Now that Papa was earning a small salary, he was able to buy more food with the help of the ghetto’s smuggling trade. With the extra food, I was building up a lot of lost strength.
Sometimes, when I arrived at the hall, the chairs were pushed not against the wall, but set up for a performance that evening. Undeterred, I shoved them aside and when I finished, I returned them to their proper place.
One warm afternoon in July, I was halfway through a routine when a rear door opened. A middle-aged woman came over to where I was preparing to tackle a backward aerial somersault.
Hands on hips, like a teacher catching someone misbehaving, she barked, ‘This hall is my responsibility. No-one gave you permission to be here. What’s your name?’
‘Hanna Kaminsky.’
I tried to explain why I was here. She refused to listen. ‘You mustn’t move these chairs once they’ve been set up. You’re not to do it again, do you hear?’
‘But no-one’s using this hall,’ I protested. ‘I’ll move them back when I finish.’
‘Hmmph! Well, you’re to put those chairs back right now and leave. Don’t you dare turn up here without permission.’
Anger and disappointment welled up. After returning the chairs I stormed home through the crowded streets to find Mama sitting on her mattress in our bedroom, reading a newspaper. It wasn’t the Gazeta Zydowska, but one of the many illegal newspapers published in the ghetto that told us what was actually happening. Despite the risk, these underground newspapers were widely read.
‘The Germans have attacked Russia,’ she announced to me.
‘I thought the Russians were fighting with the Germans.’
‘Not any more. I think this is good news, Hanna. It is better to have the Russians on our side, and not against us. And I have some more good news,’ she went on. ‘I have been offered part-time work. Because of the huge numbers of Jews and gypsies coming in from the smaller cities and the countryside, the Judenrat needs more translators. I’ll need you to look after Ryzia and keep an eye on Adam while I’m gone.’
I eyed her warily. ‘When will that be?’
She paused before saying, ‘Afternoons, after school.’
I felt myself redden. Before I could argue she went on, ‘Hanna, stop always thinking about yourself. Papa earns only enough to pay our rent and buy a little food. But everything is becoming more expensive. I know you want to continue your gymnastics, but given our situation, it’s hardly a priority.’
I knew Mama was right. Still, tears filled my eyes. Mama’s words mingled with the words of the woman at the hall. I would never get to practise my gymnastics. Not ever again.
That night Papa came home with news of his own. ‘The Weisman Hall has been holding concerts to raise money for refugees.’
Even in the ghetto, there were wonderful entertainment and cultural events. Music was performed by some of Europe’s most celebrated Jewish musicians, there were exhibitions of paintings and sculptures, stories and poetry—many about life in the ghetto, were illegally published. There was a theatre on Nowolipki Street where ballets and operettas were performed, plus revues at the Femina Theatre with funny skits about the Judenrat.
Papa said, ‘It seems Weisman Hall has had such success they are running out of acts.’ He turned to me and Adam. ‘Today I was asked if my clever children might perform before a paying audience.’
Mama looked pleased. ‘What a wonderful compliment. When?’
‘In three weeks. Adam, do you think you will have something ready to perform?’
Adam raised the violin to his chin and started to play. Notes fluttered and danced through the air.
Papa smiled. ‘I guess that answers my question.’
He turned to me. ‘What about you, Hannale? I know you have been practising your routines.’
I gulped. ‘Maybe … But what if I’m not good enough yet? I’ve got no teacher to show me where I’m going wrong.’ He came over to hug me. ‘Whatever you can manage will be perfect.’
‘But I won’t have any chance to prepare before the concert. Mama wants me home after school to look after Ryzia.’
‘So come home, pick the little one up, and take her back with you to the hall.’
Mama looked anxious. ‘Romek, you sure that’s safe?’
He grimaced. ‘Darling, nothing is safe.’
‘There’s another problem.’ I described what happened that afternoon with the woman at the hall.
‘Not to worry, bubbala,’ Papa reassured me. ‘I’ll clear things up with her.’
