I didn’t know how to dig a bunker, and other than Esther, I didn’t know anyone else in my cell. But I was where I belonged, and I intended to learn as fast as I could.
So when a shovel was put in my hands, I smiled and began to dig.
March 1, 1943
Warsaw Ghetto
After a week of working within the ghetto, Tamir found me again, asking if I would come speak to him and other leaders of ZOB.
“What about Esther?” She wasn’t far from me amid a pile of sticks smuggled in from the forest. We’d been carving them into crude pikes, weapons that would take little more training than “Stab with the sharp end.” The word passing through the bunkers was that our leaders expected face-to-face fighting with the Nazis. A sharpened stick wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it was better than nothing, and we had plenty of nothing here already.
Tamir eyed Esther, then said to me, “We only need to speak with you.”
With a glance back and a shrug, I followed him from our half-constructed bunker, down Mila Street to another larger bunker that served as the headquarters for ZOB’s leadership. Mordecai wasn’t here, nor had I met him yet, but much as I would have relished the honor, I was sure he had far more important things demanding his attention.
Instead, for this meeting, only one other person was here, a woman who introduced herself as Rachel. She had a pretty face with thick brows, and dark hair pulled into a bun, and wore what appeared to be a mechanic’s uniform. She’d belted it and created a holster at her side for a gun, and I had no doubts about her aim. Tamir sat beside her and invited me to sit in a chair across from them. Their formality unnerved me. Was this a conversation or an interrogation?
Rachel began, “I’m told you were a courier for Akiva.”
“I still am,” I replied. “Though there isn’t much left of Akiva anymore.”
She glanced over at Tamir, then said, “Nor will there be much left of ZOB after the Germans are through with us.”
“I understand that.” Why did she think I had come all this way, risked everything I had left in the world?
Tamir shifted the conversation. “How old are you, Chaya?”
“Sixteen.”
“Only four years younger than Mordecai Anielewicz was when the war began. Like your Akiva leaders, he had no military training, no real leadership experience, and yet we follow him. Do you know why?”
I shrugged.
Rachel cut in. “Mordecai escaped Poland at the beginning of the war and could have remained free. But he cared more about the youth he left behind. He cared more about helping us than about his own life. Now we fight for him.” She leaned forward. “Will you?”
“We have one enemy,” I said. “So as far as I’m concerned, there is only one resistance, and he leads it.”
Rachel smiled. “You’ve been involved with the resistance for several months, correct? We’ve heard your name, we know your work. Why did Akiva fail in Krakow?”
“What does it mean to fail? We never expected to defeat the Nazis. But we wanted to meet our deaths in an honorable way, to bring attention to our cause from those who are strong enough to win.”
“Yes, yes, that is true of all our resistance groups.” Rachel was becoming impatient. “But we want to know what lessons you learned from Akiva that we can use here. Help us avoid the same mistakes.”
Oh.
I drew in another breath, then began, “We spent most of our time just trying to convince people of what was happening, both inside the ghettos and out. When we began to fight, it was too late.”
Tamir and Rachel exchanged looks. I thought of last fall’s deportations in Warsaw, hundreds of thousands of Jews sent to their deaths on the trains. And I’d seen more of the ghetto now. Yes, there were many who were working and planning and preparing, but they were doing it all for the thousands who remained, some too weak to offer any assistance and others so broken that they welcomed their deaths. We needed more workers, more fighters, anyone who wanted to live enough that they would die for it.
But maybe it really was too late for all of them. For all of us.
Before the Nazis could kill the Jews, they had to break us down. To save the Jews, we had to build them up again. Was that still possible here?
I gestured around us. “This is headquarters for all the leadership, correct? I think it’s a mistake. We had only one bunker for our leaders, which made it easy for the Nazis to find them. And it’s the only reason I’m still here—I had somewhere else to go. If this place is compromised—and it will be sooner or later—you must give the people another place to go. The Germans believe taking out the leaders’ bunker is like removing the heart.”
Rachel nodded. “Anything else?”
I shrugged. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. The fact is, we made many more mistakes than that. Most of us are young, none of us are trained to fight against an army such as this, and we’re operating with few resources, limited movement, and a world that has almost entirely ignored what is happening to us. The only thing we really wanted, to trigger other uprisings elsewhere in Poland, never happened.”
“It’s happening here, as you hoped.” Rachel tilted her head. “Do you believe there is any chance of uprisings from the other ghettos?”
I shrugged again. “Krakow won’t fight back again. Nor will Lodz, though I’m sure there are people in both districts who would if they could. But I think there is hope for Bialystok, and Sobibor or Tarnow, and if we are very lucky, the Polish army will see what a handful of Jews can do with a small cache of weapons and less than a mouthful of bread. If we can fight, then they can too.”
Now Tamir and Rachel were smiling. Tamir said, “Where did you get this fire, Chaya? This desire to stand against Hitler’s armies?”
My cheeks warmed, and I didn’t know what to say. Was it fire within me, or foolishness? But the question evaporated when Rachel continued, “What about your friend Esther—”
“I know she looks timid, but she’s stronger than people know.”
