Resistance

by Jennifer A. Nielsen

  Yitzchak must have followed me. He put his hand on my shoulder, and I turned around and folded myself into his arms, sobbing. I knew I was the older sister and that I should be comforting him, but tonight, it was the other way around. What did it matter if I’d known this was coming? Nothing could prepare me for actually having to deal with such awful news. Hundreds of people still lived because of my work. Why couldn’t I have saved my own parents?

  “If they were taken to the labor camp, they might still …”

  That was all he said. That was all either of us said.

  Yitzchak held me until no tears were left, the last time I would cry for our parents. Nor would I hold on to any anger toward them, not for refusing to believe me when they could have, or for staying when they should have left. Instead, I would remember the best of who they were: my father, strong and kind and ever loyal to my mother. And my mother: tender and loving and always ready with a word of advice when we needed it.

  I was proud to be their daughter, and before this war was over, I would make them proud of me as well.

  When I’d collected myself, we returned to the bunker to find Tamir and Rachel in close conversation with Esther. She looked over at me with tremendous sadness in her eyes and shook her head. I knew what that meant.

  “No!” I shouted, indifferent to whether the entire ghetto heard, much less the people in this bunker. “No, you will not do this!”

  Yitzchak grabbed my arm, holding me back. “I was here when her father posted those lists. You have to understand—”

  “That is not her fault!” I was still shouting. “If we accept that all Germans are not Nazis, and all Poles are not against us, then can’t we accept that Esther is not her father? He did what he did, and those were his choices and no one else’s. If Esther wants to stay, then she must stay.”

  “We have a place she can go,” Rachel said. “Maybe it’s better—”

  Ignoring her, I turned to Esther. “What do you want?”

  Her answer came immediately. “I am supposed to be here in the ghetto, and I want to stay here.” Then she spoke more loudly, to the whole group. “And if you allow me to stay, I promise to prove that I am as much a part of this resistance as any of you. I will fight!”

  I looked them over, my expression as serious as ever before. “And if you make her go, then I promise that I will not fight. I will leave with her and you will have two fewer members for the coming battle.”

  “Three.” Yitzchak stood at my side with his arm around me. And suddenly, I loved my dear brother more than ever. I loved Esther too, truly loved her, as if she were my own sister.

  Tamir and Rachel exchanged glances. Then in a softer tone, Rachel said, “You may stay if you wish, Esther, but you will have to prove yourself to the others. I cannot do that for you, nor can your friends.”

  “I will.”

  When we were alone again, I pulled her into a hug and she thanked me, though I’d certainly done her no favors.

  She whispered, “Does this mean you forgive me, for Lodz? Do you trust me again?”

  I wished I could give her the easy answer. I’d forgiven her a long time ago, but trusting her was very different. I held her hand and said, “Tell me the truth about the package you were supposed to deliver. It’s okay to admit there never was a package.”

  “There is, Chaya, I promise.”

  “What is it? At least tell me that.”

  “I can’t, I’ve promised not to say anything until the right time.” She lowered her eyes. “I’ll deliver it when it’s needed most.”

  “And that’s not yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  She still wouldn’t look at me. What package could she possibly have that was such a secret?

  * * *

  Over the next several days, I became aware of a strange incongruence within the ghetto. People here seemed happy, wearing easy smiles and waving with friendly hellos, as they would have done before the war.

  They were, in fact, entirely out of step with anyone I’d met in Poland since the war began, and particularly in the ghettos.

  We were hungry, of course. We had no idea how long our meager food supplies would last, and so rations were imposed that were nearly as strict as what they were under control of the Judenrat.

  We were exhausted. If I wasn’t digging a bunker somewhere, then I was stocking it with supplies gathered from elsewhere in the ghetto. Not only food, water, and weapons, but blankets, clothes, and books for those who would be confined here while the fighting took place on the streets.

  And if I wasn’t working on a bunker, then I was building handmade weapons. We made Molotov cocktails, filling glass jars and even light bulbs with sulfuric acid, bleach, or whatever else we could find that would either burn or explode. We sharpened the edges of sticks or flattened them into handles, which our welders fashioned into knives.

  Every item we found in our exploration of the apartments was considered for its possibilities as a weapon. A broom handle, a rolling pin, or a pair of scissors. Knitting needles, wiring from the walls, and certainly every tool from the workshops.

  I thought Esther could sense people knew about her father. Few people talked to her, and those who did were soon pulled aside by others for a hushed conversation, and then Esther was left alone again. Each day, her shoulders slumped further, and her eyes remained longer on the ground.

  She was, in fact, the only person I saw who looked the way I expected everyone here to look. Even I found myself smiling more than usual, sometimes laughing as I worked among other resistance members.

  And eventually, I understood why.

  It was because the ending of our story was already written. We knew what was coming, and that it would happen soon, and that even at our best, most of us would never walk away from this ghetto, if any did.

  In the knowing, there was peace.

  And with our action came joy. Finally, after years of endurance and suffering, and the pain of having our lives stripped away from us one piece at a time, at last we had something that restored our dignity and pride and our common feeling that this was the moment when we would make a stand.