‘What about Adam? Mama wants me to keep an eye on him.’
‘I don’t see any reason why Adam can’t go to the hall with you and Ryzia. He can practise there too.’
It seemed too good to be true. Once again, things had quickly changed, only this time for the better.
I felt so light-hearted I skipped downstairs to take the used bones that had been boiled for stock down to the garbage can in the back courtyard.
A boy sidled up to me. His face suggested he was about my age, maybe older, but he was shorter than me by a couple of inches. It was no longer possible to judge people’s ages by their size. People had so little to eat, there was so much malnutrition, everyone seemed shorter, more stunted, than before the war.
He grabbed the rubbish out of my hand saying, ‘I can do that for you.’
‘But I haven’t any money.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said quickly. ‘You can pay me with bread.’
There were now so many homeless, orphaned children on the streets it was impossible to take care of them all. But, he was so eager to work and his eyes were so pleading, that my heart melted. I thought of Karol and Jacob and Moshe and how they had helped me. How were we meant to survive under the German’s deadly occupation and persecution if we didn’t support each other?
What’s your name?’ I asked him.
‘Janusch.’
‘Well, Janusch, come inside.’
I took him upstairs to meet Mama. At first she was dismayed at how dirty and unkempt he was and she worried that he might carry some infection he would pass on to us. But there was something about him. His huge dark-brown eyes melted her heart as they had mine. She gave him his piece of bread, and a bowl of soup. We told him he could sleep outside our door, instead of on the street.
Janusch looked up at Mama. ‘You won’t regret it, I promise. I can guard your rooms for you if you like.’
Mama smiled. ‘That’s very kind. Thank you, Janusch.’
Mama started her new job the following day. After school, I came straight home with Adam to collect Ryzia and Adam’s violin.
Mama was ready to leave. ‘Above all, children,’ she said to us, ‘do be careful. Especially with Ryzia.’
‘Of course, Mama,’ I reassured her. ‘Don’t worry.’
Holding Ryzia’s hand, her other clutching a peg doll, the three of us made our way to Weisman Hall.
I settled Ryzia in a corner of the stage where Adam and I could keep an eye on her. Adam began playing Mozart’s violin concerto in A major. I decided to practise on the stage too, as that was where I would perform.
Slowly stretching my back, neck and each limb so my body was ready to start moving without pulling a muscle, I began to think up a routine. Given the stage was smaller than the space I used in the past for a similar routine, I had to rethink everything. I tried a few flying leaps, followed those with a handstand, then some forward and backward somersaults. I stood on my hands with my legs scissoring, sprang back up to make a forward bridge, then tried a backward one.
I cartwheeled, attempting to land on the other side of the stage on both feet. That didn’t work. There wasn’t enough space. I needed moves that took place in one spot: moves like circling many times on one leg, and circling on the other.
The stage floor dipped slightly towards the auditorium making balance more difficult. I kept falling over. Soon I was covered in bruises, but at least it kept Ryzia amused. She giggled
each time I took a tumble. I did my best to ignore the aches and pains and start all over again. I had to make this appear effortless.
I remembered my old teacher saying that a good routine combined difficult tumbling skills with artistry, style and something she called ‘charisma’. The more I thought about it, I decided ‘charisma’ must be some quality that kept the audience’s gaze riveted on the stage. It possibly had nothing to do with how many impressive moves I could make. Rather, it had to be something more, something indefinable, though right now I wasn’t sure what that could be. Maybe it was just confidence?
There was still a final move to figure out, something that looked exciting without creating too much danger of falling and disgracing myself. I still had three weeks before I was to go on stage. I needed music to accompany this routine. I didn’t want to ask Adam. He was busy getting ready for his own performance. Just below the stage was an upright piano. Mama was a terrific pianist. I had to talk her into accompanying me.
We were almost home when we were stopped by Karol, Jacob and Moshe.
‘That your little sis?’ Karol asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Shayne madel,’ he said approvingly. Pretty girl.
