Music.
Not hymns of Shabbat, or even songs of comfort or hope.
No, it was a simple tune for children, like what would come from a barrel organ at a carnival. How was that possible?
I limped to the ledge of the building, ignoring Yitzchak’s warnings that I’d be seen if I went too close. From here, just past the ghetto walls, a merry-go-round had been set up for Polish children. I couldn’t see much through the smoke and haze, only the occasional reflection from the mirrors or a flash of a young girl’s pretty skirt. That hadn’t been there a few days ago, I was sure of it. The ride would have been hastily set up by the Germans, perhaps to mock us or to pacify the people from joining our revolt.
My fists clenched at the sight of it.
Even if the Germans provided such a sick carnival, no one had to come! No one had to bring their children next to our wall, where they could surely smell the gunpowder and the acrid stench of fire. No one was forced to sit their child on a carousel where they could hear the cries of other children in here, begging to be rescued from their doom.
I clutched my stomach, utterly disgusted, until Yitzchak put an arm around my shoulder.
“Not everyone on the outside is like that,” he whispered, pointing to a nearby hillside. “Look.”
I followed his gaze to a gathering of Poles in their wagons and on horses. Many of the women and even men looking toward the ghetto walls appeared to be shaking their heads in despair. I was reminded of the hundreds of people who had provided help to us, all at risk to their own lives.
But as I limped back into the bunker, I felt the noose tightening yet again. Surely everyone else in this ghetto felt it as well. But none of us talked about it. None of us talked at all.
It was also true that we had lost much of the joy we felt only a few days ago in anticipation of this battle. Perhaps because the plans we had made with hopefulness were now collapsing beneath the reality of what it was to face an enemy a thousand times stronger than ourselves.
Yet when we settled in for the night, Esther whispered, “Do you regret coming here? We could have stayed in Krakow or even left the country.”
My answer was simple: “No regrets.” And I meant it.
April 23, 1943
Warsaw Ghetto
I didn’t sleep well that night. No one in the bunker did. Who could sleep when we were packed in so tight that only the most seriously injured could lie down? When unidentifiable noises clattered and knocked and banged near the bunker’s walls? When every thought was a question of what another day of fighting might bring? Before I was ready for an answer to that question, gunfire erupted below us. Night was over.
“The fires must be spreading,” someone observed.
That was obvious. Smoke had wafted into the bunker overnight, stinging my throat until I finally allowed myself a small sip of water from our dwindling supplies. It did nothing for my hoarseness or dryness.
Nothing for my hope.
We prepared for another day against the Germans, more exhausted than when we’d fallen asleep, and nibbled on some rusk bread, which was probably all we’d get today. No one looked directly at anyone else. Few words were spoken.
Until Esther pulled a belt buckle from her shoulder bag and held it out. “When we were gathering weapons from the wounded Germans, I took this. What do these words mean?”
It was a gold buckle with an eagle standing on top of the Nazi swastika. Arched over the image were the words Gott Mit Uns.
I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, almost unable to answer. “It means ‘God With Us.’”
For her to bring that up, today of all days, was stunning. As we celebrated Passover this week, the Christians were preparing for Easter. As part of that, today was their Good Friday, a day that was supposed to be dedicated to seeking forgiveness from God.
How could these soldiers commit such atrocities on this day, all while wearing an emblem that suggested God supported their actions?
This morning, our radio was tuned to a feed that connected us with the Polish Underground. The latest news was announced by the Polish woman in Warsaw whose voice we’d often heard before. Whoever she was, she’d become a vital bridge between resistance groups, broadcasting information from one group to another. I imagined how eagerly the Germans were searching for her. Information was power, and she’d become a source for both.
She said, “Members of the Polish Underground, citizens of Warsaw and surrounding areas, all those who yearn to be free. Surely you have noticed the Jewish Quarter here is under attack by the invaders. Their resistance leaders have issued a plea for help. They need weapons and ammunition. They need people who will fight, both from inside and outside the walls. They need your help, not for their own sake, but for the freedom of Warsaw, the freedom of Poland. Please help.”
Yitzchak snorted. “What help? Many of the weapons we bought from the underground are defective. They jam, or worse, they backfire. They took our money and gave us weapons they can’t use anyway.”
I cursed again and didn’t care if Esther heard it. Maybe the underground didn’t know. Maybe their own weapons were just as bad.
But maybe they knew exactly what they were selling. They wanted our money and cared nothing for our lives.
“We can’t expect help from outside the ghetto,” Yitzchak said. “And if we do get any, it will be too little, too late.”
I agreed. Though by the time we returned to the street, my mind snapped to another day’s fighting, already under way. The pink-colored clouds suggested that anywhere else in Warsaw, a beautiful spring morning was rising, the hazy sunrise fueled by the fires still burning within these walls. And here, among ashes and debris and the growing scars of our battles, we saw far too many fallen resistance fighters, a few of them people I considered friends, people I’d laughed with only a few days ago as we pledged our lives and our honor to one another. They held to their pledge, and probably very soon I would have to do the same. It had been a terrible night for the ghetto. And today promised to be worse.