  That time was coming, probably sooner than any of us knew.

  Until then, I had work to do.

  April 18, 1943

  Warsaw Ghetto

  Another month passed with the same routine. The snow had melted away and warmer days brought hope for a better future—a cruel tease, considering our circumstances. I’d never experienced a springtime such as this one. It had been three months since the Germans last attempted to enter this ghetto, and almost two months since we’d arrived.

  In all that time, we’d discussed theories, debated options, and considered opinions from everyone who claimed to understand what the Germans were thinking. But no one really knew.

  And for three months, the only thing that truly mattered was that every day they waited, we improved another bunker, created more weapons, and solicited help from the outside world. Every day gave us another few hours to live, to tell ourselves that anywhere the Germans didn’t dare to go, there we were free.

  ZOB leadership divided the ghetto into three separate zones, each led by a different commander. Other resistance groups were here too, some divided by political beliefs, others by location, but all of us united with one purpose: to make a final stand with honor and dignity. We were joined by several people emerging from the wild with offers to fight on their own, wherever they could, however they could. It was nearly impossible to travel from one zone to another because they were separated by German patrolled areas. After the fighting began, we would have little idea in one zone what was happening in the other two.

  In that time, we’d dug or built over six hundred bunkers. Their locations were disguised so that only a person who knew of the entrance would be able to find it. Some were larger than others, but we’d scavenged from abandoned apartments to try to make each one as comfortable as possible, since they were to hold civilians w
ho might be in there for weeks or even months. Most bunkers locked from the inside, so in the end, the Germans would have to either break in or lure us out. Many had fresh water supplies, electricity, and air vents, allowing those who were not fighting to stay in hiding for as long as a year, if they were careful. Every bakery within the ghetto had been operating nearly nonstop to create rusk bread, which, although dry and crusty, lasted far longer than regular bread.

  We’d acquired pistols, rifles, and at least one machine gun, with ammunition for all calibers. We had grenades, both military and homemade devices, and hundreds of other containers that would explode when we lit them. We had several hundred pieces of armor stolen from the Germans, including steel helmets and bullet-resistant tunics. We spent a great deal of money on the black market to acquire these items, thanks to the Judenrat treasuries, which the resistance was happy to take for itself.

  But as I looked over what we did have, I couldn’t help but think this wasn’t nearly enough. I remembered Cyganeria, how quickly we went through our supplies, how much it took for what little we accomplished.

  We also didn’t have support from the outside world, not like we needed. How many times had our leaders begged the Polish Underground Army to join us? With their help, we’d have a chance to bring a fight to the Nazis that could make a difference, maybe even turn the tide within Warsaw. They gave us a few weapons and a symbolic pat on the back for good luck, but that too was inadequate.

  Then one evening, after three months of preparation, three months of wondering and planning and hoping for even one day more, a man I knew only as Chaim burst into our bunker in the Central Zone, his eyes wide with fear and only two words on his lips: “They’re here.”

  The Germans had come.

  Just like that, the last of the sand ran through the hourglass.

  Chaim and the other lookouts on the rooftops reported that thousands of soldiers were gathering in Warsaw, setting up camp like we were the new front line of the war, and maybe we were. It suddenly made sense why the Germans waited this long—it took time to organize an army of this size, extensive planning to prepare a ghetto of seventy thousand people for total liquidation. No doubt those were their orders.

  By six o’clock, they had the ghetto surrounded.

  Our day had been spent hastily moving the last of our supplies into the bunkers and helping people get to their assigned places.

  I crowded into a bunker with Yitzchak, Esther, and Tamir, and at least a dozen other fighters. We were all tense—wanting to move, to race, to test our strength and courage against the invaders. I’d already faced them dozens of times when entering the ghettos. Very soon, I would face them again, but in an entirely different way.

  It was the evening before Passover, and the tension was so thick throughout the ghetto, every move I made seemed to require me to push myself through solid air. As important as it was every year to observe Passover, I couldn’t think of any other night of my life when we needed God to save us more. Our bunker would hold the Seder. Every bunker would hold it.

  Someone had located a white tablecloth for ours, and we gathered around it. The same women who had worked tirelessly making food for the bunkers pushed themselves yet again to bake matzos and hard-boil the eggs, and some of the men provided wine. It wasn’t a complete meal, but what we had was kosher and it reminded me of the sacred nature of that last supper with Akiva. How long ago that seemed now.

  This was my second last supper. I didn’t expect to ever celebrate a third.

  An elderly man behind me whispered, almost under his breath, “Oyf lebm un toyt.” Yiddish for “On our lives, on our deaths.” Those who heard him quietly repeated the words as a vow, another pledge of honor. I said it too and felt my courage rise.

  Tamir read from the Haggadah. As I sipped from my wineglass, listening to the recitation of God’s deliverance of the Israelites from bondage in Egypt, I couldn’t help but wonder if He would deliver us now.

