44
Esther had organized everything for us, but it was still dangerous to get out of the ghetto. Amos and I were to leave with a group of Jews who were working on the Polish side of Warsaw at Okęcie airport and who usually lived in the barracks on-site. Every two weeks, the workers were allowed to return to the ghetto for a day, and they used the opportunity to smuggle food into the ghetto and valuables out. One of the foremen of the group was a young man named Henryk Tuchner. He was worn down by the hard work at the airport and had deep dark rings beneath his eyes, but he was a member of the ŻOB. He had added our names to the list of workers who would be allowed to pass through the checkpoint to the Polish side, and gave us our forged work permits in the early morning. We walked through the empty streets with him. A half-starving cat crossed our path. A black one.
“That’s good luck,” Amos said, and grinned at me.
“Idiot!” was all I said.
“Oh, I know,” he said, grinning a bit more.
We walked on without saying anything else and joined about thirty workers who were waiting for us at the next street corner. They weren’t exactly pleased to see us—we were putting them in danger. The soldiers were prepared to ignore their petty smuggling if they received a share. But ghetto fighters would be shot at once, and if there were bullets flying, no one wanted to be caught in the fray.
None of these men would dare betray us, though. They were too scared of the ŻOB. I was far more worried that they’d do a body search at the gate. Mordechai had given me an important letter. A report for the Polish resistance. It listed exactly how many weapons and what support the ŻOB leaders required from their Polish comrades. This report was hidden under my foot in my sock. When I put it there this morning Amos had grinned and said, “Our Polish friends will be able to smell cheese when they read it.”
It was such a stupid remark that I hadn’t even bothered to call him an idiot.
The troop of workers went across to the Polish side on a regular basis and our forged papers were excellent, so the chances of being discovered weren’t great. But I was still nervous. Who wouldn’t be in this situation?
Amos, of course.
He even had a friendly smile for the other workers, though none of them were keen to walk through the gate at Żelazna Street right next to us. When we got there, we had to stop in front of four SS soldiers. A fat German, who had the sort of face friends might call jovial, read out the workers’ names on the list. “Jurek Polesch, Shimon Rabin, Amos Rosenwinkel, Mira Weiss…”
We reported as our names were called, but while all the other workers were allowed through the gate, the fat German stopped me. Of course I didn’t ask what was going on. It would have been foolish to address a German without being spoken to. Foolish and dangerous. A smack in the face was the least you could expect, the lash of the whip likely, and a bullet not impossible.
The fat man pointed at the guardhouse and ordered me to go in.
I looked at Amos, who gave an encouraging nod. I started to move, but I wasn’t fast enough for the fat man, and he shoved me along. He didn’t make me fall, but he forced me to walk faster.
I hurried into the room. It was sparsely furnished with a table, a chair, and a cupboard, and with temperatures around about freezing it was not much warmer than outside. As soon as we had entered, the fat German closed the door, grabbed his whip, and shouted in German, “Ausziehen!”
He wanted me to take off my clothes! I was so scared I didn’t react immediately. The man raised his whip and threatened to strike me.
He said it again, “Ausziehen!”
I took off my jacket.
And my trousers.
And my shoes.
Now I was standing there with nothing on except underwear and socks, hoping he wouldn’t ask for more. Couldn’t he see that I wasn’t smuggling anything? It wasn’t just humiliating to be standing in front of this swine freezing and half-naked. I had to make sure that he didn’t find the letter addressed to the Polish resistance that was hidden in my left sock.
If I’d been a real fighter, I’d only have been worried about the report, because it was so important to our cause. If the Germans got hold of it they would know how poorly armed we all were and they would lose the tiny bit of fear we had been able to instill in them. But I was more worried that I’d be thrown into a German prison where SS soldiers would torture all the information I had out of me. I trembled with cold and fear.
The SS man looked me over from every angle. Why didn’t he let me get dressed? He could see that I wasn’t carrying any valuables hidden under my clothes. Even if I’d been hiding things in my underwear, it would have been visible through the material.
