Mama ran her hand over the table as if to assure herself it really did exist. ‘Don’t the Germans know? How do the smugglers get away with it?’
‘Bribery.’ Papa smiled grimly. ‘They’ve made more than enough money to bribe just about anyone.’
He had also bought several buckets, one to bring in water, the other as a chamber pot so we didn’t always have to use the lavatory at the end of our floor. Each floor in the building had a tap giving fresh water and a lavatory, though the lavatory’s smell was so bad I hardly ever went there. Our floor consisted of five lots of rooms housing at least twenty to thirty people. One tap and one lavatory for so many people led to lots of arguments.
The table Papa brought home had uneven legs so eventually he propped it up with an old copy of the Gazeta Zydowska. This was the Jewish newspaper published with the approval of the Germans. I read bits of it when we weren’t using the table. It was full of questions about forbidden activities, and these included almost everything. The middle pages had short stories and poetry, mostly about what it was like to live in the ghetto. Thankfully, writing poetry wasn’t forbidden. At least, not yet!
After I spent two days helping Mama set up our rooms, I was desperate to walk outside. I needed fresh air. One improvement from living on the farm was being able to go outside without worrying I’d be seen. I persuaded Mama and Papa that I wouldn’t speak to strangers and to keep a sharp watch for any Germans walking or driving past.
Though Mama insisted this mightn’t be safe, Papa said, ‘All right, Hanna. But only for a while. Tomorrow, you can take Adam with you, as I will be starting work at the Council.’ He turned to Adam. ‘Today you can come with me to the market.’
I walked down Zelazna Street, and turned right. So far all I had seen of the ghetto was colourless—just shades of grey, charcoal and black. People’s clothes were so shabby; any colour seemed totally drained away. I was missing anything green, anything to do with nature.
The air itself felt grey too, sooty from the coal used for cooking and heating. Even so, being outside on my own and with food in my stomach, I felt a sudden rush of freedom. My body was ready to run, hop and jump. Only I still didn’t know if I could.
I tried running a few steps. Then picked up speed. Yes, I could still run. I ran to the end of the street, turned back and ran some more.
Even if I had to dodge people coming in the opposite direction, and the homeless sheltering inside doorways, it felt wonderful. If there was enough space, I felt sure I could manage a cartwheel. I ran a small distance, raised my hands ready to place them on the ground, and then bumped into a man coming the other way. Instead of landing on my hands, I fell onto my knees. I was already out of breath. I needed to regain some stamina.
‘Hey, Hanna!’ someone called.
It was Karol: one of the boys I’d met when we arrived. Jacob and Moshe, his friends, were with him.
‘What are you were tryin’ to do?’
‘A cartwheel.’ My eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Is that something you can do?
‘Yes. I used to be a gymnast.’ I bit my lip. ‘But I’m rusty. I need to practise, and for that I need space, lots more space.’ Karol turned his back on me and all three went onto a huddle. I didn’t know whether to stay or run. In the end I was too curious to leave. What were they talking about?
After a minute, Jacob turned back, a wide grin splitting his face. He said, ‘We was thinking … there’s lots of cafes and halls in the ghetto. There’s even a theatre close by called the Weisman. Is that the sorta space you want?’
My eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
‘We’ll see if we can find you something,’ he went on. And with that, all three took off down the street.
‘Well, thanks …’ I called as they disappeared into the crowd.
I still didn’t see how they could help me find enough room to practise. The ghetto overflowed with people. Every available space seemed to be used. I needed at least eight metres to manage a vault and land on my hands. How on earth could they help?
Back in our rooms, Ryzia was playing with a makeshift doll—a wooden peg with a piece of rag tied around the middle. While I’d been outside, Mama had made our new lodgings more homely. The windows were now covered with the compulsory tar paper; the first room was to be our living and dining room, the second, our bedroom. It was now spread with straw mattresses and worn feather quilts. On the stove, a saucepan bubbled with soup. Admittedly, this was mostly water, turnips and potatoes, but with some hard black bread, it would fill our bellies.
When Papa and Adam returned, Adam’s face was beaming. He unlatched a black case and held up its contents.
A violin!
Placing it under his chin, he produced a worn-looking bow and played a few notes. Though both needed new strings and the violin lots of tuning, I had never seen him so happy.
‘Romek,’ Mama gasped. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Bought it from a musician in exchange for food.’
‘How sad for him,’ she murmured.
Sad for him, but happy for Adam.
‘Yes. Pan Mandeltort used to play first violin with the Leipzig Orchestra. I have asked him to give Adam some lessons. We can only afford to pay him a few zlotys, but it means he won’t starve.’
As we settled at the table, Mama said, ‘Adam and Hannale, as soon as we finish eating, I have new clothes for you. Well, not new, they’re second-hand, but I can alter them so they will fit.’
‘You will need them tomorrow,’ Papa added, smiling. ‘To wear to school.’
‘School? We’re allowed to go to school?’
I never thought I would be so happy at the thought of going to school, but this was the best news yet.
Papa said, ‘There are some vocational schools, but strictly speaking you are not allowed to attend school. However, just like Panna Mislowski did, here teachers also run secret schools.’