  Tamir answered my unspoken question, perhaps the question no one dared to ask. “Didn’t Moses once say to our people, ‘Be strong and courageous! God is the one Who goes with you.’ My friends, if we do not see the end of tomorrow, then know that we have fought for the deliverance of others. If our deaths give the chance of life to others, we have done well.”

  The rest of the group moved on with the Seder, but my thoughts remained there. Tamir sat nearly across from me, giving praise and honor to a God who might not save him from his fate. But he did so, confident that this coming fight was worthy of God’s blessings.

  My mind returned to that small apartment in Lodz where Avraham and Henryk and Sara believed that their deaths were to honor God. I understood that now. The resistance was not about who lived and who died. It was about the way we lived, and the way we would die when our time came.

  Which might be sooner than any of us wanted. Near the close of the meal, someone behind me mumbled, “Tonight will not be a good night.”

  If other words were spoken afterward, I didn’t hear them. We huddled in close together, all of us pretending to sleep and no one doing a particularly good job of it. Time crawled forward without mercy, each minute an hour, each hour a lifetime. And yet, it felt as if I’d only blinked once when the boom of a tank’s gun echoed above us, so forcefully that bits of dirt crumbled beneath the cracks of the bunker ceiling.

  It was very early in the morning. Someone called out the time: 2 a.m.

  Those without weapons had been told to remain in the bunkers until an opportunity came to escape into the forests. I didn’t know when, or how such a thing was to be accomplished, but they couldn’t remain in here forever.

  To the rest of us, Tamir issued the call that was no doubt being given in every ghetto bunker. “All armed Jews, the time has come to fight.”

  I looked over at Esther, then at my brother, and found joy in their fixed expressions of determination. We shared a grim smile, grabbed every weapon that had been assigned to us, and followed the others up our narrow ladder.

  It was exactly ten months since I had officially joined the resistance. Since the day I had promised Gusta Draenger to fight against the Nazi occupation in any way I was needed. Every experience of my life since then had prepared me for what was about to come.

  And I was ready to be tested.

  The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising was about to begin.

  April 19, 1943

  Warsaw Ghetto

  Esther positioned herself near me on the third floor of a former soup kitchen building overlooking Nalewki Street. Yitzchak had been assigned elsewhere, which felt like losing him all over again, but this was only the beginning. We were bound to be separated eventually.

  Below us, a single-file line of SS troops entered the ghetto, their precise march making it difficult to know how many soldiers were here. Maybe fifty or five hundred or five thousand—anything was possible. When the full moon finally emerged from thick clouds, I caught a look at the uniforms, but at this distance, I couldn’t read their markings, although they definitely didn’t look German. Tamir passed by to say they were mostly troops from Lithuania and the Ukraine. There was a third group too, the Jewish police.

  Beneath my breath, I cursed, but it was loud enough for Esther to hear.

  “Chaya, don’t speak like that!” she scolded.

  Inwardly, I smiled. It was fine that I was waiting to kill as many soldiers as possible, but she would not tolerate my cursing.

  Tamir heard me as well. “The OD had no choice. Those who refused to participate were already shot near the Gestapo building.”

  “And what do these men think will happen to them after this is over?” I countered.

  Other than the lengthening column of soldiers, the streets below were deserted. They marched past numerous banners and posters. Some called for Poles outside the ghetto to join us in the fighting. Others for courage until the end. But my favorite was a poster of two hands shaking each other through a break in the ghetto wall with text reading ALL P
EOPLE ARE EQUAL BROTHERS: BROWN, WHITE, BLACK, AND YELLOW.

  Perhaps one day.

  Perhaps.

  While the column advanced, we waited. Patiently. Silently. My finger on the trigger, my muscles ready with anticipation. Between Esther and me sat a dozen grenades, a matchbook, and three homemade explosives. I also had a few extra rounds of ammunition for my gun.

  But we did nothing to this initial column of soldiers. These men were only pawns. We awaited the true enemy.

  At the first hint of dawn, the Germans entered, perhaps after assuring themselves that since nothing had happened so far, they should be fine too. How wrong they were.

  I didn’t know who was the first to fire on them, nor who gave the order, but once I saw the action start, I was ready. I started with one of the explosives, lighting the fuse inside a bottle filled with petrol, then dropped it from the window on an entire detachment of soldiers. It exploded, bodies fell, and the troops who survived it scattered.

  Next, members of my team reached for our grenades. For many of them, this was the first live grenade they’d ever thrown, much as it had been for me at the Cyganeria Café.

  Esther turned to them now. “Count after you throw, not before.” The reminder probably wasn’t necessary, but better safe than sorry, I supposed.

  Esther and I pulled our pins. Her sights were on a group that had already scattered to the far end of the street, and I found a group of soldiers who were aiming their rifles upward, toward another building. Both grenades exploded, sending debris high into the air. When it settled, I counted five Germans down, either injured or dead.

  This was a good start, but it wasn’t enough. This was not enough. Never enough. The words rang through my head.

  Orders were shouted below for the Germans to retreat, and from nearby, Tamir ordered us to stand down as well. We needed to save our strength for Germans who were advancing, not retreating.