“Ausziehen, hab ich gesagt!” he snarled.
What was this pig after? Did he suspect something, or did he just want to see a young girl naked? Or did he want more? I took off my undershirt, shivering in underwear and socks.
“Alles,” he barked, and raised the whip again. Everything! Before he could hit me, I took off my underwear as fast as I could. He stared at me naked. He leered at me.
The pig wanted more.
Like those SS men in the camps with Ruth. Like the brutal man everyone had simply called “the doll” who had forced Ruth to sleep with him and worse.
Suddenly, here was something I was even more afraid of than the torture chamber.
The fat German was looking at me as if I were a piece of meat. At his disposal. Even though I tried to hide as much as possible, I couldn’t stop him staring at my naked bottom. I had never felt so helpless or humiliated in all my life, or so afraid of the humiliation to come.
He gave me a wet kiss on the cheek.
Now I wasn’t just trembling from cold and fear. I was physically shaking, trying to fight back the tears of desperation I felt welling up.
“Du hast ja noch die Socken an,” he said. And as I couldn’t quite understand his German, he pointed at my feet.
I looked around in a hurry. Was there anything I could use to defend myself against this fat pig? The ashtray on the table? Maybe I could grab that and hit him with it. But even if I managed to knock him down, his three colleagues would come in and shoot me. If I was lucky, that is.
Why didn’t Amos come and help me?
“I am cold,” I tried to explain why I was keeping my socks on in Polish. And so that he would understand, I shivered a bit more.
The SS man simply laughed. I was just a pathetic, naked Jew with socks on.
“Dich werde ich schon heiß machen,” he said.
I had no idea what he’d said, but his laughter was so obscene that I wanted to throw up.
“Die Socken aus!”
I hesitated.
“Zieh die Socken aus!”
For a moment I thought about whether I should just let him beat me up. He had no idea about the letter, and once I was lying bleeding on the filthy floor of the hut, he wasn’t likely to take off a dirty Jew’s socks before he abused her.
Maybe, if I was lucky, he might lose the urge when I was just one more piece of bloody meat.
“Ganz nackt!” Completely naked!
A real hero would have cared more about the resistance than her own fate. Even now.
But I wasn’t a hero. Just a shaking, frightened thing, wearing nothing but a pair of socks. I started to cry and beg for mercy. “Please,” I cried, “please … don’t…”
I couldn’t say any more. The SS man slapped me in the face. So hard that I almost fell over and the pain swamped my head. I started to cry. And didn’t dare beg for mercy again because I was so frightened of the next blow.
The SS man undid his belt.
My hot tears dripped onto my shivering body.
He undid his zipper.
I cried and cried. So helpless. So wretched.
The man started to take off his trousers … then the door opened.
“Was zum Teufel ist hier los, Scharper?” said a deep voice behind me.
Although I couldn’t understand much German, I could tell that the person speaking was not pleased by what he saw.
I froze and didn’t dare turn round or breathe. I didn’t even dare hope. I could hear the SS man pull up his trousers and the belt clinking. Perhaps there was hope after all. I stopped crying.
“Raus!” the deep voice ordered.
The SS pig hastened past me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him do up his belt as he went out of the guards’ hut. And I heard the burst of laughter from his colleagues when he stepped outside.
The door slammed shut; I stood up, but didn’t yet dare look at the man who had saved me. Because I had no idea if he really had saved me or if he just wanted me himself.
“You can turn round,” the man said in broken Polish. He seemed to be one of the few occupiers who had made the effort to learn a bit of our language.
I didn’t want to turn round, but was so afraid of being beaten again that I did what he wanted.
A man stood in front of me, maybe in his midforties, wearing an officer’s uniform. He had short blond hair showing under his hat, which showed the SS death’s-head insignia. His face looked very tired, which calmed me a bit. Such a tired man wouldn’t want to abuse me. Or so I hoped.
“The same age as my daughter,” he said, more to himself than me and seemed even more tired.
