So that was that. All I had left of both Elz·bieta and Eleonora was the sketch, and sometimes, late at night when I lay in bed, I would stare at it and wonder what they were both doing on the other side of the wall, while I was trapped in what was left of the ghetto, waiting for the Germans to make the first move to kick off our rebellion.
* * *
On the eve of Passover, Andrzej announced that he’d planned a Seder meal for our Z·OB unit.
“You’ll be amazed at the lengths I’ve gone to,” he said. Chaim slapped him on the back playfully.
“I’ll be amazed if you’ve gone to any lengths at all, given you’ve been working twenty hours a day organizing for the rebellion,” he chuckled.
“It’s going to be a real occasion, Chaim. I’ve got a beautiful white tablecloth and some candles. I baked matzo this morning, and I found a bottle of wine and even an egg,” Andrzej informed him smugly, but then he sobered. “I know it’s not perfect, but given the circumstances, it’s important. We will pause, and we will be together to reflect on the journey from slavery to freedom.”
But by late afternoon, word had spread through the ghetto that a deportation was planned for the following morning.
“Four o’clock,” Chaim told us, recounting the story he had heard from another Z·OB unit a few blocks away. “They know we are planning to rebel, although I hope to God they don’t know how organized we are.”
“They won’t expect it,” I murmured. I stood, finding myself unable to be still. “If they had any idea what we’ve planned, they’d have intervened months ago.”
“Seder will have to wait,” Andrzej said sensibly, as if it would merely be postponed until after we’d finished rebelling. But I knew, and he knew, that not one of us expected to make it out alive.
Our freedom from slavery was coming, but it would not come in this life. If we died with courage, we would die free, even confined within the ghetto walls. I was at last ready to fight for justice, although I knew I could not win.
* * *
The ghetto had become a quieter place, but it had never before been silent. Now we all sat and waited, and the anticipation was unbearable. It was so quiet and I was so on edge I heard movement from blocks away when it began just at four in the morning.
Our unit sat on the rooftop above the youth center, asking questions with our eyes because we were too afraid to whisper them with our mouths. We soon heard the sounds of men below shuffling into formation, but it was nothing like the bold goose steps we were expecting, and for hours we sat in confused silence, watching shadows shifting on the streets below us.
It wasn’t until a messenger approached at dawn that we learned what was happening. The first wave of Germans had crept into the ghetto individually, assuming they could sneak in unnoticed to assess our preparedness.
“What do we do?” I asked Andrzej, my fingers itching to pick up the rifle he’d given me.
“We wait,” he whispered back. “When the time is right, we’ll know.”
As the sun rose, a wave of tanks rolled through the streets, marking the end of the eerily silent overnight standoff. Behind the armored vehicles, still more German soldiers marched in tightly closed formations through the deserted streets of the ghetto.
This was what I’d expected. These footsteps fell heavily, the sound of their boots strident against the cobblestone street. I peered through a gap in the rooftop barricade and felt my entire body tense at the assured expressions on the soldiers’ faces. It was evident they thought they had won, that because we had allowed them to assemble without so much as a shot fired, we had given up before we began. The soldiers were barely scanning their surroundings as they marched.
I had reached a place beyond fear, a place where all that mattered was my values. Life in the ghetto had broken down the last of my hopes and dreams, and I was conscious of being free of the pressure to find a way to survive. I wanted only to die with honor, perhaps even avenge my family as I went. If anything, I was relieved that the moment had now come and that it would all be over soon.
Our unit remained on the rooftop, waiting for the signal that it was time to act. In the meantime, at the intersection where I had watched children from the orphanage walk toward their deaths, the Germans had set up a command center, unaware that they were entirely surrounded.
At last, a signal came from a Z·OB leader hidden at ground level. There was an immediate eruption of violence, improvised incendiary devices flying from every direction, gunshots raining down from apartment windows up and down the surrounding blocks. Unprotected German soldiers on the street were dropping like flies. A Molotov cocktail hit a tank right in the turret, and I peered between the gaps in a barricade, watching as the tank caught fire, then exploded.
“I hope that was one of the bottles I assembled,” I cried, after the explosion rang out. Chaim slapped my back in support. He was impatient after the long night of anticipation, visibly itching to join the skirmishes on the street.
“Can we go?” he asked Andrzej, who shook his head.
“Patience, Pigeon. This is a marathon, not a sprint.”
German soldiers and commanders were desperately trying to retreat, but other Z·OB units closer than ours were anticipating this, blocking their escape. Still, we waited on the rooftop. After hours of this, only a handful of Germans remained alive, cowering behind mattresses they retrieved from a ground-floor apartment. Andrzej took Chaim on a scouting mission, leaving me with the rest of our unit. When they returned, Chaim was grinning.
“If we move to the next barricade farther along the street, we will be able to take them out.”
“Remember, boys,” Andrzej said suddenly, scanning the gazes of the twelve men in our unit. “No matter what happens, make sure they don’t take you alive.”
We all nodded our understanding. This was something we had discussed at length in the planning. It was a practical principle—if we were taken alive, we’d suffer torture until our deaths anyway—but it was also a reflection of our goal. Andrzej grimaced as he always did as he delivered the final part of his instructions from the Z·OB leadership.
“And the orders remain that if somehow you escape the ghetto and find refuge on the Aryan side, lie low and prepare for the broader citywide Uprising. Try to connect with the Szare Szeregi.” The Polish Boy Scouts, known as the Gray Ranks. We had learned that they were organizing in preparation for a broader Uprising. Chaim snorted and rolled his eyes, just as I had known he would.
“None of us are getting out of here alive,” he said.
“I just hope that we are each lucky enough to achieve a dignified death,” I said, and there were murmurs of agreement from the rest of our unit.