“We do know her,” Rachel said. “Or, we knew her father. Esther must leave the ghetto, for her own good. Other fighters won’t risk their lives for her, nor will they trust her to help them.”
My fists tightened. Maybe Esther and I hadn’t fully resolved the issue of trust between us, but that was no reason to send her away. “Esther is as much a part of the resistance as I am!”
“It’s not about her beliefs, only her background. A lot of people here lost family members, thanks to her father.”
“And those same people need her help now.” I looked at Tamir. “You said that we need every person we can get.”
“Not if that person gets in our way. We won’t send her out on her own, of course. We’re looking for a safe house that will accept a girl of her age and with her looks. That isn’t easy, certainly not with tensions so high throughout Warsaw, but we are trying. We didn’t want to surprise you, just in case she isn’t here one day.”
I stood. “You’re wrong, both of you. Esther risked her life to come back here to deliver a package. Did she give it to you yet?”
They looked at each other, confused. They had no idea what I was talking about. Did Esther lie about the package too? I felt stupid, uncommonly naïve. Of course she’d lied. She couldn’t have hidden any sort of package from the Nazis when they captured her.
I wouldn’t say any of that to Tamir and Rachel, though, not until I found out what she was up to now. Instead, I said, “Esther must stay. You’ve asked for my opinion about how to best carry out your fight. Well, it’s my opinion that you need Esther here. She won’t make the difference between a victory or a loss, but she will carry out her orders as well as anyone else, or die trying.”
After a brief pause, Rachel said, “Thank you for that. We’ll consider your words.”
“We have one last thing to tell you,” Tamir said. “Or, rather, to show you. There’s someone who asked to be here when our meeting was finished.”<
br />
My brows pressed together as I tried to make sense of his vague words. But I turned when Rachel stood and opened the bunker door, mumbling, “Come in.”
It took me a moment to recognize the person who walked inside. He was older now, several centimeters taller, and clearly was fighting back tears.
It was Yitzchak. My brother.
March 1, 1943
Warsaw Ghetto
In my mind, I had often pictured finding Yitzchak again one day, but it was always imagined as a dream, a fantastical story that could never exist within the harsh realities of life.
Yet here he was, standing in the doorway, looking every bit as hesitant to approach me as I was him. Had he ever wondered if I was still alive? Did he take a second glance at every girl he passed who was about my age and had my color of hair? I’d certainly done that with every boy in every ghetto who looked about fourteen, with dark brown hair. They were always missing the mole on the right cheek, like Yitzchak had.
Like Yitzchak still has. This was my brother!
I took one step toward him, then two, and then he closed the gap and folded me into a hug. Immediately, every memory of my little brother flooded back into my life. He used to walk around our home in my shoes, which were too big for him, and scribble on my schoolwork. He had a sweet tooth for rugelach and a lifelong aversion to peas. And he took great care of our younger sister, Sara. We would never be complete without her, but seeing Yitzchak again lifted my spirits in a way that nothing ever could.
Rachel suggested we take our reunion to a more private place. Yitzchak led the way back onto the street, and we became oblivious to everyone else around us, firing questions at each other almost faster than the other could answer.
At first, it was easy. “How have you been? When did you get so tall? How did you know I was here?”
He smiled, the same impish smile he used to have many years ago when he nestled under my arm and begged me to read to him. “I saw you and another girl walking across the street yesterday. I called out, but you must not have heard and I couldn’t get away in time to catch up. But I started asking around until someone knew who you were and how to find you.”
“I’m glad they did,” I said. “Though I wish we could have met again somewhere else, in another time.”
Or better yet, I wished we’d never been separated at all.
Then the questions became harder. With his eyes as bright as ever, Yitzchak asked, “How are our parents?”
My mouth went dry. There was too much anticipation in his voice, too much hope. I slowly exhaled, stalling until I could find the right words, or any words at all. It left an ache in my lungs that made it even harder to say, “Last I heard, they were still in Krakow. But I don’t”—I swallowed hard—“I don’t think we’ll see them again. Losing Sara was hard on Mama especially. And then you …”
He nodded and glanced away, maybe so I wouldn’t see the emotion suddenly etched into his face. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed, but once he’d steadied himself, he said, “I went after Sara when she was taken. I know how foolish that sounds, given that I was only twelve years old. But I thought I was small enough to sneak her off the train. I didn’t make it in time, but I did see her before the train left. A woman was holding her, taking care of her. Whatever her last hours were, Chaya, I believe she felt love at the end, not fear.”
My heart had been wrung out a thousand times over, yet I still had more tears for Sara. At least Yitzchak gave me a final memory to picture whenever I thought of Sara again, which I would do every remaining day of my life. It was also the way I wanted to live my last moments. At the end, I hoped to feel love.
We cried there together, for Sara and our parents and for all our family had lost. Then we cried because in a war that had done nothing but scatter and destroy and kill, somehow we had found each other again.
