Читать книгу Kommandant's Girl - Pam Jenoff, Пэм Дженофф - Страница 8

The Monday after my conversation with Alek, Marta appeared at the orphanage as my shift ended. I was not surprised to see her; she had dropped by almost every day in the time since we’d become friends. “I have to return the kettle to the kitchen,” I told her. Each morning, the central kitchen in the ghetto delivered a large vat of soup to the orphanage for the children. The broth was always pale and watery, with only tiny flecks of potato or cabbage. The meager cup that each child was allotted as one of two meals each day was not nearly enough; Pani Nederman and I and some of the other orphanage staff would share our own rations with the children whenever possible.

“I’ll walk with you,” Marta offered. “Okay.” I pulled my coat from the hook on the door. We said goodbye to Marta’s mother and headed out onto the snow-covered street. The winter air was crisp, but the bitter wind that had been blowing when I’d arrived at work that morning had died down.

“What did you and Alek talk about Friday night, anyway?” she asked as we turned left onto Lwowska Street and walked along the inside perimeter of the ghetto wall. I could tell that she was a little jealous that he had singled me out for conversation.

“Just about a mutual acquaintance,” I replied evenly, not looking at her.

“Oh.” Seemingly placated by my answer, she did not speak for several minutes. “Did you have a boyfriend before the war?” she asked abruptly as we approached the brick warehouse that served as the central kitchen.

I hesitated, uncertain how to answer. I did not enjoy deceiving Marta about my marriage. I had never had a girlfriend to confide in before and I desperately wanted to tell her about Jacob, to share my memories and make them come alive. Perhaps she had even met him through the resistance. But I had promised Jacob I would tell no one of our marriage. He, and Alek, too, had said it would not be safe to do so. “No one special,” I answered at last. My heart twisted at having to deny Jacob’s existence, our love for each other.

“So there were several!” She giggled. I shook my head, suppressing a laugh at the notion of my having multiple suitors; before Jacob, there had been no one.

“I think Alek fancies you,” she whispered, after I handed the empty kettle to the woman at the back door of the kitchen.

“Marta, he’s married!” And so am I, I thought. If only she knew the truth. I liked Alek, but mostly because he was my one connection to Jacob. We began the walk back. “And you?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “Have you met anyone in your travels as a messenger?” She looked away and did not answer, a faint blush creeping upward from her neck.

“There is someone,” she confessed in a low voice.

“Aha!” I exclaimed. “I knew it. Tell me about him.”

“He’s one of us.” I knew she meant the resistance movement. Her voice grew wistful. “But he doesn’t notice me.”

I squeezed her shoulder. “Perhaps he will someday. Give it time.” It began to rain then, thick, heavy drops that signaled the coming of a larger storm. We ran for cover back to the orphanage and spoke no more about it.

I thought about my conversation with Marta several weeks later, as I stood in the kitchen of our apartment, trying to wash linens in the impossibly small sink. It was a Thursday afternoon and I was home alone, enjoying a rare moment of solitude. Normally I worked days at the orphanage, but I had swapped shifts with another girl, agreeing to work the following Sunday instead. I remembered Marta asking me if I had a boyfriend, if I had dated anyone special. Perhaps she knew about Jacob, I mused, and was trying to get me to admit it.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a loud knocking sound in the alleyway below. I jumped, splashing soapy water everywhere. Wiping the water from my dress, I leaned forward. Through the window over the sink, I heard a woman’s voice, high pitched and desperate, a man’s low and angry. I stepped to one side of the sink, pressing myself against the wall so I could look out the window without being seen. From this vantage point, I could just make out two figures below. I was alarmed to see a man in a Nazi uniform standing in the doorway of the apartment building across the alley. The Nazis, afraid of disease, seldom came inside the ghetto, preferring instead to let the Judenrat run internal, daily affairs. He was arguing with a blond woman I did not recognize. She was tiny but thick around the middle, and I could tell even from where I stood that she was several months pregnant. “Prosze,” I heard her plead.

The voices continued arguing. Though I could not make out most of their words, I surmised that she was trying to keep the soldier from entering the apartment. The woman is very brave, I thought. She must be hiding something important.

