After a pause of little more than a week, an additional 2,000 Jews gathered for deportation. Like the others in the great deportation, they were told that they were leaving the Warsaw ghetto for “resettlement in the East.” Like the others, they, too, marched to the ghetto’s railhead at Dzika and Stawki Streets. Unlike the others, however, they assembled on the holiest day of the Jewish year, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DZIKA AND STAWKI STREETS. MORE THAN HALF THE Warsaw ghetto had already been liquidated, but at Dzika and Stawki Streets Jews still gathered by the thousands. The captive Jews milled about a large enclosure surrounded by barbed wire, armed sentries, and guard dogs. At the umschlagplatz, the gathering point, the former residents of the Warsaw ghetto waited to board a train for “resettlement in the East.”
DZIKA AND STAWKI STREETS. HE, TOO, WAS WAITING for the train. He knew and he didn’t know, and he couldn’t remember his name. He knew and he didn’t know, and he couldn’t remember his name. He was waiting for the train. He knew and he didn’t know—and he didn’t care. He couldn’t remember his name—and about that he did care. He was waiting for the train, and the train would certainly arrive because it was a Nazi train, a Nazi locomotive of energy and force. What about his name? It must be a Jewish name, no?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DZIKA AND STAWKI STREETS. HE WASN’T ALONE. Thousands waited, he among them, like a . . . ? Like a . . . ? He was tempted to say, “Like a sea of humanity,” but that wasn’t quite right. They weren’t numerous enough to be a sea. The Germans and their helpers were the sea. The Jews of Warsaw were drowning in a sea of inhumanity that was Europe. So who were they, these sinking Jews who had gathered at Dzika and Stawki Streets? If Europe was the sea, then were the Jews an island about to be reclaimed by the primitive ocean that had once covered all the land? The Jews had “surfaced” in Europe, and they were being submerged, but a drowned land becomes part of the vast sea floor until some future time, when it may reappear. The Nazis, however, were destroying the Jews without trace, unlike the deep, murky seabed that still remains an essential part of the planet with all its contours intact, however pressed by salty water and the brittle clambering feet of crustaceans. Although Atlantis might have been buried beneath the waves, the great wide sea also bespoke nurture—deep, silent, and chilled, where life had originally formed.
Poland had become a boundless cemetery of unmarked, unattended graves. What nurture did a grave offer? Nothing to the one who escaped into nonbeing; yet his body would compliantly rot to fertilize fields of grain that would feed the savages of the Third Reich, all in accordance, no doubt, with some physical law of nutrients that had already been charted on an SS office wall in Berlin.
The Jews would be consumed aboveground and belowground, time and time again. There was no escape, only surrender. Shamefully, he was prepared to surrender. He would welcome the loss of pain, the loss of awareness that meant being a Jew aboveground in the Third Reich. So why did he need a name?
Dzika and Stawki Streets. Everyone knew, and no one knew.
In this, at least—whatever his name was—he was like everyone else. The Nazis claimed they were shipping the Jews for “resettlement in the East,” but everyone knew the Nazis were shipping them to their deaths. What possible use could the Nazis have for Jews? The Germans had robbed them, beaten them, uprooted them, herded them into a squalid barbed wire ghetto where they continued to beat, murder, and degrade them. Jews were compared to tubercle bacilli, and what did civilized people do with germs in the twentieth century? Obviously they identified them, isolated them, and destroyed them. The Germans had already identified the Jews with yellow stars that said “Jude,” and the Germans had already isolated them in a tightly sealed ghetto marked by signs declaring, “Danger, Epidemic Zone.” What else remained? Only “resettlement in the East”! Indeed, Jewish messengers from Chelmno had reached the ghetto in Warsaw and revealed that the Nazis were systematically gassing the Jews in special killing vans. It was rumored that recently Jews had discovered the destination of the trains—Treblinka, after which all traces of the passengers were lost.
