damn! I lean back into the window. What should I do? Keep up the pretense, or quit my SS coat and strip the coat off that corpse in the street or …? I hear the crunch of horse hooves approaching.
I recognize the horse before I recognize its rider. Hummel. “Fritz! I need your help! For the love of God, Fritz, I need your help!” Even I don’t recognize my voice.
He looks around, then sees me. That’s goddamn whimsy on his face! “Well, what do we have here?” he says, tipping his cap. “No wonder we’re winning the war. When did you enlist? And as a nurse, no less. Turn around. Let’s see how you clean up.”
“I need your help!”
“You? The famous Arab of Warsaw, who can get her hands on anything, needs my help? I think I’m flattered.” There are gunshots and Hummel skitters aside, startled. Fritz steadies him.
“My sister! She’s here somewhere. She must have gotten mixed up with the crowds. She’s only six! Please, help me!”
“Here? I thought …” He breaks off and looks around.
“Fritz, please! I’ll do anything, just get her back! You’re in command here. And you can do something! She’s wearing an orange-and-green cap.”
He stands in his stirrups and looks around. The soldiers are
inching the crowd forward, beginning the march to the oblivion of the ghetto. The shouting, the crying, the swearing is now an inhuman lowing, like cattle. He looks back down at me. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice hard now. “What’s done is done.”
“It’s not done!” It’s only an instant, but it’s all I need. I seize Hummel’s bridle and yank it, pulling his head down, and then I have my Luger against the horse’s forehead. “Drop the reins!” I order. “Do it or I swear I’ll shoot.”
“Arab, don’t be a fool.” I feel the reins go limp.
“Help me get my sister!”
“Look around you, Arab! There’s nothing you can do now. You’re good as dead.”
“So is your precious horse!”
“Drop the gun. Let go the reins.”
“I’ve kept your secret, Fritz. You know I have!”
He leans toward me. “And I’ve kept yours. Everything. Two dead soldiers!”
“I’ve trusted you!”
“Never trust the enemy!” he spits down. “How come you haven’t figured that out?”
“For the love of God, Fritz. You have sisters! Don’t make me shoot. I’ll drop this horse under you, and then you on top of him. I swear I will!”
Three soldiers come running up. I pocket the gun and drop the reins.
“Everything alright here, Captain?”
“Get on with your work!” Fritz barks back.
They salute and run off.
“I can get you anything, Fritz. Enough liquor to last the war, every cigarette I can get my hands on. I’ll give you everything I have—I have stashes all over Warsaw, I have—”
“Chopin’s heart? Arab … save yourself. Get out of here! Save yourself!”
Tears now, damn it!
“Abra!” A screech echoes from across the street. “Abra!”
Fritz and I lock eyes. Most of the crowd has moved out and I can see Ruth’s orange-and-green knit cap, her billows of curly blonde hair escaping. My canvas knapsack around her neck is weighing her down as she limps toward me.
“Your Ruth?” he asks.
I run out to get her. Fritz spurs his horse. He swoops down and scoops her up, pulling her clean off her feet. She screams. I stop. Between me and Fritz are the two officers’ horses, charging now straight at me.
The Girl Who Wouldn?t Die Page 24
