The executions were necessary to cleanse the ghetto of undesirables. Loyal people have nothing to fear. Everyone is to open their shops again and go about their business.
By the time he reaches Sophia’s apartment people are appearing on the streets again. The announcement has begun to circulate through the ghetto, reassuring people.
As he turns into Ogrodowa Street, he recognizes a boy from the Dror commune. Misha runs to catch up with him and ask if Yitzhak has heard anything.
The boy’s face is white. ‘Yitzhak? Haven’t you heard? They came for him and his wife Zivia last night. Fortunately he’d already had a tip-off that he was going to get a visit, so he and Zivia had gone to hide at a friend’s place. But the guards had a list, numbers to fill. They took a boy and his father from the flat below in their place. Just to fill up their numbers. And tell Sophia, training is cancelled.’
Sammy leaves a couple of days later. After he’s gone, it’s not just the children who are unsettled.
‘Do you think we’re doing the right thing?’ Stefa asks. ‘Should we split up the children and try and send them outside? There’s the nice Polish nurse, Irene, who’s smuggled children out in bags and toolboxes, coffins even.’
Korczak stares at her, unable to countenance shutting a terrified child up in a coffin, in the dark, alone. ‘No, we keep them together. They are safest here with us until the war is over. It won’t be the first time we’ve kept our children safe through a German occupation.’
Sophia waits to hear from her cell leader. After this, she feels more committed than ever to learning how to fight back. But no message comes.
Korczak carries on with his Monday lectures as usual at the home, although there are fewer people attending. She’s surprised to see Yitzhak at the back.
Misha is listening as he talks, his face grave.
He turns as she joins them.
‘It’s bad news. This morning two of the cell leaders were arrested by the Gestapo,’ Yitzhak tells her. ‘They’ll be tortured for the names of other people. I came to warn you.’
Sophia gasps. ‘Those poor men.’ The Gestapo brutality is well known.
‘So you’d best be careful.’ Yitzhak leaves. He has others to tell.
Misha won’t leave her. He walks back with her to Ogrodowa Street and sleeps on a chair by the girls’ bed all night. In spite of the fear that ends only when they sleep, washes in the moment they wake, they have never felt closer, blessed by each other’s presence, never more in love. Krystyna wakes very early and slips out.
He slides in next to Sophia and wraps his arms tight around her as she sleeps.
When a knock comes at the door they freeze. It’s the boy from the Dror commune. They’ve had word that both men have been tortured to death but not one name has passed their lips.
The danger of further arrests is passed, but now any hope of organizing resistance has been smashed.
And with all underground newspapers wiped out in the night of slaughter, from now on, the half a million people trapped inside the ghetto will know only what the Nazis want them to know.
The weeks pass. The first signs of spring returning, a change in the air. Faint scents of lilac from over the wall. A blue sky and a clean sun.
None of the black rumours about some unknown event falling on the ghetto have come true. With Russia and the US in the war, the UK bombing German cities, everyone knows that it’s only a matter of time before the Germans are defeated and the war is over. The feeling in the ghetto is that so long as they hold on, they will come through the war. And as for the rumours about Warsaw being liquidated like Lublin, the terrible murders reported from survivors, such a thing could never happen in Warsaw, in such a large population. Unthinkable.
CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN
WARSAW, MAY 1942
On Korczak’s suggestion, the children are writing a letter. A few days ago, crossing Grzybowski Square in the stifling heat, Korczak glimpsed the green of a tiny garden beyond the arched portico adjoining the Catholic church. Roses hung from a trellis. It was only a block away from the children’s home. It wouldn’t be too risky to take a few children at a time to play there, if they were allowed. He knew the priest. Father Godlewski had been a rabid anti-Semite before the war, but had changed his tune after witnessing first-hand the suffering of his congregation of Jewish converts to Christianity, still Jews in the eyes of the Nazis. He’s now known for doing everything he can to help the Jews around him in the ghetto.