Still they gathered at Dzika and Stawki Streets. What choice did they have? To fight? The British, Russian, French, and American armies couldn’t defeat the Germans. Could the naked, starving Jews of the Warsaw ghetto, right in the middle of the Nazi empire? Who at the umschlagplatz could not know what “resettlement in the East” really meant? Everyone knew. The Nazis, the Jews, the guard dogs, the barbed wire, the cattle cars, the hot, murky sky, the half-empty ghetto, and above all the unrelenting steel rails that led across the horizon into the East. Everyone and everything knew.
Resettlement in the East? What could that mean? Of course no one knew! At least no one at Stawki and Dzika Streets knew! How could they have known? After the hunger, the starvation, the freezing deprivation of the winter, the bestial terror of the summer—the Germans shot “unauthorized” Jews on sight—who could imagine a worse fate? The filth, the overcrowding, the stench of overtaxed sanitary facilities, the reek of sewage, the rumbling carts stacked with corpses—after centuries not only had the ghetto returned, but with it the plague! Who could imagine a worse fate? Not the Jews from the ghetto.
What about the reports from Chelmno: gassing Jews in vans? Who could believe such a mad story? Everyone knew they were out of their minds. More recently, the stories of trainloads disappearing in a place called Treblinka. The whole thing was unbelievable, and wasn’t the ghetto constantly swarming with the most bizarre rumors, both morbid and wistful? If one could eat rumors, the ghetto could feed all of Poland! And if there were some Jews killed in Chelmno, weren’t they in the East, and hadn’t they been helping the Bolsheviks fight the Germans? Wasn’t there a war? And when it came to killing, Poles had been murdered, too, and in sizable numbers. It wasn’t just the Jews. Since the Germans couldn’t exterminate everyone, the rumors of genocide simply couldn’t be true.
Such hysterical tales defied logic. If the Germans wanted to kill the Jews of Warsaw, why would they bother to ship them anywhere? They could do it right here. What could stop them? Nothing, so the Nazis must be shipping them somewhere for a purpose. Involved in a massive war, the Germans needed workers. What master would kill his own slaves? Even evil pharaoh didn’t do such a thing! Pharaoh afflicted them, but he didn’t kill them. He needed them, and so did Hitler. The Jews weren’t fooled. They knew Hitler would continue to afflict them in the East. Resettlement wouldn’t be easy, but the Jews had outlived pharaoh and a host of other tormentors, and they would outlive Hitler, too—in the East or wherever else he chose to send them.
No, no one knew what “resettlement in the East” really was. No one had been there. That was the logic of the matter. What else could one rely on in an illogical world? Luck? The Jews didn’t have any. Faith? That was relevant for some and for their god, perhaps, but it didn’t seem capable of affecting the Germans, at least not in this world. So there was only logic, and no one knew. Still, everyone with any sense was afraid. It wasn’t always a blessing to have sense; you could choke on the fear—but you couldn’t eat it!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EVERYONE WAS AFRAID TO BE LEAVING THE GHETTO. Well, almost everyone. He wasn’t afraid. He was relieved, and that was his sin, the worst of all. The others’ fear demonstrated their desire to live. His apathy testified that the Nazis had won. What would Zigelboym say?
What if someone asked him who he was? What would he say? What lie could he tell? It would have to be a lie, wouldn’t it? He was ashamed of himself. Indeed, there wasn’t very much to be proud of at Dzika and Stawki Streets. He was proud of Zigelboym, only of Shmuel Zigelboym, also known in the Bund as Comrade Artur. Only Zigelboym had not cooperated, and only he had escaped. A year ago, when the Nazis had called for the Jews to enter the ghetto, he insisted that they not cooperate in such an absurd and evil undertaking. Shmuel Mordechai Zigelboym—Comrade Artur! A man like that had two names; a man li
ke that deserved two names!