Without the advantage of nearby buildings in which to hide, we were forced to attack from half-exposed positions behind still-burning walls, in open ditches, and always at greater distances than we wanted.
“We’re stationed too far away to be effective,” Yitzchak said. “But if we get closer, we’ll be shot.” He thought about that a moment. “I’m going in closer.”
“Don’t go!” I wanted to make Yitzchak obey me, just as I used to make him do chores or clean up his messes. But I saw the determination in his eye, the desire to stand tall, the same glimmer of strength I used to see in my father’s eyes. Perhaps Yitzchak was meant to finish the fight my father never started, to honor our parents and all they had taught us in our early years, long before they knew where fate would lead us. As hard as it was to say “Be safe,” I did, and then turned my attention back to the battle, whispering under my breath, “Find me again soon.”
While he ran one way, Esther helped me limp down the street until we found a half-standing building with a hole torn through the wall. It would’ve taken something more than a machine gun to blast through these thick layers of brick, wood, and plaster, something monstrous. Maybe it accounted for the explosions I heard yesterday.
A small group of Germans ran down the street, unaware of our presence. I injured one with my gun, less than I’d wanted for the sacrifice of a bullet. Esther and I ducked low while several rounds were returned in our direction, but most of the Germans only scurried away.
Once they’d gone, another small group of fighters passed through the room where we were hiding. “Did you hear?” a woman asked. “Fighting has begun from outside the ghetto! It’s happening!”
A new surge of hope swelled within me. Could the people of Warsaw truly be responding to that plea for help that we heard on the radio? This was what we’d wanted all along, to spark a movement beyond these walls.
“There aren’t many,” one man said. “But if it’s e
ven one or two, it’s a start.”
A woman dressed in German armor ducked her head into our room. My first instinct to aim at her was calmed as soon as I recognized her as Tamir’s friend Rachel, whom I hadn’t seen since the fighting began. As angry as I had been with her for trying to send Esther away, I was glad to see her now. I admired her expression of focus and determination, and tried to mirror it when she looked at me.
She said, “We need your help, down in the tunnels. A fresh supply of weapons has come in from the Polish Underground.”
Esther and I followed her out, though I wasn’t expecting to see much. Were they the same high-quality toys we’d already paid such dear money for? Weapons that jammed and misfired?
“If they delivered the weapons, they should have stayed here with us to use them,” I said.
She smiled back at me. “The delivery came through the Catholic convent near the ghetto. The church allowed us to dig a tunnel into their catacombs, which we’ve used to evacuate many of our children already. The nuns delivered these weapons, though I daresay we won’t ask them to stay and fight.”
Despite our grim situation, I found myself smiling too, reminded that there were good and bad people everywhere. The more I embraced those who were good, the more I hoped to dispel the evil from my life.
Whenever possible, Rachel avoided the streets, leading us through buildings when possible, and through back alleys when necessary. About halfway there, we stepped into an alley, and a German shouted at us and fired a shot. It grazed my shoulder but I returned fire until he fell. Seconds later, Rachel had collected his gun and packs of ammunition. Since my gun had just been emptied, Rachel gave me everything she’d found.
We reached the tunnel beneath the square, and indeed, a small pile of weapons and ammunition awaited us, as well as some fresh bottles of water and a little dried meat.
“We’ve got to take all of it out in one load,” Rachel instructed. “We can’t risk another trip back here.”
“There’s too much,” I said. “Even if we divide the load into thirds, we can’t carry our share.”
But Esther stepped forward with a white tablecloth that must have decorated someone’s Passover table a few days ago. “Today is the Sabbath. Would it be wrong to use this?”
“I’m sure it is,” I said, then reached for the tablecloth. “But it is a good solution.”
We laid out the cloth and piled everything on top of it. Then Rachel took two corners, and Esther and I each took one, to lift the weapons. It was still heavy, but together, we were managing.
The problem was the thickening air around us.
Smoke.
“The flamethrowers,” I said. “The building above us is on fire!” Which meant there would be Germans at the exits to shoot us as we left.
If we left. I was already coughing from the smoke, and my eyes were stinging like needles had been poked into them.
“We can load these weapons,” Esther said. “Shoot them before they get us.”
Rachel shook her head. “There will be more of them than us. And if we die here, then we lose this entire cache. Listen carefully: Go back to the tunnels, and stay there until it’s safe to come out. You must get these weapons into the hands of our fighters!”
“What about you?” I asked.
“We’ve stashed other supplies on the upper floors. I’ll collect what I can.”
“No.” I didn’t want her to go. “The fire—”
“Is burning fast. I can’t waste time here. Obey your orders.”
She waved us away, back into the tunnels. I hoisted my half of the tablecloth higher over my shoulder, determined to bear more of the weight than Esther. When I turned around again to look for Rachel, she’d already disappeared in the smoke.
It would be the last time I saw her alive.
April 24, 1943
Warsaw Ghetto
Night had given us little sleep and no rest. Exhaustion was wearing on my concentration, my ability to respond to our widening losses. Beyond that, my leg ached fiercely, whether I put pressure on it or not, and I’d lost track of what day it was. It didn’t matter.