I said nothing. I was still shaking, but more from the cold now than with fear.
“Get dressed,” the officer said. It wasn’t an order, but it wasn’t a request, either. He just didn’t want to see me naked.
As fast as I could, I got dressed. I was very relieved once my underwear covered my body again, but even more so when I pulled my shoe back over the sock that contained the letter for the Polish resistance. The dispatch hadn’t been discovered.
The officer didn’t say anything else, he just fetched a bottle of vodka or schnapps—I couldn’t read the German label properly—out of a shabby cupboard, opened it, and didn’t even bother to look for a glass, he simply drank straight out of the bottle.
If I had ever asked myself how the few Germans who could still regard us Jews as people of sorts managed to cope with all the murdering going on, this was the moment when I’d have got my answer: They drank.
But I hadn’t ever asked myself that question. And I didn’t care if one or another of the murderers had a guilty conscience they needed to drown.
The officer took another long draft and then told me, “Go.”
I hastened to the door of the guardhouse, relieved to get out of the place that had almost been my personal hell. I was about to push open the door when he said, “Stop!”
I flinched. I thought he was going to shoot me after all. It hadn’t felt like it before, but he was a German and he was drinking, and there was nothing more unpredictable than a drunk German.
Carefully, I turned around. The officer was sitting at the shabby table. The bottle was standing on it now, and his hat with the death’s-head insignia lay beside it. He looked at me with his tired eyes and said in a low voice,
“I am sorry.”
What for? For what the SS man did to me? For what that fat pig had probably done to a lot of other girls in this hut? For all the people the officer had killed himself? Or was he just thinking about his own daughter who he couldn’t be with and apologizing indirectly to her because he had caused so much guilt that it would take generations to get over it?
I couldn’t help ease his guilty conscience. Even if he had saved my skin. Even if he’d saved my skin a thousand times. They had killed Hannah. I said nothing. Neither did he. Until he realized that he would get no forgivenesss from me and then he said quietly again: “Go.”
I turned away, opened the door, and walked out into the open, past the SS men and the fat pig who stared at me angrily, but I looked away. I was afraid of him and felt so ashamed. I couldn’t stand the fact that he had made me plead for mercy. The sense of shame made me so angry that I could have killed him on the spot. Or myself.
I joined the labor gang that had been made to wait. Amos was very relieved to see me. Because he had been worried about me, or because of the letter?
The SS men told us to move. As we walked through the gate Amos asked, “Did anything happen to you?”
A lot had happened to me in there. Things that were going to haunt me from now on. But on the other hand, none of the really terrible things that could have occurred had actually happened. I’d been lucky. And I realized that I had done something to make that luck come about. If I hadn’t taken so long to get undressed, not kept that one sock on for so long and not risked being beaten, then the SS man would have raped me before the officer came in. The officer would have been bound to find the letter on the floor even if the fat pig didn’t notice it, and I would have been taken to prison and tortured to death. By prolonging the start of something that had seemed inevitable, even though there had been no hope of getting out of there unharmed, I had avoided the worst. I was alive and hadn’t been hurt. And the letter was still safe in my sock. It meant even more to me now. Resistance was more crucial than ever: The men who had destroyed everything I loved and had almost stolen my honor had to die.
“Mira?” Amos was worried because I hadn’t said anything yet.
“No,” I said, “nothing happened to me.”
“Good,” he said, and smiled, genuinely relieved. He didn’t ask about the letter. He was worried about me. Not the resistance. Me.
45
On the other side of the gate, an almost alien world awaited us. We had been living in a ghost city for months, but now the world was vibrant all around us. Guarded by the soldiers, we marched with the work gang past shops that were just opening, cafés where people hurriedly downed their morning coffee, and a school with Polish children running to get to class on time. No doubt those children had no idea how lucky they were to be allowed to go to school. I’d had no idea, either, until the Germans came and stopped me from going.
