But when I was with Elz·bieta, I wanted to pretend I lived in a different world—a world where I had a future.
26
Roman
25 July, 1944
I didn’t know the code name of the Scout who knocked on my door at dawn. Sara answered it, then knocked on my door to rouse me.
“Scout mail is here for you, Pigeon,” she called playfully through my door.
I rolled out of bed and, in my haste to get to the front door, almost stumbled on the stairs. Sara was supportive when I had joined the Szare Szeregi ten months earlier, even if she remained amused by some of our conventions—like our code names, which we used religiously. I’d been mildly amused by the code names, too, at first, until my Scoutmaster instructed me to choose a name for myself.
“Pigeon,” I had said. And all of a sudden, using a code name seemed like an honor.
When I reached the landing, I found a child standing in the hallway outside our apartment. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. He was wearing tattered clothing, but I had no way to tell if he was in costume or genuinely living as a street rat.
“W hour. Tonight, five o’clock,” the child said, but he was already shifting from foot to foot, eager to run to his next task.
“Are you sure you have that right?” I asked him, frowning. I had been expecting this, anticipating it even, but I’d been told to expect W hour to be at sunrise. Five in the evening made little sense.
“That is the message. Five o’clock tonight. Do you confirm receipt and understanding?”
When I nodded, the boy ran down the hallway and disappeared into the stairwell, continuing on to his next home. I knew that young Zawisza Scouts like him would be running all over the city that day, couriers from junior Scouting units across the city, spreading this message to thousands of soldiers and auxiliary workers.
W hour was another code name—W for the Polish word wybuch, meaning outbreak. This signified the start of Operation Tempest. The Polish Home Army, known as Armia Krajowa—the AK—had planned an extensive series of anti-German uprisings, aimed at seizing control of Warsaw. The planning had been underway for months, but the execution was on hold until the AK leadership identified just the right moment. We needed the Germans distracted, fortifying their territory against the advancing Soviet Red Army, but we had to move before the Red Army seized control.
I was nervous about the Soviets, concerned that as the footing of the war shifted and the Germans began to lose power, all this meant was that we would be caught between two very powerful and untrustworthy enemies. But I was a simple foot soldier, a member of the Boy Scouts’ senior division—the Assault Group, the Grupy Szturmowe. Like all other Boy Scouts seventeen and over, I had spent the last ten months in combat training preparing for this Uprising, and just like that messenger boy, all I needed to do were the specific tasks I was ordered to do. I had to trust that the plan was in the hands of those who could see the bigger picture.
When I came downstairs, Sara was dressed for work, sitting at the kitchen table with her coffee.
“Today?” she asked. The Uprising was an open secret across the city—some intelligence chatter suggested even the Germans knew it was coming, although they had no idea how extensive it would be. I drew a fierce and constant pride that the actions of my Jewish brothers and sisters had inspired and motivated the rest of the city to mimic them.
“I thought we would have more time. Another few days, maybe weeks. We aren’t exactly ready...” I exhaled, tension across my shoulders. My troop would be fighting with the AK Wigry Battalion, and we would be stationed just a few blocks from the apartment. We were short on weapons, but the weapons we did have were stashed across the city. They would not be easy to retrieve quickly without drawing attention.
“Be safe,” Sara begged, as she came around the table to embrace me.
“I will do my best,” I promised, which wasn’t a lie. I was more than ready to die for Poland—every single time I met with my squad, I repeated our oath: I pledge to you that I shall serve with the Gray Ranks, safeguard the secrets of the organization, obey orders and not hesitate to sacrifice my life.
I meant those words with all my heart, but I also intended to make my life count. Wasn’t that exactly what Chaim had told me to do? Don’t waste it had been his final words—his dying words. Here, a second chance loomed for me to die for my country, too, in a way that would mean something. If we could just take Warsaw back, it would bolster the spirits of the rest of the nation.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t scared. I felt sick at the thought of returning to combat—memories of the Ghetto Uprising were fresh on my mind, even twelve months after it ended. Adrenaline was already coursing through my body, and as I stared down at Sara, I felt a filial affection that made me wish I could stay, to shelter in the apartment and keep her safe.
“You be safe, too,” I said. “Please.” I hesitated, then added, “I wish you would go to Lodz with Piotr.” Theirs was an ever-unstable relationship. I’d catch them embracing on the sofa one day, but by the next, they’d barely be speaking, and I understood the tension. They obviously cared deeply for one another, but their priorities were out of sync. Piotr saw the war as an opportunity to grow his wealth; Sara saw the occupation as a humanitarian tragedy and believed she had a moral obligation to help in any way she could.
But with whispers of the citywide Uprising looming, even Piotr was ready to hunker down. He decided to pause his black-market business and take Truda, Mateusz and Elz·bieta to shelter at his apartment in Lodz. Elz·bieta was predictably frustrated by this because she wanted to stay and help. I was only relieved the matter was out of her hands, and I desperately wished Sara would join them.
“I won’t think of running away,” Sara said abruptly. “I’m going to skip work and go to the Church of Our Lady,” she said, referring to an iconic church just around the corner from our apartment. “The Sisters from the convent over on Hoz˙a Street have evacuated their orphanage in case things get rough. Those left behind are going to operate a makeshift clinic in the basement. I know the nuns from the good work they’ve done with Jewish children over the years so I’m going to help. When you or your friends need assistance, that’s where you’ll find me.”
I kissed the top of her head, then turned to leave but hesitated at the doorway. Matylda had been arrested six months earlier. For a whole month, whenever there was a knock at the door, Sara and I would hold our breath, expecting it was the Gestapo. Instead, the announcement came that Matylda had been executed, with no explanation of charges, and not a single member of the team beyond her so much as interviewed. The loss hit Sara hard, especially as she settled into the reality that she had now assumed both Matylda’s senior position with the City of Warsaw...and her unofficial position, as the sole gatekeeper of the identity of over 2,500 Jewish children, scattered across Poland in orphanages and private homes. In the aftermath of Matylda’s death, I’d asked Sara about my sister.