* * *
Some days at the Warsaw Department of Social Welfare and Public Health were quiet. Some days were busy. Some days were inexplicably tense, like the day when Matylda stormed into Sara’s office and dragged her out by her arm. When Sara returned to the office, she closed the door behind her, then hesitated just a second before she locked it.
“Are you all right?” I asked her.
“I just need a moment to myself.”
If that was a hint for me to give her peace and quiet, I missed it.
“Is she angry with you today?”
“She’s angry with the world.” Sara sighed. She walked around the desk to take a seat, then linked her hands behind her head and leaned back, staring at the ceiling as she said almost absentmindedly, “One of our children was almost caught today with her new family on this side of the wall.”
“Oh, no!”
“It is very unfortunate. Do you remember the children in my apartment that night?”
“Was it one of them?”
“No, but it is the same old problem, and the reason we sent those children back. We can get the children out of the ghetto through a variety of methods. None of them pretty, but we have ways to do it. There are even people who help us secure false papers for them, but that is only half the battle. There is a Franciscan orphanage on Hoz·a Street which takes most of the children when they are first rescued. The Sisters there help the children remember that once they are out, they must only speak Polish. Most are more accustomed to speaking Yiddish which, of course, gives them away. Today, our little girl was speaking Polish just fine, but something about her appearance tipped a soldier off, and he asked her to recite her prayers.”
“Her prayers?” I repeated, frowning.
“A Jewish child doesn’t know Catholic prayers, does she?”
“Oh.”
“The orphanage didn’t have room for her so we moved her directly into the home of a foster family. This little girl was out and about with them but hadn’t yet mastered her prayers. Fortunately, the mother was quick enough on her feet to pretend the child was simple and couldn’t speak much.”
“So why is Matylda angry?”
“She is frustrated, not angry. We have discussed educating the children before they leave the ghetto, but...educating the children is very time-consuming, and if we were to make sure that every child knew all of their Catholic prayers before they even left the ghetto, we would be saving many fewer children.” Sara closed her eyes, and her voice was thick with emotion as she whispered, “Whenever we successfully rescue a child, I don’t sleep any better that night, because I know that there are thousands more waiting. We gradually try to expand our operation, but every new person we bring into our confidence is an immense risk. The weight of the world rests on Matylda’s shoulders, especially now. There have been rumors for some time that those within the ghetto will soon be deported elsewhere, and more and more, we think the time is growing near.”
“Where are they going to be taken?”
“No one knows for sure, but I know this much, Elz·bieta... It won’t be anywhere good.”
9
Roman
Chaim and I met at the end of the block each morning to walk to our desk in the workshop together. We sat together at lunch. And sometimes, he walked me home.
“It’s a long way out of your way,” I pointed out to him the first time he offered to keep me company. He shrugged.
“I have business at the youth center up the block from your house,” he admitted. “I stay at an apartment there sometimes. So, it’s no trouble to walk with you on the days when I am going there anyway.”
I made a point not to ask for details of this business, aware that it was related to his activities in the underground. On the days when he was going to his home in the Little Ghetto, I would join him for the walk, and he always helped me check the trash cans around the area for scraps of food.
It felt strange to have a friend again. Our friendship felt like a daring risk, but I was gradually growing to trust Chaim, although it was true that despite the burgeoning friendship, our conversation remained somewhat lopsided. He had an easy, affable air. I felt like I’d forgotten how to speak freely the way he did—sentences that flowed one after the other, words of all different shapes and sizes. Despite the disparity, we managed to squeeze conversation into the gaps around the noisy machines, swapping the parts of our history that felt safe enough to share. I couldn’t figure Chaim out. He seemed so eager to make a new friend, and I wasn’t sure if that was why he had taken the small opening of my initial greeting to firmly plant himself inside my life. But if he was lonely and desperate for company, why did he seem so much happier than I did? I felt so sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be imprisoned in the ghetto without my family, and I certainly couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be thousands of miles away from my parents like he was.
I was working at my machine one day when I gradually became aware of a shock wave echoing through the factory. All up and down the neat row of sewing machines where my workmates sat, productivity was slowing as news was leaking from workstation to workstation. I watched as it made its way toward the table I shared with Chaim. But just as it reached the table behind us, Sala happened past, reminding us that we had a quota to meet for the Germans that day so we had to focus. Chaim and I resumed our work in silence while we waited for the opportunity to speak. When Sala finally continued down the line, pleading with his other employees to work faster, Chaim leaned back in his seat to speak to the boys who worked at the table behind us.
I learned about the deportations as though in slow motion, watching the comprehension dawn on my new friend’s face. By the time he leaned forward to pass the rumor on to me, I was bracing myself for something horrific. In an environment like the ghetto, where shocks and horrors were a daily occurrence, I thought I was past that bracing fear that clenched your stomach, that made your palms sweat. I had become numb to it, or so I thought. All it took were four words, and the very thing I had been so frightened of for such a long time was right in front of me.
“The resettlements have begun.”
“What?” I was immediately frozen in fear. “When?”
“This morning. People are being moved to the Umschlagplatz.” The loading platform, on Stawki Street, just blocks from my apartment.
“How many people?” I asked breathlessly. I put my hands on the table as if to push myself back. “And who?”
Please be targeted. Please be targeted at someone other than us.
“Many thousands. And it seems random so far, mostly people in the street.”
“Where are they taking us?”