Resistance

by Jennifer A. Nielsen

  Esther nodded. “We go in.”

  More concerning now than our location were the snowflakes softly falling around us. It was going to be a cold night. The tips of my fingers were already beginning to throb, but I hoped the weather would work to our advantage.

  “This snow is a warning,” Esther said, suddenly nervous. “Maybe God is telling us to wait one more evening.”

  “Maybe God is offering to cover our tracks if we hurry,” I replied.

  We waited until dark and, wherever possible, walked toward the ghetto fence using well-worn paths in the snow or the footprints of guards who had passed this way before. When the tracks ran out, I glanced up at the new snowfall and whispered, “If you’re going to come, then let it be for our good.” More than the cold, or the wet layers of my clothing, I cared about not being seen.

  Esther was directly behind me, with instructions to step exactly in my tracks, no matter what. If we were followed, I wanted the soldiers to believe there was only one of us to find.

  Once we came closer to the area we’d targeted to enter, it became obvious that this spot had been used before as a means for escape. A hole had been dug beneath the wood fence, small enough for the children who are most often used as smugglers by their hungry families. Esther should fit through the gap without too much trouble. It would be more difficult for me, but I was determined to make it through.

  “You are the most determined child I’ve ever seen,” my mother used to say, out of exasperation or admiration, I was never sure. If only determination had been enough to heal her pain. I missed her, more than she would ever know.

  Esther and I crouched in front of the hole, listening for any signs of people on the other end. There were some sounds, but I couldn’t quite identify what might be causing them. Clinking. Shuffling. Very strange. We heard no voices, but no gunfire either. That at least was good news.

  “You should go first,” Esther said, licking her lips. “You’ll know what to do better than me.”

  It couldn’t work that way tonight. I whispered, “You go first, because I’ll need your help to pull me through. After you’re in, I’ll send our bags under and then I’ll come last.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do … when we’re in there.”

  “Those are our people inside the walls, Esther. You’ll know what to do. Now go.”

  She took a deep breath and we turned back to the gap, preparing to squeeze her through, when a hand gripped my shoulder, tight and uncompromising, a sign that whoever had grabbed me was comfortable with the idea of causing pain. And he was.

  “Isn’t this interesting?”

  Across from me, Esther’s expression darkened from surprise to horror. The man who spoke to me had a Polish accent, but that didn’t matter. He could get the immediate attention of a dozen Nazis with little more effort than a casual shout for help.

  The guns inside my bag were buried beneath sacks of flour. Even if I could get to one, firing a shot at this man would hardly keep the Germans away.

  “Are you Jews?” the man asked. In this darkness, and with my back to him, he wasn’t sure.

  “We’re only bringing the people a bit of food.” I kept my body between him and Esther. “A good man like yourself can’t object to that.”

  He chuckled coarsely, as if I’d told a joke. As if this were some sort of game between us. I turned just enough to get my first look at him, and as soon as I did, I knew exactly who this was. What he was.

  Szmalec. The Polish word for lard, and he looked every part of it, with a fleshy jawline, baggy eyes, and limp, stringy hair. I immediately calculated what it would take to escape his grip if this went any further. He looked soft, but he’d survived this long, so he must be stronger than he looked. And rotted to the core, no doubt about that.

  This man was a szmalcownik. It was our name for the treacherous citizens who’d built careers on blackmailing Jews caught outside the ghettos. They might be only one among a group of five thousand other good Polish men and women, but that single individual could do more damage than the other five thousand could ever do to help. Their sense of right or wrong was for sale to the highest bidder, their morality a willow in the wind, blowing this way or that. They’d protect the Jew, or turn him into the Nazis, depending on who offered the better bribe, or the fiercest threat. They were dough, willingly molded, pressed, and plied.

  But they existed because blackmail works. Because people like me had no choice but to deal with men like him.

  He was here for money. I had some, but needed it to carry us through this mission.

  “Ah”—the szmalcownik eyed our bags—“you have food in there. What else?”

  “Only a little food for the children of this ghetto,” I said. “Please, sir—”

  “What children?” He looked genuinely confused, which confused me.

  Esther and I exchanged a glance. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He shrugged, completely indifferent. “Ask the Judenrat.” His eyes returned to our sacks. “My point is that you don’t need all that food. But I’m a fair man. I’ll take one bag, and you keep the other.”

  I firmly shook my head, trying to take control of this moment. “I can’t spare that much, sir. One sack of flour, perhaps. And—”

  He leaned in close enough that I could smell his fetid breath. How well he must eat off the starvation and suffering of those who were trapped behind these walls. “I’ll take your entire bag and let you go. Refuse my generous offer and I’ll let the Germans know that I’ve found a Polish girl and her Jewish friend at the ghetto wall. After they arrest you, I’ll take both of your bags.”

  I tried a threat of my own. “They’ll arrest you too. The Germans don’t like blackmailers.”

  “It’s all a game, you know that. German soldiers sell food to the black market, you smuggle it in, I catch you, and other Germans punish you for having black market food. Do as I say and the game can end right here.”

  “Let us go, and the game ends with starving people getting fed tonight.” I forced a smile to my face. “Let us help them.”