Now nearly three, Ryzia’s thick dark hair, large grey eyes with their abundant eyelashes, round cheeks and dimpled chin, hinted that one day she’d be beautiful.
Moshe said, ‘Hanna, we need your help.’
‘What kind of help?’ I had been half expecting them to ask for something and here it was.
Karol glanced around before whispering, ‘Can’t talk here. We hafta meet you a bit later.’
‘Curfew’s at seven,’ I reminded him. ‘If we’re caught on the streets, we’ll be shot.’
He shrugged. ‘We’re out all the time. You jus’ hafta stay invisible. Tonight real late, go to the courtyard at the back of your building. We’ll find you there.’
At first I backed away. Then I thought about it. Though I was nervous about breaking the curfew, I felt I owed them something. ‘All right, I’ll be there.’ I promised. But all I could think was, what could they possibly want of me?
Mama and Papa were due home before the seven o’clock curfew. Mama had left turnips, potatoes, onions, beans and horse bones for me to cook. While we waited for them to come home, I peeled and chopped vegetables, tipped everything into a saucepan, added water and placed the pan on the stove. And while my hands were busy, I couldn’t stop wondering what those boys had on their minds.
It was now well past seven. Adam was, as usual, engrossed in violin practice. Ryzia had fallen asleep on her mattress. My parents had still not come home and it was getting late.
I started to panic. What if the Germans had them? What if they had taken them the way they had taken Karol’s parents—to slave in a labour camp who knows where? What if they’d been shot for being in the streets after curfew?
It was past nine o’clock when my parents did finally walk in, their faces grey with exhaustion.
I met them with a cry of relief.
‘There have been more shootings on the streets,’ Papa said, grimly. ‘We had to hide until it was safe.’
The soup was ready so we settled at the table. Because we had only four chairs, Ryzia sat on Mama’s knee.
I asked, ‘How was work today, Mama?’
‘I can’t believe so many people are being sent into the ghetto,’ she slowly replied. ‘Mostly women and children. Where are the men?’
Papa stared at his plate as if the answer lay there. Then he looked up to say, ‘Some of the Jewish Militia are collaborating with the Nazis to send the men to work in German factories.’
There was a long silence.
Papa broke it by asking me how the practice session had gone.
‘I’m still working out a routine,’ I told him. ‘Only I can’t think how to end it.’
‘You’ll come up with something,’ he assured me.
I turned to Mama. ‘There’s a piano. Will you play for me while I perform?’
Though Mama claimed her fingers had turned to spaghetti, in the end she agreed. We spent the rest of the evening choosing music that might work, finally coming up with Bach’s ‘Prelude and Fugue in C sharp Minor’.
Later, lying on my straw mattress, I forced myself to stay awake. Once I heard light snores coming from the other beds, I crept out of the room. Slowly I opened the door that led to the passage. It let out a horrid squeak. After checking no-one was awake, I tiptoed to the back of the building and outside.
It was very dark. Only a fingernail of a moon could be seen through a thick layer of cloud. A light searching for enemy aerial bombers lit up the courtyard, then continued on.
‘Hanna?’ I recognised Karol’s voice.
‘Yes.’ I swallowed.
Someone whispered in the darkness, ‘We wanted to ask you if you could do your stuff.’
I recognised Jacob’s voice.
‘What do you mean?’ I whispered back.
‘Your tumbling, that sorta thing. We need you to distract the guards.’
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
‘You come with us and then do some of your stuff at the crossing of Sienna and Zelazna Streets, while we go through the sewers.’
‘The sewers?’ My nose scrunched in disgust.
‘We’re smuggling in flour,’ Moshe said simply. ‘A baker is selling us sacks of flour. We gotta pick up the sacks and take them back to the ghetto. The kids in those refuge homes are starving.’
Their suggestions scared me. Mama and Papa were always telling us not to draw attention to ourselves and now these boys were asking me to do the exact opposite.
‘The guards are sure to shoot me,’ I weakly protested.
‘One guard is Polish. He’s not so bad. We’ve bribed him to say you’re his son and you’re keepin’ him company.’