Everywhere, Poles were heading to work. Most of them avoided looking directly at us Jews, but a few stared at us full of contempt. No one showed any signs of sympathy, compassion, or encouragement, although we shared the same enemy, the Germans. Either the Poles couldn’t care less or else they hated us.
Suddenly the clouds vanished and the sun came out for the first time in weeks. It was making fun of us, preferring to shine in the Polish part of the city with its Poles and Germans instead of in the ghetto with its living ghosts.
I was mesmerized by everything. The noise on the streets, all the people, the beautiful sky—it was like stepping out of a dark, empty, dead room, like our pantry, into the light.
Amos whispered to me, “Mira, you’ve got to concentrate … come on!”
He didn’t say it harshly. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he could understand why I was dazed. He gave me a reassuring smile. And it worked. I managed to block out the foreign-seeming world that had once been so familiar and focus on the soldiers guarding us. The fat pig wasn’t with them, thankfully, just two other SS soldiers who looked bored. It was unthinkable that a Jew would try to escape from the troop. The chances of surviving as a fugitive in Warsaw were practically zero. And anyone working at the airport, as this group did, had comparatively good conditions for a Jew because of the smuggling opportunities, so there was no reason to flee.
We walked along a main street with the gang for a while, and then I saw a streetcar approaching on the right. I realized it was heading in the direction of the secret flat that was to be our new home—I still knew my way around the city. I pointed my chin in the direction of the streetcar ever so slightly, and Amos understood at once. If we could manage to jump on board, we could get away.
Even if we blundered and the soldiers noticed us, they wouldn’t be able to follow us. For one thing, a streetcar was a lot faster than two heavy-set members of the “master race.” And for another, they would have to leave the rest of the workers unguarded if they wanted to chase us. The only real danger was that they might start shooting.
The streetcar drew nearer. We took off our armbands with the Jewish star, let them fall onto the ground, and dropped back from the rest.
The SS men didn’t notice.
I nodded to Amos, and we raced toward the streetcar. I didn’t turn round to look back. If the soldiers were going to shoot, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, but I could lose a valuable half second by looking. Following my encounter in the guardhouse no more than twenty minutes ago—was it really no longer?—I wasn’t going to forget how invaluable seconds, or even half a second, could be ever again.
I jumped onto the back platform of the streetcar. Amos followed me. I was faster than him. He must have kept looking back; there was no other explanation.
The streetcar moved away, and I watched as one of the soldiers took his gun off his shoulder and took aim, but the other soldier stopped him. He didn’t want to risk shooting Polish civilians. Their job was to take a group of laborers to the airport; someone else could worry about a couple of fleeing Jews—who wouldn’t get very far, anyway.
Inside, the streetcar was almost empty; the few Poles sitting here took no notice of us. We were shabbily dressed, but a lot of the Polish workers were, too. So as not to attract any attention, I sat. Amos dropped down on the wooden bench beside me and said approvingly, “That was a great idea.”
It did me a world of good to hear him say that.
46
A streetcar isn’t all that fast, but after having been forced to walk everywhere for so long, the journey felt incredibly fast, even unnatural. I felt at that moment how people must have felt who rode on the very first trains when and wherever that was. Though they hadn’t had to worry about being arrested.
After a couple of minutes, I began to relax. We had got away! I almost managed to stop thinking about the fat pig. Then the streetcar stopped again and two SS soldiers got on. Amos and I both knew that even the slightest sign of fear would give us away, but neither of us knew if the other realized this. And so we both whispered, “Don’t worry, it’s okay.” And started laughing because we had both said exactly the same thing at the same time.
The soldiers looked across at us at that moment and saw a happy, fairly shabby-looking Polish couple. They walked to the front of the streetcar where only Germans were allowed to sit, and didn’t turn round to look at us again. So we were able to get off the streetcar three stops later at Górnośląska Street without being stopped.
We walked to a five-story house. We were to ring the bell labeled Synowiec, and then a go-between from the Polish resistance would open the door.
I rang the bell. No one opened the door. We waited. I rang the bell again. Still no reaction.