  He considered that, then said, “There are hungry Poles too. But I want to be fair. I’ll let you choose whose bag I take. You or your Jewish friend’s.”

  Mine had weapons. When he found them, what would he do? Report his discovery to the Gestapo rather than risk being caught with illegal weapons? Or would he keep our secret and not draw the Gestapo’s attention to himself?

  Esther was clearly thinking the same thing. “My bag, then.” She held it forward, too eager, too trusting.

  He stroked his chin, his eyes shifting from her again to me, and from one sack to the other. “You want me to take that sack?” He reached for mine. “Then this is the one I want.”

  He tugged at the handle, but my grip remained firm. I couldn’t allow him to take it.

  “Something in this sack must be valuable … or dangerous.” He chuckled again. “Perhaps we’ll let the Germans take it from you instead. Let me call them over.”

  Almost as if on cue, the shadow of a Nazi officer rounded the corner at the end of our street. The szmalcownik may face a few minutes’ harassment for being caught after curfew, but it was nothing compared to the consequences we’d get, and we both knew it.

  His grin turned as cold as the night. “Well?”

  I released my bag, giving up food for dozens of people and every hope to start a resistance movement within Lodz. Worse still, he now held more than enough evidence to have me shot on sight. I was furious with his greed and ruthlessness, but I was angrier with myself for having been caught in the first place.

  The instant he was gone, Esther grabbed my arm. “We’ve got to get in!”

  She was right. The Nazi officer would pass by us soon. When Esther slid under the fence, I shoved her bag under.

  I was positioning myself to slide under too when she whispered back at me. “Chaya, this might be a mistake. You shouldn’t enter.”

  “
Why not?” I asked. But no answer came.

  February 16, 1943

  Lodz Ghetto

  I’d become used to hearing Esther sound afraid. By now, the quaver in her tone was almost as familiar as my own voice. But something was different now. As if there were good reasons why her voice had trembled, why I saw the unsteadiness of her feet through the small gap beneath the fence. Something new had unnerved her.

  And although I appreciated Esther’s attempt to protect me, the fact was, being out here was hardly a safer option. Or if it was, I certainly wouldn’t abandon her in there.

  “Is it Germans?” I hissed.

  Now she answered. “No, but—”

  That soldier patrolling this area was still headed my way, so before Esther finished her sentence, I squeezed beneath the fence too. It left a long scrape on my side, one I hoped hadn’t ripped my clothes. If it did, there was nothing I could do about it now.

  She helped pull me through the fence, and as soon as I was under, we stuffed snow into the gap beneath the fence. Unless that soldier looked carefully, he shouldn’t realize we were there.

  Of course, there would be footprints in the snow and flattened areas where our bodies had lain, but it was growing dark and I hoped the heavy snowfall would mask that.

  I held my breath until I was sure he’d passed, and only then did I look around, taking in the odd sight around me. Now Esther’s warning made sense.

  A thin blanket of newly fallen snow covered what appeared to be a field of rubbish, layers of empty food jars, broken pieces of furniture, scraps of spoiled food. This must be where the people deposited their garbage since the ghetto was sealed. Most of it must have been frozen; otherwise the odor would have been unbearable.

  But it wasn’t the reason Esther warned me away.

  Almost a dozen women were digging in the trash with sticks or large spoons, depositing whatever they’d managed to collect on old items of clothing beside them. They’d all seen us come in, yet no one had said a word. Perhaps they had no energy for words. Most of them looked like they’d welcome death and yet here they were, continuing to dig because something within them wanted to live.

  “What are they doing?” Esther whispered.

  “Surviving.” One woman appeared to be collecting anything that could burn. I’d seen this before. The only way to heat the apartments was with fires, but no wood was coming in from outside the ghettos. The people were forced to find wood anywhere they could get it: breaking up pieces of furniture, digging into the framing of their walls, or pulling the slats off stairs. This woman must be hoping to find enough here to provide heat for the night.

  Another woman was wearing a dress too threadbare to be sewn together again. Every time she found a piece of clothing, she held it up to herself to check the size. I had clothing in the bag that blackmailer took. I could have given it to her.

  Most of the other women seemed to be scavenging for anything that might be eaten, and from what I could see in their small piles, they weren’t picky. Rotted vegetables, moldy crusts of bread, leftover scrapings from inside a jar. They were digging for what might amount to a mouthful of food, and if it was only half that, I was sure they’d still be grateful.

  “We should give them the potatoes.” Esther spoke in a whisper, yet I noticed ears prick up around me. These women weren’t nearly as passive as they pretended to be.

  “Let’s get deeper into the ghetto and decide how to put them to the best use,” I said, helping her to her feet. “Don’t look at anyone. Just walk on through.”

  Esther swung her bag over her shoulder, and I led the way through a sort of trail across piles of picked-over garbage. My stomach became sick at the thought of anyone eating it.

  No, it was sick at the thought of being in a place where this must be eaten.

  Ahead of us was a building that looked like it might have been a factory at one time. A few windows were broken out now. If I could get a piece of the glass, it could be used as a crude sort of weapon, if necessary. And if I could find a door, we could spend the night there, out of sight, and then begin distributing Esther’s food in the busier daytime hours while we looked for possible contacts, someone here who still had enough spirit to fight, to resist. Enough strength to hold a gun, if I could get another one inside here.