In the home, a group of children sit round one of the oilcloth-covered tables on the stage. Halinka and Abrasha, Sami, Erwin and Aronek pore over the empty piece of paper. What they write will be very important. It could make all the difference to whether the priest will let them play in the tiny garden next to the church.
‘Say we long for some air and some greenery,’ says Halinka to Abrasha, the scribe.
‘Yes, tell him how stuffy it is in here, and crowded. I’d give anything just to spend an hour in Saxon Park again,’ says Erwin.
‘And pick flowers for Halinka. Remember when the park keeper chased you.’
‘They were nice flowers,’ Halinka whispers.
‘And tell him we won’t break the plants,’ adds Aronek. ‘Honest we won’t.’
‘After the war, you won’t believe it, Aronek, you’ll see. We’ll all go to Little Rose summer camp,’ says Halinka. ‘The forests and the fields. We have campfires, and swimming.’
‘Oh, and remember big skies,’ says Abrasha. ‘That go all the way down to the fields and the river. All we see here is little squares and strips above the buildings. I’m going to stand in the middle of the fields, no fences, and shout all the way to the end of the world.’
‘Or just have some fresh air to breathe.’
They sign the letter, give it to Korczak, and hope.
Czerniakow too is determined to do something for the children of the ghetto, locked up with no parks or green spaces. One victory at a time, he is determined to improve conditions in here, even though most of his requests meet with refusal. But this time his visit to Kommissar Auerswald in the Bruhl Palace has paid off. He’s succeeded in winning the right to open three children’s playgrounds.
On a hot June day, Korczak, Misha and several hundred people wait around the edges of an expanse of cracked concrete swept free of rubble that wavers in the heat as lines of children in white dresses or white shorts and shirts stand to attention. In a white tropical suit, a pith helmet with a plume of white feathers, Czerniakow walks up and down their ranks while the Jewish police band plays ‘Hatikvah’. Behind him are wooden swings and climbing frames constructed on his orders by a gang of ghetto workmen. A small area of new grass, yellowing already, clings on in the heat. The walls of the buildings each side have been painted with murals of open countryside. A dusty smell of broken bricks rises in the hot wind. Czerniakow lifts his hand to stop the band and addresses the crowds, his voice breaking with emotion.
‘Our highest and our holiest duty is to ensure that our children survive these tragic times. Life inside the ghetto has become hard and difficult, as you know, but we, the Jewish people, must not give up. Every man, every woman and every child must keep on planning and working for our future. And this,’ he cries, indicating the bombsite around him, ‘is only the beginning of many new projects, playgrounds for our children, an institute to train teachers and a ballet school for girls.’
The crowd applauds and the children begin to march in a circular parade while the band plays a jaunty tune. The children are all given bags of molasses sweets fabricated in the ghetto. The smiling crowd begins to mill about and peel away.
Korczak finds Czerniakow at his side. ‘What did you think?’ he asks the doctor.
Korczak is wearing a beige mac over his army uniform. He cuts a poor figure next to Czerniakow’s white splendour. He looks up at the pith helmet with the white plumes. ‘Wonderful. Perhaps a lot of money to spend on a ceremony, some might say.’
‘I kno
w you don’t like pomp, Korczak, but people need balm for their wounds. See how the street is smiling. It’s good for morale.’ Czerniakow allows his fleshy face to fall into a bleak expression. ‘I have to tell you, my friend, there are days when I think I’m like the captain on the Titanic, telling the orchestra to play while the ship goes down. But I’m determined to steer this ship home at least with all the children safely on board.’
Korczak grips his friend’s shoulder. ‘I know. I know. And so did you have any reply to your request to get some of the children released from prison?’
‘I tried, but the Gestapo aren’t budging. But at least I’ve got some of the men released. They’re being sent to do construction work at a camp nearby. It will be hard conditions, but it will be better than dying in Gesia prison. It’s a new work camp called Treblinka.’
CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT
WARSAW, JUNE 1942
On his way to Zglinowicz’s café opposite the gate on Leszno Street, Misha pauses to watch three Wehrmacht soldiers with a camera tripod. They are filming a dead body lying on the pavement beneath a shop window. Next to it is a skeletal child in rags. The shop window is remarkable, fully stocked with a display of caramels and chocolate. On cue a woman in a smart suit and a minute fashionable hat comes out, holding a parcel. The cameraman stops filming and asks her to go back into the shop, this time exiting past the starving child more quickly. Two more takes before the cameraman is happy. The terrified woman hands the parcel back and leaves as quickly as possible.
Outside, the withered child sits below the window display like a tiny sage, her sunken eyes watching the street as if from very far away. The Germans go into the shop and start clearing the window.
Misha realizes he’s been standing and watching for too long.
He hurries on to Zglinowicz’s café feeling unsettled. This mania for filming the ghetto is something new, evidently some scheme the Nazis are planning, but what?
In the café he orders a watery, ersatz coffee and sits down at a table where there’s a clear view of gate number two.
The black phone hanging on the wall next to the bar is one of the few still working in the ghetto. With most phones disconnected, someone must be paying a lot in bribes to keep this one open. The barman turns his back and carries on wiping a glass. Misha opens a copy of the Jewish Gazette. Under lowered eyelids, he watches through the window to check that the guards who Jakub Frydman has bribed are still on duty inside the gate.
Over the months that Misha has been sitting in the café and watching the gate, he’s seen a gradual evolution take place. The trees that once lined Leszno have now gone for firewood. The Aryan tram has stopped travelling in through the gate. The entrance has grown from a low, farm-style barrier through which people used to show their passes to go in and out to work, to a ten-foot-high brick wall surrounding a palisaded gate, and a death penalty for leaving the ghetto.
The wooden noticeboard is still there, however, warning Warsaw’s Poles that the ghetto is a typhus zone. And the German guards still stay just outside the gates, afraid of infection, with a little brick guardhouse for them to eat breakfast or have a nap. The guards are in there right now, enjoying the bottle of brandy Jakub Frydman sent them. They won’t bother coming out for a while.
Misha looks at his watch. Any time now his Polish contact, Tadeusz, will ring from the Polish café on the other side of the wall and Misha will give the password to let him know it’s safe to drive the cart in. There’s a jukebox on duty at the gate, which is to say put the money in and the guard will play the right tune.
The phone rings. The barman studiously ignores it. Misha walks over to pick up. Tadeusz’s voice. ‘Your brother can’t come for lunch today. A sickness in the family. Get home quickly.’ The phone goes dead.
His hand shaking too much, Misha immediately puts some coins on the table and leaves as calmly as he can. Something has gone wrong. He hurries away down Leszno Street, cold sweat on his back, looking behind to check that he’s not being followed.
At Sophia’s flat she’s tutoring her two nieces at the kitchen table.
‘No messages came for me?’
‘What is it?’ she asks, seeing his face.
She takes him into her parents’ room where the girls can’t hear.
He tries to keep his voice even but try as he might he can’t hide his concern from her. ‘Some problem with the delivery. There’s an atmosphere in the ghetto. Tense. Listen, I’m going to see if I can find Marek, so why don’t I walk the girls back home for you now? And stay inside perhaps today.’
‘If we stayed in every time there was an atmosphere in the ghetto—’
‘Today, please.’ No lightness in his voice.
‘I’ll stay here.’
The girls pack up. Sophia calls him back as they leave. ‘You forgot something.’ She kisses him. He finds he doesn’t want to let go of her hand.
‘I’ll come back, before my shift.’
*
By curfew he’s still heard nothing.
In the ballroom that night, Misha is reading by the light of a naphtha lamp. Dawidek comes over and sits on the end of Misha’s bed, anxiously biting the skin on the side of his thumb, his tall skinny frame bowed over. He wants to talk about nothing in particular but Misha knows Dawidek’s still upset by the brutal beating he witnessed by the gate that afternoon. Dawidek yawns, finally calm enough to feel the fatigue dragging his eyes shut and settles down in his bed. Soon Misha can hear that the boy is asleep.