When I mentioned that aloud, Esther reminded me. “We missed Shabbat last night. I don’t suppose we’ll be honoring it today either.”
I didn’t have the energy to shrug that off. “Perhaps not. But we will honor our people today as best we can.”
It wouldn’t be much of an honor. Estimates of our dead now numbered into the hundreds, far more than the number of Germans we’d killed. And their plan to burn the buildings was working better than they could have imagined. By the end of the day, there would be more fires and more deaths.
It had taken Esther and me most of the night to drag the heavy cache of weapons out of the tunnels, ready to hand them over to friends and fighters who no longer existed. Once we emerged, I wished we had never come out.
Building by building, the soldiers were shooting flames into every floor, turning the air around us into a furnace. With fewer places to retreat, our people were being discovered in greater numbers. Some threw out mattresses and jumped from upper-story windows, only to be shot upon landing. Others remained where they were, their final Shema Yisrael swallowed up in the smoke. Some were finally forced to surrender, offering up any weapons they had. They were arrested and put onto the waiting trains. I didn’t want that fate, but if it came, I would find a way to continue fighting from within the extermination camps. I would always find a way.
I’d lost track of where Yitzchak might be, but after Esther and I delivered the weapons to a supply bunker, we moved deeper into the ghetto. By then, my goals had changed. At my core, I was a courier first. It was my job to get into the impossible places so that others could escape them. When I shared my plan with Esther, she readily agreed.
We had to move ahead of the fires and warn everyone still in bunkers to leave the buildings. We didn’t have much time.
We had no time at all, and far too much ground to cover.
It was slow work. I still couldn’t run, and the smoke had tarnished my throat to the point that my yells carried on the wind like whispers. I banged my gun on anything metal, hoping that at least it would be heard by those in hiding. I dragged myself up each flight of stairs, yelling, “Get out, get out!” and did the same on my way down. I accepted every offer from others to help, but begged them to move ahead of me and clear the buildings.
By the time I was on the street leaving my second building, Esther was at least a block ahead of me, trailing civilians behind her as they moved to safer quarters. I was angry with myself for having been shot, for having been slowed down by one careless moment. I had to go faster.
But as I headed toward the third building, I heard the buzz of another airplane overhead. My knotted stomach twisted tighter. Another bomber had come.
It turned at the last moment and dropped its load several blocks ahead of us, leveling a building we had yet to enter. Explosions rattled the ground beneath me, and a massive cloud of dust and debris rose into the air, enough to flatten that quadrant of the ghetto. Most of those who had emptied out of the bunkers ran down side streets, hoping to find new bunkers that might escape the soldiers’ attention. But Esther and I only hurried forward, hoping to get more people out before the bombers returned. Or before the fires caught up with us.
Behind us, four Nazis were headed this way. Two held flamethrowers and the other two were watching for snipers. Flames spurted both right and left, creating so much light in front of them that they hadn’t seen me yet.
I turned and ran, hoping to get into hiding before they noticed me. My leg screamed with pain, as if the fire from those Nazis was already inside my flesh. Somewhere back here was a bunker, partially hidden between these buildings, but when I found it, the door was open and the space had been abandoned. Smoke poured from vents that were supposed to have supplied fresh air to the bunkers, not choked them out. This would be the fate of every other bunker eventually.
I co
uldn’t see Esther anymore, but still I ran, heat licking at my back and spurring me on even faster. The flamethrowers swept in fiery lines across the building I’d just been in.
“A Jew girl!” one of the Nazis called. They’d seen me.
Shots were fired, but I’d already fallen flat on the ground, the bunker door almost within my reach. If they saw me fall, I hoped they’d think I was hit. Or better still, I hoped that through the thick smoke, they could no longer see me at all.
They moved on to the next building without checking for me, which wasn’t a surprise. They understood as well as I did that I was trapped. The tall ghetto wall was behind the bunker, but I could never scale it with my injured leg. From here, I couldn’t see any gaps beneath the walls, nor could I dig one out with my bare hands. Not in time.
The only way out of the fire was through the fire.
I drew in a breath of thick air and darted into the bunker. If I was correct, a tunnel passed beneath this one, extending back toward Mila Street. I desperately hoped I was correct.
Smoke had completely filled the upper half of the bunker, but I bent over and began feeling my way around. I didn’t know the layout of this room, and even if I did, items from the people who had stayed here were scattered randomly about, as if they’d left in a hurry. I tripped over a small ladies’ bag and fell face-first onto the dirt ground, scraping my hands in the fall. My leg lit with pain, but at least this low the smoke was thinner. I dug into the bag and found a head scarf, which I wrapped around my nose and mouth. Then I crawled, dragging my injured leg behind me, until I found the tunnel entrance at the back of the bunker. I rolled into it and, belowground, took my first breath of clean air. Or slightly cleaner air. There was still smoke down here.
From there, I limped away from the soldiers with the flamethrowers, but I didn’t get far before panic rose in me again. Footsteps were coming my way and I’d already caught a glimpse of the person farthest ahead.
German uniforms. The Germans were in the tunnels.
Now I really was trapped.
Resistance Page 24