‘How can I be his son when I’m a girl?’
‘Those Germans are stupid. Just pretend. You’re short and skinny. If you hide your hair, they won’t see no difference.’
I frowned. ‘I’ll think about it and let you know.’
‘Don’t think too long. If you can’t help us, we’ll have ta think of another way …’ Karol said. ‘They need bread,’ he added almost as an afterthought. ‘Lotsa bread.’
An image of a challah, a freshly baked egg-bread, flashed into my mind. I could almost smell and taste that rich crisp crust.
‘You mean, it’s all for the kids in the refuge. You’re getting nothing out of this?’
Moshe shrugged.
‘When do you want to do it?’
‘In a few days.’
I swallowed, ‘It’s far too dangerous. I don’t think I can.’
‘I can show you something that’ll change your mind?’ Karol broke in.
Forgetting he couldn’t see me in the dark, I nodded. But my heart thumped in my chest so loudly I was sure he could hear it. ‘All right.’
‘You hafta meet us tomorrow after school.’
‘I have to look after Ryzia.’
‘Bring her along. This’ll be short.’
I crept back into the building. Just as I was approaching our door, Janusch was beside me. ‘Heard all that,’ he whispered. ‘You gonna to do it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered back.
‘If you do go, I’ll come with you. You might need help.’
‘It’s far too dangerous. You don’t have to …’
Janusch shook his head. ‘Course I do. You helped me. My turn to help you.’
The next afternoon, the gang met me and Adam and Ryzia as we headed for Weisman Hall.
‘Come wi’ us,’ Karol said.
‘It’s all right,’ I said to Adam. ‘You go ahead. I’ll be there with Ryzia soon.’
Adam looked at me doubtfully. ‘Don’t be long.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
Pushing our way through the crowds, Ryzia and I followed the boys around two blocks to the edge of the ghett
o. They stopped in front of what might once have been a factory.
Karol beckoned us inside. The place was filled with small children, some lying on oil-stained floorboards, some sitting under torn rags and pieces of blanket. All had skinny arms and legs and hugely vacant eyes. Their bellies bulged due to starvation and malnutrition.
‘They got no-one to look after them,’ said Moshe. ‘An’ they too young to look after themselves. They need food.’
I was too upset to say anything. A little voice inside my head began to drum two words over and over: ‘pluck and audacity, pluck and audacity’. I remembered those words from The Scarlet Pimpernel, and how, stuck in the loft, I had wished I could do something more than feel sorry for myself. Now, in the ghetto, there was something more I could do.
I looked Karol, straight in the eye.
‘I’ll try.’
The next few nights, my sleep was plagued with nightmares. The first night I dreamt of the start of the war, and the endless bombing. In my dreams the falling shells whistled, the ground shook, and buildings crumbled.
The following night, my dreams were of Zaida, and Elza and Anya. They were almost close enough for me to touch, but I could never quite reach them. Then, looming large before me, blocking out all the sunlight, were German soldiers, the ones who killed Anya and Elza and took us away. I saw the faces of Andre and Jarek—either one of them might have been the person who turned us into the Nazis. Their faces faded away to be replaced by the square, moustached face of Adolf Hitler, the German Fuhrer so full of hate and false righteousness who started Europe’s descent into war and murder.
When my eyes opened I was drenched in sweat. All I could do was wonder what those dreams were trying to tell me.
‘Tonight,’ said Karol. ‘We goin’ tonight. Meet us at the back just before dawn.’
‘All right,’ I said, though my heart thumped in my chest. I only hoped I’d be brave enough to do what they expected. I felt confident that I could perform my routine. I had spent previous afternoons at the hall, going over it, starting with flying leaps, following them with a handstand and three forward and backward somersaults. Then I balanced on my hands, legs scissoring, springing back onto my feet to make forward and backward bridges. I finished this off by swivelling many times on my right leg; then the same on the left. That was it.
My Holocaust Story: Hanna Page 8