The night is hot and the windows are open behind the blackout curtains. A little breeze tinged with sourness manages to make its way into the room, cooling Misha’s bare arms in his vest.
The book is open but his mind drifts away. What’s Sophia doing now? Is she sleeping or talking with Krystyna? Every moment that he’s away from her he worries, relief only coming when he holds her in his arms again, safe and alive and warm.
This time, three years ago, they were at Little Rose, flying kites with the children. Summer was for dances in the park, for eating ice cream by the Vistula, for sleeping in the sun.
He listens for sounds from beyond the wall across the street, people talking and singing as they leave the café on the corner, cars and electric trams.
Another noise. A car is approaching slowly, its tyres sucking against the cobbles with a mechanical thrum, the noise echoing against the walls. This side of the wall. Only the Germans have cars in the ghetto and there’s no good reason for a German car to be here at this hour. He listens, fear prickling his hands and feet, but the car continues to rumble past their building and he breathes again.
A few doors down it stops, the engine running. Boys are awake now, sitting up, listening. They hear running boots entering a building, a din of shouting, boots running down again, out onto the streets. Misha goes to the window, looks out obliquely from behind the blind. A bright light illuminates the street, car headlights. A harsh voice shouts out orders in German. Men begin to run along the cobbles in front of the car as the guards inside take shots. Laughter, then the car drives on, jolting and bumping unevenly over dark shapes on the cobbles, over bodies.
All through the dark hours shots resound through the ghetto. Another night of bloody slaughter, just like the night in April. In the morning, hooded bodies are found throughout the streets.
Misha gets a message to meet Marek in Sliska Street at the back of the home. Marek looks haggard, his hands sunk in his short blue coat.
‘Have you heard from Jakub? Why was the delivery cancelled like that?’
Marek’s face is hollow and grey. ‘Jakub’s dead. He was shot outside the ghetto walls.’
‘They shot him?’ All he can see is Jakub Frydman, so full of life, his dark hair and ruddy complexion, his way of being sure about everything. Misha puts his hand to his eyes to stem the tears that threaten to spring out. A senseless waste of a good life. But there’s no time for tears.
‘He was a good friend, to you and to me,’ Marek
says thickly, looking away as Misha wipes at his face. ‘A lot of people relied on Jakub.’
‘But what will we do about bringing supplies in now? For the home?’
Marek steps closer. ‘We do nothing. Listen, you should know that Jakub was caught bringing in pistols. Someone blew his cover. How else do you think the Gestapo knew to look for the guns? It’s over now, Misha. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Sorry. I know it’s hard, the children . . .’ He gestures towards the home. ‘We give up now or we are the next to get shot. I’m sorry.’
He hurries away.
Deeply worried, Misha goes back inside the building and into the main room. The children are quietly reading or writing in their diaries. The younger ones are playing with bricks, building little houses. Another group are making a theatre from a cardboard box, a torch for a spotlight.
Korczak looks up and sees Misha’s face. ‘We’ll talk more later,’ he tells the boy next to him and hurries over to Misha.
‘You look as if you have seen a ghost.’
‘Frydman has been shot for smuggling.’
Korczak recoils. ‘The salt dissolves and the manure rises in here,’ he says angrily.
‘We still have the rickshaw,’ says Sophia that evening. Krystyna has borrowed some money from Tatiana to buy a red three-wheeled bicycle with a passenger seat. She keeps it in the courtyard behind the café and rents it out to pay off the loan.
‘Krystyna lets the older boys take the rickshaw out to earn a little. You can still use that, Misha. And I can try and get some paid work again as a tutor from somewhere.’
Her voice trails off. Even the wealthy are beginning to starve now and her uncle has had to stop paying for the girls’ lessons.
‘But we still have Krystyna’s waitressing. And then Lutek comes by most days with a bag of kasha or something for Marianek,’ Sophia continues brightly. But that’s the end of her list, and they both know it won’t be enough.
The Good Doctor of Warsaw Page 16