  As we left the rubbish pile, Esther cried out behind me and fumbled for my arm, but she was immediately pulled down to the ground. I twisted around and found two women fighting for her bag, even while it was still on her shoulders. They might not have realized—or cared—that her face was down in the snow and she was flailing about for air.

  “Chaya!” Her muffled plea for help didn’t even register with these starving women.

  I dove for Esther, but when the first potato spilled from her bag, the two desperate women suddenly become five, and then all of them fought for anything that was left. To get it off Esther’s shoulders, one woman knelt on her back. They were suffocating Esther, but the only thing that seemed to be in their vision was the bag.

  “Stop!” I shoved the woman off Esther, then pushed the others away until she could breathe. We were close enough now that I could see their eyes, stricken with horror at what they’d done.

  “We meant no harm,” a woman mumbled, shamefully covering her face to avoid looking at us.

  Esther stood beside me on wobbly legs and I whispered, “Let them have it.”

  She wriggled free of the bag, which was immediately snatched by the women as they divided the potatoes among themselves.

  “They might’ve killed me,” she cried.

  I put my hands on her shoulders, steadying her. “It would’ve been an accident. They only wanted the food. But we are surrounded by soldiers who will kill you deliberately if they get the chance. Never confuse the two.”

  Esther’s reply was cut off by the sound of whistles coming up the street toward us. Gestapo. Someone must’ve heard the scuffle back there and reported it.

  I tried the door of the old factory that I’d eyed earlier, but it was locked and the windows were too high. We’d never get in there. And we couldn’t run back toward the rubbish piles—that’s surely where the Gestapo officers were headed. If they stopped to question us, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out we didn’t belong here, or why we had snuck into a ghetto at night. I might withstand their torture, maybe. Esther wouldn’t.

  “This way!” Esther grabbed my hand and pulled me behind a crumbled wall near the factory. No one had been back here in some time—I could tell because we created new footprints in the snow. Which meant it wouldn’t take the officers long to track us.

  But for now, we crouched behind the wall and the Germans ran by, shouting orders at the OD, who followed like dogs on their heels to find the cause of this trouble and to stop it. I peeked out to see their guns drawn.

  Less than a minute later, a shot was fired.

  “Maybe it was a warning shot,” Esther whispered. “Maybe they’re urging the women to hurry back to their apartments.”

  “Maybe,” I replied.

  But I knew better.

  With the officers momentarily occupied at the rubbish piles, Esther and I left the wall and ran deeper into the ghetto. The streets were nearly abandoned for curfew and I had no idea where to go for shelter.

  “Stop!” a man shouted in Yiddish. A Jewish officer.

  The cock of his gun got my attention. It took all my courage to turn around and face this man. Esther had already stopped a few paces behind me and was visibly shaking. I was frightened too, but I couldn’t let it show, not if I was going to talk us out of this one, though it’d be more difficult than usual. I knew almost nothing about this ghetto. Not the streets here, nor the names of any residents, nor the Judenrat leadership. It wouldn’t take this officer long to realize I was lying.

  I would figure out an excuse for why we were here. I had to.

  I must.

  But nothing came to my mind, and that infuriated me. I would not have my end come at the
hands of one of my own people. That was intolerable.

  The Jewish officer’s face was as long and thin as the szmalcownik’s face was plump. His cheekbones protruded at dramatic angles, giving him a harsh appearance. But I didn’t think he was. Instead, he looked hungry, much like those women before. His gun was aimed directly at me, but Esther was almost hyperventilating, pulling his attention to her. She needed to stop. Rather than pity us, this man would despise us for weakness.

  “Why were you running?” His voice was raspy, sending a shiver up my spine.

  “We were going to the rubbish piles to dig,” I said. “Then we heard the whistles and thought it might be an Aktion. We ran.”

  “There have been no Aktions since last fall,” he said. “It’s proof that the Judenrat’s plan was a good one.” Then his eyes narrowed. “You two aren’t from this ghetto.”

  In that instant, an excuse entered my mind. I crept forward and put an arm around Esther. “My cousin and I have been in hiding since the war began and were only recently sent here. We don’t want any more trouble. May we go?”

  He glanced back, toward the rubbish. “We got a report of two girls sneaking into the ghetto. I think it’s you two.”

  He was being coy. He knew it was us, but he hadn’t fired his gun yet. Which meant he wanted something. A bribe? My money would do him no good. Some ghettos had their own currency and I suspected Lodz was one of those places. Offering him Polish money was useless. He was sealed in too.

  Esther stepped forward and pulled a small potato from her coat pocket. She must have managed to grab one in the fray. She held it cradled in her palms as if it were a precious diamond. “If we give this to you, may we pass, just this once? It’s all we have, sir.”

  He snatched the potato and stuffed it into his own pocket before anyone else could see it. But his face softened. “Either you snuck in or you’re trying to sneak out. One is as bad as the other, so if you are still here when I turn around, I will take you to the Gestapo.”