If someone asked him who he was, could he use Zigelboym’s name? No, that would violate Shmuel’s courage, his foresight, his success. Perhaps he could say, “I am Zigelboym’s brother!” No, a true brother would have followed Zigelboym in refusing to cooperate with the Nazis in such futile self-degradation, and he had not. No one had, but the Nazis refused to believe it, and they accused Zigelboym of heading an underground organization. The Gestapo wanted to liquidate him, and the Bund insisted that he flee. Only Zigelboym had escaped to London because he refused to cooperate with evil. Now it was too late; the Jews had been herded into the trap. Now civil disobedience would be pointless, silent suicide, and no hindrance to the Nazis. Yes, he knew that now. Now that it was too late. Yes, he was Zigelboym’s brother—Zigelboym’s idiot brother. Let the idiot remain silent. Perhaps he would smile. Yes, he would smile shamefully and stupidly. That would be no lie. But at Dzika and Stawki Streets it was hard to smile, however stupidly, however shamefully. Zigelboym had not remained silent, but his idiot brother had no choice.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AND SO IT WAS AT DZIKA AND STAWKI STREETS.
A man approached with an inquiring look: You are? Are you?—Yes, he encouraged, I am . . . ?—No, a head shake. No, sorry, you’re not . . . ?
No, I suppose not. He would have known. I should know. I am . . . but I don’t remember. No longer an “I,” he didn’t remember.
A woman nodded. They had been neighbors in the ghetto. She lived in the building across the way, but they didn’t know one another’s names. They had barely spoken. He nodded and smiled at her in a pleasant, almost inviting manner. Altogether inappropriately, altogether idiotically, as if they were starting out on an excursion to the country and he was suggesting that they sit together in the touring coach. The woman’s eyes barely flickered in acknowledgment. She responded in accordance with the endless barbed wire, the rigid guns pointing at them, the dignified, wellfed dogs strolling along the perimeter, and the dilapidated cattle cars that sat waiting for them. She was right, and he was wrong. He was an idiot. And that was one more reason to get it all over with.
But he was ashamed because he couldn’t remember his name. He was only “he.” He couldn’t remember his name, and therefore he couldn’t say “I.” He couldn’t say “I was born in Krimsk.” He couldn’t say, “I am a Jew,” because he didn’t know who the “I” was. No, he was only “he,” because unlike an “I,” a “he” could be anonymous. So unknown to himself, he waited at Dzika and Stawki Streets because he was a Jew. In his case the Nazis were right to laugh derisively at the stupid Jew. What could be more stupid than forgetting one’s name? He would be better off if he were a real idiot and not some overbright fool. Indeed, he would be better off if he were dead. So what? What did he care? The Nazis had long ago taught Jews to say with perfect belief, “I am going to die.” It was absolutely nothing to say, “He is going to die.” One could say that with complete ease. Where else in the Warsaw ghetto could one find such ease? “He” had a lot to be thankful for, even with the attendant shame, didn’t he?
And a lot to be ashamed of, too.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ONLY ZIGELBOYM HAD SURVIVED. ALL THE OTHERS had been overwhelmed. Zigelboym had understood, and only Zigelboym was safe. In the midst of the dark, barbarous Nazi swamp called Europe, there was a single just fact: Zigelboym was safe. In London. It wasn’t enough to give anyone else hope, but it was a pleasing thought. A memento of a civilized world one could barely remember. At Dzika and Stawki Streets, the Nazis ruled with unchallenged fury. Universal fury. If it weren’t for Zigelboym, a world without Nazis could not be imagined. Only because of Shmuel Zigelboym did London exist. Only because of Zigelboym did the Allies struggle, however lamely, however distantly. He couldn’t quite picture Shmuel Zigelboym safe in London. He could see him standing quietly, composed and safe, but he couldn’t really picture London. Zigelboym seemed to be a real figure floating in an illusory shimmering haze. That’s all London was, a shimmering bright haze. After all, how real could a world without Nazis be?
He smiled ruefully. It was a good thing he didn’t believe in an afterlife, because if he did, heaven would have to be populated with Nazis, too. A sad fate for heaven. God, their captive, would sit in judgment in the celestial assembly, the heavenly Judenrat. And God could do no better than commit suicide just as Adam Czernikow had, the head of the Warsaw ghetto Judenrat. That was a few months ago in July, when Czernikow realized the true state of affairs and his own role in them. Well, God could do worse than to imitate Adam Czernikow. The head of the Judenrat didn’t fool the Nazis. No one could, but still, you had to admire Czernikow’s energy in killing himself. “Energy” was a Nazi property. The Nazis possessed energy. The Nazis possessed all the energy.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AND TODAY WAS YOM KIPPUR. AT DZIKA AND STAWKI Streets, Jews were praying furtively. As he watched them praying, he could generate no affection, not even any respect, for their action. Nonsense, he thought, simple nonsense. So this was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year. The Day of Atonement, when, they believed, their fate was sealed. Didn’t they realize their fate had been sealed long ago—in Berlin—in the Reichstag, when Hitler had come to power? Fate sealed, the only atonement possible: God must atone to man, and since He is as defenseless against Germans as the Jews are, a lot of good that would do.