I started to feel nervous. If we stood in front of the door in full view for much longer, we might arouse suspicion. But we couldn’t go away, either. Where should we go? As Jews? In Warsaw?
An old man wearing a vest was standing looking out the window of his flat on the opposite side of the road. Watching us closely. Why were two shabby-looking young people hanging around like that? Were they burglars? Or something worse?
“Let’s walk round the block,” I suggested.
“Good idea.” He nodded.
We were just about to set off when a small portly man wearing a flat cap came toward us calling out merrily, “Why, there’s my nephew and his brand-new wife!”
The man at the window turned away and went back into his flat yawning.
“You seem to like pretty, skinny ladies, nephew!” the man with the flat cap kept the charade going, and Amos played along, “I like lovely ladies, Uncle!”
Lovely!
Why couldn’t I stop lapping up Amos’s praise and compliments? What was wrong with me?
“Come on in, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” “Uncle” said, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath, which suggested he preferred other beverages, even at this time of the morning! That was probably why he was late, instead of meeting us in the flat as agreed.
We entered the house, walked up the freshly polished stairs—I had long since forgotten how cozy ordinary blocks of flats could be—and Uncle showed us into a small two-roomed flat that was almost bare of any furniture but still seemed luxurious to me because there was a real bed in the bedroom.
“The landlord thinks I’ve rented this flat for my nephew and his young wife who have come up from the country to try their luck in town.”
He threw two wedding rings onto the table.
“Your names are Robert and Gabriela Szalach. I’ll bring you your papers tomorrow.”
Amos put his ring on his finger at once and held it up for me to see, laughing. “Congratulations on getting married,” he said.
I gave him a twisted smile.
“And…,” he continued, “… on your excellent choice of husband.”
I pulled a face. “Idiot!”
“But, then, I do have a lovely wife.”
Don’t go red whatever you do.
“Such a beautiful young lady.”
“Idiot,” I said again and went red.
“You said that already.” Amos laughed, took my hand, and gently put the ring on my finger.
That was the nearest thing to a wedding I would ever know, I thought.
“Can we get down to business?” Uncle asked, sounding annoyed.
“Of course,” I answered.
“If we must,” Amos grinned.
“You are not to leave the flat. Not even for a second. We will let you know when you can meet with the leaders of the Polish Home Army.”
“We need to talk to them as soon as possible,” Amos explained; he was totally serious all at once, had turned back into a strong, determined fighter. Amazing how quickly he could switch roles. I wondered what sort of person he would have been if I had really been able to go back in time and kill Hitler. Would there have been an ounce of earnestness in him? Would he have been just another charming daredevil?
“When you are to meet our leaders is for them to decide, not you,” Uncle snapped at us. “Just be glad that they are prepared to see you at all.”
This man made sure we understood fast just how unimportant we Jews were for the Polish resistance fighters.
I took off my left shoe and sock and handed the dispatch to Uncle. “A letter from Mordechai Anielewicz.”
“It smells,” he said.
Instead of laughing or saying, “I told you so,” Amos laid into the man. “You’re not here to make remarks; you are here to deliver it.”
“Watch your mouth, Jew!” Uncle said, put on his cloth cap, and left the flat.
When the door closed, Amos sighed. “So these are our comrades,” he said.
For the next half hour, Amos berated the Polish resistance for having done so little to help us, giving us the worst weapons, and being riddled with Jew haters who were secretly or even unashamedly pleased that the Germans—the enemies who occupied their beloved Poland—were doing them a favor by getting rid of the Jewish vermin.
I didn’t say anything. I knew I was safe here, but I started to feel the fat SS man crawling over my skin until I couldn’t stand it anymore and had to wash the spot where he had kissed me. Literally scrub it away.
I left Amos standing in the middle of a rant about how Jews could only ever trust one another, hurried into the bathroom, and turned the taps on as far as they would go. There was flowing water! Hot flowing water!
So there was a God after all!