It seemed to me that in the ghetto our life was improving. What had I been so frightened of? We no longer needed to hide, Papa had a job, and money. We had food and beds. And now I was going back to school.
I could hardly wait! Even better, there would be more books to read, not just The Scarlet Pimpernel or the tattered Gazeta Zydowska.
First thing the following morning , Papa led me and Adam downstairs and we walked three blocks to a house halfway along a narrow street. Once at the house, we had to climb three flights up to the school.
Near the entrance a small, elderly man seated behind a tiny desk introduced himself as Pan Rosenberg, the school principal. I wondered if he was as strict as my old headmistress before the war.
He told Papa how pleased he was that we were coming here and asked for our ages. When I told him I was almost thirteen, he tried not to look too surprised. He wrote our names and ages into a ledger, and sent Adam in one direction, me in another.
Inside a room not much bigger than Mama and Papa’s old bedroom, was a small woman, her hair caught into a bun, dressed in a neat if shabby blouse, cardigan and skirt, and thick wool stockings. Facing her were fifty students, all crammed into this tiny space.
She must have been told I was coming, because she said, ‘You must be Hanna Kaminsky. I am Panna Ranicki.’ She turned. ‘Everyone, please welcome our new student. Hanna, as you can see we are rather crowded, but I’m sure you’ll find a space.’
Because chairs were scarce, most students sat on the floor. I saw a vacant spot right down the back. As I wriggled into it, I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Thankfully, Panna Ranicki was halfway through a lesson and once I sat down she went back to it. ‘Can anyone tell me how many litres are in a kilolitre?’
A boy up the front put up his hand. ‘One thousand.’
‘And how many would be in a megalitre?’ Panna Ranicki asked.
A girl, just in front of me, answered. ‘One million.’
‘Thank you, Inka. And, Eva, could you tell me how many centimetres in a kilometre?’
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br /> ‘One hundred thousand, Panna Ranicki.’
Did I recognise that voice? I stared at the back of the girl’s fair hair. Was it my Eva? My Eva, who was brilliant at arithmetic. My Eva whom I feared I’d never see again?
She turned and gave me a huge smile.
Tears of joy filled my eyes. My best friend was still alive … and we were together again.
As soon as Panna Ranicki announced a break, we rushed towards each other to hug and kiss each other’s cheeks. Our words tumbled over each other.
‘I thought you were dead …’
‘I was sure you were dead too …’
‘When you didn’t come back to school and we didn’t know where you were, we hoped you’d escaped. Where did you go? What happened to you?’
I told her how I lost the silver rabbit she gave me, and when I found it again I was sure it was a sign that she was still alive. ‘I carry it everywhere.’
Eva smiled, and reached into her pocket. She pulled out the ivory elephant I had given her.
Eva told me how her family had also fled Warsaw, aiming for the Russian side of Poland. They had just made it outside the city when their car was stopped by German tanks. ‘They were going to shoot us,’ she said, her face crinkling at the memory. ‘We were as good as dead. Only Papa bribed an officer, and we came back. By then you’d already left. Where did you go?’
I told her about the farm and hiding in that loft and how the Germans took our animals.
‘But why did your family come back to Warsaw?’
‘Someone betrayed us. We don’t know who for sure, one or other of the neighbours.’
‘And Elza … Where is Elza?’
I looked away and didn’t answer. Eva immediately understood. She hugged me again, but this time her hug was full of sorrow for what we had all gone through.
Realising some other girls were listening in, Eva turned to introduce me to her four friends. Inka was tall with striking cheekbones. Rosa had rosy lips, just as her name suggested. Everyone was very thin, Nina and Janette in particular. Eva told me that those two were inseparable. I thought each girl was beautiful in her own way, but in my mind no-one could ever be as pretty as Eva.
Over the next few weeks, the girls became my friends too—although at first Rosa kept me at some distance. I think she had considered herself to be Eva’s best friend and felt that I’d displaced her when I arrived. But I didn’t want to worry about that. Being jealous of each other’s friendships wouldn’t help us survive.
Now back at school with all my friends, it almost felt like our time in hiding was just some kind of bad dream. Even though living in the ghetto was a daily reminder of what we had lost, it also made me appreciate what was important.
I now realised going to school was to be valued as something precious rather than a chore. And there were new things to learn. Though Yiddish and Polish, and its hybrid YiddPol, were spoken in the ghetto, we studied Hebrew and English as well.
Papa insisting that we continue with our study of maths and science while we were hiding meant I quickly caught up with those subjects.
Later, when I questioned Adam about this, he said it was the same for him.
My new friends loaned me lots of books to read. After so many years with only one, I wanted to consume an entire library.
Adam found happiness in his violin lessons. Papa paid Pan Mandeltort five zlotys each time. My young brother was extremely talented. Although, he was forbidden to play works by Jewish composers like Mendelssohn or Mahler, or by Chopin because he was Polish, or even Debussy because he married a Jewess, he was soon playing pieces by Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms. Still, hearing music and being with friends again seemed like a miracle after those two lonely years on the farm.