Although he himself didn’t believe in God, he felt sorry for God; it was a difficult time for anything Jewish, even a Jewish God. Even Jews were heard to slander Him and accuse Him of being a Nazi. On that count, he felt sorry for the mythical folk concept. So if God weren’t omniscient, omnipotent, and all-merciful, it didn’t make Him a Nazi. It might make Him a rather ineffective deity, even a divine failure, but hardly a Nazi.
Not that he believed in such things; still, he thought about Him. After all, He was the Holy One that he had grown up with, the God of his youth, some folkloristic baggage he was destined to drag around all his days like some traveler who was forever walking out the door with an empty suitcase. But there is a certain comfort in traveling with a suitcase, even an empty one. It more than fills the hand; why, with its rigid angles, straight lines, and voluminous bulk, it can fill one’s life with security and a sense of order. A man of property, a man of plans. A man with a suitcase looks like someone. What was in his suitcase? —The God of his fathers. Even without belief, it was surprising how often he reflected on the relevance of the God of his fathers to any given situation: what would He think? Why might He have done that? What does He feel? But after all, what did it really matter? It was an imaginary suitcase, and his alone at that. What was real? He knew what was real, all right. The one whose existence no one questioned was the porter who was turning them all into excess baggage, the Angel of Death.
He watched them; furtively huddled together, they fought the Angel of Death through prayer. With no faith in prayer, but with unbounded respect for the Angel of Death, he broke off a small crumb of bread from the stale hunk in his pocket and brought it into the air. Before he could begin to nibble, a fly landed on it. Hitler must have trained the insect personally, he thought. The fly crawled greedily over the morsel, exploring its stale beauty. If not a Nazi party member, the fly was certainly worthy of their respect, sharing the führer’s lust for Jews going hungry. He managed to brush the insect away and put the small crumb into his mouth, cradling it under his famished tongue. His touch was less energetic but every bit as passionate as the fly’s had been. And they had another thing in common. Neither recognized the fast of Yom Kippur.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE NAZIS HAD THE ENERGY. THE JEWS HAD FEAR—and a few crusts of bread.
Afraid that she might be attacked and robbed of her offspring, a mother held her child close to her the way he and others clung to their dry crusts of bread, with an animal passion, ready to die for it if necessary, and with a tender sensual thrill at touching one’s beloved object wit
h one’s very own fingers. With many having already been shipped away, children were rare as bread in the ghetto. The mother, though, would suffer all the more. The bread could be eaten; what could she do with the child? He had no children and would avoid such suffering. Thank God for that.
And those who clung to God, they, too, were gathered at the umschlagplatz. Afraid lest the Ukrainian auxiliaries beat them with their rifle butts or turn their dogs loose upon them, they furtively prayed under the leaden Polish sky. Hiding their faces, they barely glanced at one another, carefully timing their shuffling so as not to appear synchronized. They prayed to a God who had hidden His face from them. Certain in their own faith, they would suffer all the more; for their own pain, and far worse for the pain and suffering they were causing His name.
Since he had left God in his boyhood town of Krimsk, he had been spared that anguish. It seemed good fortune to have turned his back on God before God could turn His divine back on him. Unlike God, he hadn’t turned his back on his own people. He had written cultural features for Bund publications, and if he had been a lukewarm local Jewish socialist, it was because he felt that the Bund was too doctrinaire and parochial. There was after all something in the tradition besides clericalism, and as impractical and utopian as Zionism was for three million Polish Jews, it wasn’t simply a chauvinist tool of capitalism.
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