Eventually, Yitzchak added, “After Sara was gone, I had no idea how to get back into the ghetto and I didn’t want to be caught and put on the trains either, so I ran into the woods. A Polish couple took me in. They cared for me as long as they could, until their neighbors became suspicious. Then they sent me to other family members farther north, where the same thing happened and I had to be moved yet again. On my third family, I was simply turned over to the Gestapo and ended up here. But I’m glad to be here, Chaya. I’m glad to be able to fight.”
“Me too.” I squeezed his hand, and then suddenly we had nothing to say. And not because there was so little, but because so much had happened that it couldn’t all be explained in these first few minutes. We’d each lived a lifetime over the past two and a half years, and we were at once the closest of siblings, all the other had left in this world, and still somehow total strangers.
He seemed to recognize this too and released my hand, leaning back against a building. He began to hum a tune, one we used to sing together as children, although I rarely hit the right notes. Yitzchak still had his beautiful voice, though.
After a moment of listening, I asked, “Do you still sing?”
“Every week,” he replied. “When we celebrate Shabbat. And before the last Aktion, we often held concerts in homes. An older man here had a violin he managed to keep hidden from the Germans, but he smashed it over the head of a soldier when they tried to take him in January. Others used to recite poetry or perform in small plays, and anyone who had painted something could put it on display for people to view afterward.” His eyes became wistful. “There should be more singing now, not less.”
I tilted my head, curious. “They were still holding concerts here? Performing while all this tragedy was happening around them?”
“It had to be that way.” Yitzchak stood straight again. “Why do the Nazis feel they can commit such violence against us? How do they justify it?”
I shrugged. “Because they believe we are less than human. Like animals.”
“Exactly! They herd us into train cars like cattle, give our rabbis and scholars the work of oxen, feed us less than what is given to their dogs. And they kill us with no more regard than they’d give to slaughtering a farm animal. But there is something a human can do that an animal never can.”
“Create art.” I considered that for a moment. “So you sing because—”
“It’s proof of my humanity. It allows me, just for the length of that song, to remember who I really am, no matter what surrounds me.”
I looked at him again, really looked at him for the first time since the beginning of our reunion. He sounded like our father. He’d even begun to look like our father. In any other time or place, Yitzchak would have become a great man one day.
But then, he was already great. Our parents would be so proud of him. If only they knew. If only I could walk him back into that ghetto in Krakow, back into their arms. Mama had been right all along. Yitzchak had survived!
He gestured at the gun at my side. “Are you a good shot?”
I stared down at it. “Sometimes. I wish I didn’t need it.”
“I never would’ve pictured you doing what … what they say you’ve done. Is it all true, Chaya?”
“Remember what Mama always used to say? To never believe the best of what anyone says about a person, nor the worst.”
“I believe the best about you,” he said. “I know you’ve saved lives.”
“Never enough, Yitz. It’s never enough.” I sighed. “And maybe none of it matters. We’re trying to empty an ocean with a teaspoon.”
“It matters to those you’ve saved,” he said. “It matters that you’ve stayed on your feet until the end.”
“It’s not the end yet. There’s more to be done.”
“And I’m ready to do it,” he added. “But now, I’ll be fighting for my family. For you, Chaya.”
“Come with me.” I took his hand again. “I want to introduce you to my friend Esther. She’s family now too.”
March 13, 1943
Warsaw Ghetto
The radio I brought int
o the ghetto was one of the few that existed here, but every night, if I wasn’t assigned elsewhere, I sat with Yitzchak and Esther and Tamir and anyone else who could crowd together to listen for news from the larger world. If nothing else was available, we tuned in to the German propaganda reports, although little of what they said could be believed. More often, we listened to an underground broadcast from London that originated with a Polish woman somewhere here in Warsaw.
Not everything that came through her broadcasts could be believed either. Much of what she said was clearly designed to mislead the Germans, who obviously must monitor this station, though what we heard tonight seemed far too accurate.
“Our network in Krakow confirms the liquidation of the Podgorze Ghetto is under way,” the woman said. “Two thousand Jews deemed unfit for work were ordered onto the street and shot.”
My mother was unfit for work. And my father refused to leave her side.
Two thousand Jews had been shot.
My vision blurred and time slowed as if the universe knew I needed to absorb every word.
Two thousand.
How could I possibly take that in? I couldn’t even think. Beside me, Esther held my hand, and maybe she was squeezing it, maybe speaking to me, I didn’t know. On my right, Yitzchak was frozen in place. I wasn’t sure if he was even breathing. Was I?
The announcer continued, “The remaining eight thousand Jews are being sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, or marched to the nearby Plaszow labor camp, led by Amon Goeth, a man whose reputation boasts of cruelty and sadism. Little hope can remain for their fate. In other news …”
I jumped up and ran from the bunker, almost blinded by tears and anger. It was the “in other news” that sent my temper over the edge. How could they move on to other news as if the fate of those ten thousand Jews was only one piece of a nightly broadcast? As if they hadn’t just announced something that sent my world flying apart?
Resistance Page 19
