“Listen, my friend, it is true that you are far from a strong conversationalist,” Chaim said and grinned, and I glared at him. “But if there is one thing I know about you, it is that you know how to listen. Why don’t you ask her about herself?”
The next day, I approached Elz·bieta’s room with a new weapon in my conversational arsenal. I greeted her as I always did, then sat opposite her at a desk and asked, “Who do you live with?”
“I live with my parents and my uncle.”
“No siblings?”
A shadow crossed her face before she shook her head.
“Have you always lived in Warsaw?”
“No, I lived in... Morowice until earlier this year, when we moved here for my father’s work,” she said slowly, but then she seemed to warm up to the topic. “That’s why we are living with my uncle—he rented an apartment for us to share. It is not far from here, on the other side of Krasin´ski Square, on Miodowa Street, just up from Tepper Palace.”
“I know that street,” I said. “Nice homes.”
“Oh, yes, it’s a nice home. The top half floor where I sleep was damaged in the bombing, but my uncle has patched it up pretty well—all you can see from the outside now is that the bricks don’t match and my window is damaged.”
“What exactly does a half floor look like?”
“There’s a bedroom built into the attic. That’s where Sara’s spare room is, too, so I like to say I have a whole floor to myself—” She broke off, suddenly blanching as she looked around the room. “Oh.”
“It’s okay,” I said. It was awkward for me, too, but I didn’t want her to stop, so I added, “I know people outside the ghetto still have their own space. You don’t need to be embarrassed. Do you like living there?”
“I do,” she said, then she added quietly, “But I miss my old house. I miss my old bedroom.”
“I’m still in the same apartment I’ve lived in since I was six, but I know exactly how that feels.”
* * *
Chaim was a genius. It turned out that all I had to do was give Elz·bieta the slightest prompt, and she could talk all day long. Now, I would sit up at night and think of questions to ask her the next day. What was life like on the Aryan side? Did she like music? What books did she like to read? I found her endlessly fascinating, and more than that, I found her company soothing. It was as though for those brief minutes I spent with her each day, the rage inside me eased, and I was close to content. I sometimes thought that if I could just stay in that room with her forever, life would almost be bearable.
“What do you want to do when the war is over?” I asked her one day.
“Well, in a fantasy world where Poland is not just freed but restored to its former glory, I would go back to school, then on to university and maybe one day become an artist. However, in the real world, my work with Sara is supposed to act as some kind of nursing apprenticeship, so I think it is most likely that I will end up working as a nurse. What about you?”
“When I was young, I wanted to be a lawyer like my father,” I said. “In fact, I wanted to be a lawyer before I even understood what a lawyer really was.”
“There are many kinds of lawyers. Would you be the kind of lawyer who draws up dull paperwork or the kind who fights for justice?”
“As fascinating as dull paperwork sounds,” I said wryly, “I think I would be the latter. My mother tells me that I had a strong sense of justice from a very young age.”
“Is that still true?”
The question caught me off guard.
“I think I still believe in justice, but it is impossible to fight for it under these conditions.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I promised my stepfather that I would never get involved with the underground,” I said abruptly. I thought about Chaim, my closest friend. He had alluded to his meetings, and I assumed that much of his connection to the Resistance came about via that very youth center, particularly via Andrzej. But beyond those assumptions, I knew nothing about what he was involved in or what the endgame was. I was curious, but it was safer to remain in the dark.
“When I found out what life was like in these walls, I thought I would die if I didn’t do something to help,” Elz·bieta said quietly. She thumped her fist against her chest and leaned forward to look into my eyes. “Working with Sara has been taxing and frightening, but I’m glad to do it. I don’t know if I could have lived with myself if I had ignored the urge to do something.”
“It isn’t that simple for me,” I said impatiently.
“I didn’t mean to tell you how you should live your life,” she said quickly. “I just sense so much anger and frustration in you.”
“Do you wonder why?” I said, barking a harsh laugh, waving my hands like a fool.
“It’s a righteous anger,” she murmured. “It just needs an outlet.”
“I want to tear this damned place apart. But we are powerless, and it is pointless.”
“Maybe playing a part in the Resistance isn’t even about winning a battle,” Elz·bieta said, after a pause. “Maybe it’s just about being true to your values. About standing up for the things you believe and those you love, even if you know you can’t win.”
She had almost echoed Samuel’s words but made the opposite argument.
“I should go see if the kitchen needs me,” I muttered, excusing myself. Hours later, I was cutting potatoes in the kitchen when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder, and I turned to find Elz·bieta behind me.
“I’m sorry if I offended you earlier.”
“You didn’t,” I said. She hadn’t offended me, but she had unsettled me, and I’d thought of nothing else since our conversation. Without a word, she tucked a folded piece of paper into the pocket on my shirt, then smiled quietly and walked away.
I dried my hands on a piece of cloth and unfolded the paper. She had drawn the shape of a fist, painfully clenched, and underneath she had written There are many ways to fight, but striving for justice is always worth the battle.
* * *
The deportations continued to escalate, with people being removed at a staggering rate. The Germans were chipping away at us in individual strikes and in broad, sweeping attacks to clear entire buildings or streets. Sometimes, they would block both ends of a road and then go from door to door and room to room, dragging every single resident out into the street to march them to the trains. I drew some relief at this approach: given I spent all day at the youth center just down the block from my home, I figured I’d at least be deported with my family.