I approached it cautiously, bracing myself for the sounds of gunfire from the other side. I paused, listening intently. When I heard no movement, I held my breath and peered through the gap to find Krasin´ski Square in all of its glory, completely, shockingly deserted.
I sank back onto the ground, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily as I tried to clear my foggy mind to make sense of this.
Chaim is dead. Andrzej is dead. But I’m alive. Chaim saved me. Why did he save me?
Why the hell isn’t a German soldier waiting on the other side of this wall with a machine gun?
As my heart rate slowed, the scenario before me finally began to make sense. Of course the Germans weren’t rushing to repair or even to guard the wall. There was barely anyone left, and very few who were well enough to escape.
Maybe I could just walk right out of there. But if I left the ghetto, where would I go? Everyone I cared about was dead. Everyone who cared about me was dead.
Elz·bieta.
Her face flashed before me, along with a memory of conversations we’d shared in the back room of the youth center. I knew she lived on Miodowa Street, and she’d described her apartment in such detail that I was certain I could find it. Sara lived there, too, and she was a nurse. They knew people. People who could help me.
I leaned against the wall, and I looked into the square, then I looked back to the ghetto. Escape had been so unlikely I hadn’t even thought to daydream about the possibility, but there I stood, swiveling my view between two clear paths: life to the east across Krasin´ski Square or death.
I slipped through the wall and into the square, and then I started to run. The burst of energy surprised me, and it wasn’t until I was clear across the square that I realized what was fueling it.
Hope.
It had been such a long time since I’d felt it that I didn’t recognize the emotion. By some twist of fate through the generous act of the best friend I’d ever had, I had not only survived but bumbled my way onto the other side.
* * *
I found the building easily enough. It was exactly as Elz·bieta had described: three and a half stories tall, with clumsy patching on the top floor.
After years trapped within the ghetto, I didn’t know if there was a curfew in the broader city, but the streets were deserted so I had to assume there was. But at the height of summer, the days in Warsaw were so long and the sky was beginning to brighten, so I knew it was probably close to four in the morning.
I scooped up a pebble from the garden bed outside her apartment building, and threw it toward one of the two peaked windows on that top floor. It missed by miles, so I tried again, and then again. On the fourth attempt, the rock hit the window and clattered down to the pavement. There was no sign of movement.
And worse still, the early rays of sunlight were beginning to breach the sky.
Any moment now, the city would awaken. Workers would take to the streets, and Germans would begin their morning patrols. I hadn’t bathed properly in years. I was bleeding profusely, my shirt soaked in blood both front and back. My hair was wild and my beard scruffy. I could not have looked more conspicuous if I’d tried.
I walked to the door that led to the street, pushed it open and stepped inside, drew in a deep breath, and mounted the stairs. By the time I reached the third floor, I was struggling to breathe. Here I found two doors, and I thought Elz·bieta had said one was her apartment and one was Sara’s, but that conversation had been seven months earlier, and I was so dizzy I could barely stand.
I went to the first door and thumped against it with my strong hand. After a few moments, it opened, just a crack. A man stood there, staring at me through wire-framed glasses.
“Yes?”
“Is this... Does Elz·bieta live here?” I asked the man, stepping back, conscious of the stench of my body.
“Who are you?”
“I am her friend,” I said. His gaze skipped down my body, then back to my face. “I’m...” My vision was fading. I clutched the doorframe, then realizing that wasn’t going to be enough, I tried to guide myself safely to the floor. But the man pushed the door open, and just as I crumpled, I felt his hands slide beneath my arms to catch me.
22
Emilia
Roman was on our sofa, unconscious, lying sandwiched between hastily laid towels and a layer of blankets. When Uncle Piotr came to get me, I smelled the boy on the couch before I saw him.
He was gaunt when I’d known him, but Roman was all but skeletal now. His beard was wiry and patchy, and his hair was overgrown and matted. The banging on our door had woken us all up, but Uncle Piotr insisted we hide in our rooms as he went to investigate. Roman was limp and out cold. I could have fainted myself when I recognized him.
I’d grieved him during the weeks of the Uprising. Every time I heard a gunshot or an explosion, I wondered if that was the one that had taken his life. Not for a second had it occurred to me that he might survive.
As I stared at Roman on the couch, my family stared at me. I didn’t dare to meet anyone’s gaze. I could feel their confusion, their fear and their anger. We were all at risk now, and it was my fault. But I was almost as confused as they were. How had Roman known where to find me? Despite the risk, I was glad that he had. I was happy and relieved, even if his presence in our apartment complicated everything.
“We will talk later about this,” Truda said suddenly. I glanced hesitantly at her and saw only confusion and alarm in her face. “For now, we have to help him. He is bleeding from a wound in his arm, and I think he’s dehydrated—look at his lips.”
I did and saw that his lips were bone dry; from the corners of his mouth, cracks disappeared beneath the hair of his beard.
“He asked for you before he fainted.” Uncle Piotr hesitated, then said carefully, “Does Sara know him, too?”
“Yes.”
“Please go across and wake her up,” Truda murmured. “I’ll get some supplies.”
* * *
As I crept across to Sara’s apartment, I thought about the night I caught her with the orphans in her spare room. I felt a painful clench in my chest as I always did when those children came to mind. I had taught myself by then to think about the positives. Those children, like all others who had wound up in the orphanage, were likely lost—but others had been saved. Icchak had been saved. Eleonora had been saved.
Roman was injured. Roman was in my apartment, and my whole family was in danger. But Roman was alive. It was a miracle—there was no other explanation. Maybe the many prayers I’d offered for him over those weeks had worked.
“Sara?” I knocked cautiously on her bedroom door and heard her stir. “I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s an emergency.”