Once more life settled into a routine. Papa went to the Council early every morning. Adam and I walked together to school, while Mama and Ryzia stayed in our rooms, or occasionally went to the market. After school, we tended to stay indoors, since it was safest to be noticed as little as possible.
One afternoon, on the way home from school, Karol, Jacob and Moshe found me again. It had been a few weeks since I’d last seen them, and they seemed skinnier and dirtier than ever.
Jacob said, ‘Hanna, we got you a space if you still want it.’
‘Big enough for practice,’ Karol added.
Adam nudged me in the ribs. ‘What are they talking about?’
I ignored him. I was too anxious to find out if what the boys were saying could be true. I asked, ‘You sure? Where?’
Jacob said, ‘Weisman Hall. Big place. It’s full of stuff …’
‘But if we shove it away,’ Moshe butted in. ‘You got lotsa space.’
‘Only you hafta come wi’ us right now.’
‘But I’m supposed to head straight home …’
‘Have it your way, then.’ Karol shrugged and turned to walk away.
‘No, stop!’ I ran after him calling, ‘Thank you. Please show me.’
‘Follow us, then,’ he said, looking back over his shoulder.
I told Adam to head home. He was to tell Mama that I was with some friends and that I’d be back very soon.
I raced after the boys. For half-starved kids they were quick as jack rabbits. I was stronger than when I first arrived thanks to more food, but it was still hard keeping up—especially when I had to dodge my way around beggars and people streaming through the streets.
The boys stopped in front of a building. A sign said ‘Weisman Hall’. I followed them through an unlocked side-door.
On one side was a small stage, below that a larger area for the audience. But all chairs had been pushed against three walls, and that left enough space for me to practise my floor work. Of course there was no springboard for vaulting. No beam to balance on. No bars to hang from. No mats to soften a fall. But at least there was space.
‘See?’ Moshe said. ‘Told you.’
‘Show us what you can do,’ Jacob demanded.
I bit my lip before saying, ‘Uh, I haven’t practised for years. I’ll be hopeless.’
‘Don’t matter.’ Squatting on the floor, each boy lit a cigarette and waited for me to begin. It flashed through my mind that they were too young to smoke. However, food and cigarettes were the ghetto’s favoured currency.
I thought back to some of my old routines. During those years spent on the farm, I had gone over them so often in my mind, I could recall every movement.
Remembering was one thing. Doing them, another. Will my skinny, weakened body obey my mind?
First, I remembered to stretch very slowly, very carefully, so as not to pull any muscles. I plopped onto the floor and using my hands for balance, tried some basic splits: those that had been drilled into me over and over again.
I glanced over at the boys. Puffing away like steam engines, their eyes stayed fixed on me as if I was some kind of unknown animal.
Back on my feet, I tried a few basic moves.
I ran, leapt, and flung each leg behind me in turn.
The boys clapped and cheered.
Made slightly bolder by this small achievement, I tested myself further, tried a simple somersault followed by forward and backward bridges. Finally, I spun on one foot, then the other.
The boys clapped as if this was something spectacular.
I was so thrilled that I could still manage these moves, I decided to attempt an aerial cartwheel. That was a disaster. Instead of landing on both feet, I tripped, staggered and fell onto my knees.
Now out of breath and with two big bruises, I settled on the floor beside them murmuring, ‘I need lots more practice.’
‘So?’ said Karol. ‘You got this place. Come here when you can.’
I wondered why they wanted to help me. Wanting to know more about them, I leaned against the wall and asked, ‘Where do you live?’
Karol paused. ‘Here and there. Wherever we can find a place to squat.’
‘Not with your parents?’
‘N
ah. They all dead,’ Moshe said flatly.
I stared at them, my heart welling with sympathy. These poor boys! Before, I had thought of them as just annoying street kids. Now I realised they were homeless orphans, forced to be resourceful. ‘What happened to them?’
‘Mine were killed in the streets, here. Shot.’ Moshe’s voice was still flat.
I was horrified. Of course I knew that the Germans were shooting us in the ghetto, sometimes randomly. They didn’t care if we lived or died. They seemed to prefer us to be dead. The horror of what this meant hit me hard.
‘Karol’s parents were taken away,’ Moshe continued.
‘Where?’ I asked Karol.
Karol shrugged, but didn’t look at me. ‘Last year they got taken. They took thousands off to labour camps. I suppose they’re there, but I dunno where.’
I turned to Jacob. The smallest of the three, he was surely the least able to cope on his own. ‘What about you?’
Tears fell down the lad’s cheeks.
Karol said, ‘He lost his family on the way here. We think they’re dead. But he’s okay long as he stays with us.’ He jabbed Jacob’s arm. ‘Right?’
Jacob nodded. Wiping his tears away he left dirty streaks on his cheeks.
Tears trickled down my cheeks, too.
I thought how kind it was of them to help me. But I did wonder what their reasons might be? What could they want that I might possibly give them?
Over the next few months, I went to the hall most days after school, while Adam went home with strict instructions not to dawdle or do anything to make himself obvious. Mama worried at first, but Papa convinced her saying, ‘Miriam, we can’t allow the Nazis to take everything away. Let Hanna do what she loves.’
My Holocaust Story: Hanna Page 7