At last, the Nazi said something and shoved the woman aside harshly. She hit the door frame and fell to the ground with a thud, motionless. The Nazi stepped over her and into the building. Loud crashing noises arose from inside the apartment, as though furniture was being thrown. Moments later, the Nazi reemerged, grasping a small, religious-looking man by the collar.

The woman on the ground seemed to instantly revive. She wrapped her arms around the Nazi’s ankles, seemingly oblivious to any danger to herself. “Don’t take him!” she pled. The Nazi tried to shake the woman from his ankles, but she would not let go. As the woman continued to beg, the small man’s eyes darted around, like a trapped animal looking for an escape. His gaze shot upward and I ducked back from the window, fearful that he might see me.

The voices rose louder. A shot rang out. I froze. It was the first time in my life I had heard that sound.

Now it was the man who cried out, his wail almost as high pitched as the woman’s had been. Unable to keep from looking, I stepped in front of the window. The woman lay motionless on the ground, her eyes open, her head ringed by a halo of blood. One arm lay draped protectively over her full, round stomach. The Nazi dragged the screaming man from the alley.

I ducked my head and vomited into the sink, great heaving waves of hatred and despair. When at last my stomach spasms subsided, I wiped my mouth and looked back out the window.

The door of the apartment was still ajar. In the doorway, I saw something move. It was a child, not more than three years old, with the same blond hair as the woman’s. The child stood motionless in the doorway, his blue eyes luminous as he stared at the woman’s lifeless form.

A set of hands shot out of the doorway and snatched the child back inside. The door slammed shut, leaving the dead woman like unwanted refuse on the pavement.

I sank to the kitchen floor, trembling and weak, the taste of bile still heavy in my mouth. Until now, I realized, it had been easy to stick my head in the sand like an ostrich, to pretend that the ghetto was just another neighborhood and that the violence and killing were isolated incidents far away. Though we had heard rumors, stories of brutal executions in the forests and even in the street, we had wanted to believe these accounts were exaggerated. Now it was no longer just a rumor from Tarnów or Kielce. The killing had come home.

I spent the rest of the day trying to compose myself, to block out what I had seen. My parents had enough to worry about, and I did not intend to upset them with the news. But others in our apartment block had seen or heard the commotion, and the story spread quickly. When my parents arrived home that night, the shooting in the alleyway was all they could talk about. At dinner, I listened to them describe thirdhand accounts of the events that had taken place next door. Finally, I could hold back no longer. “I saw it!” I burst out, weeping. “I saw everything.” Stunned, my parents looked at me in silence. My father came to my side then. My mother disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a cup of steaming tea. With shaking hands, I recounted for them exactly what I had seen earlier that day. “And the woman was with child, too,” I added. My father blanched—that was the one detail that had not made it to the ghetto rumor mill. “What had she done to deserve that, Papa?” I asked, sniffling. “Just because she was a Jew?”

“Her husband, the man they took, was Aaron Izakowicz, a rabbi from Lublin,” my father replied. “He is descended from a very great rabbinic family, dating back centuries. Pan Halkowski told me that he had arrived with his wife and child a few days ago. I had no idea they were staying so close by. The Nazis knew that his presence in the ghetto surely would have buoyed the spirit of our people here. That is probably why he was arrested.” He shook his head. “Such a loss.” My father spoke as though the man was already dead.

“Surely they would not kill such a respected and famous man.” But even as I said this, I knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

“They killed his wife.” It was my mother who spoke then, and there was a harshness to her voice that I had never heard before. They killed his wife. His pregnant wife, I added silently. The words echoed in my head as I lay awake that night, seeing the hollow eyes of the blond-haired child before me.

The next Friday afternoon, Marta did not come for me. “She has a cold,” Pani Nederman had informed me a few hours earlier. As we bathed and fed the children that afternoon, I deliberated whether I would go to Shabbes dinner without her. The thought of walking into the gathering alone terrified me; even though I had been going for months, I still thought of myself largely as Marta’s guest, rather than as someone who belonged. At five o’clock, I put on my coat and stepped out onto the street. Straining my head to the right, I could see the soft lights behind the yellow curtains at Josefinska 13. My heart twisted as I imagined not being there, going home to our cold, quiet apartment instead. Suddenly, my mind was made up. I crossed the street and entered the building. I climbed the steps and, inhaling deeply, knocked timidly on the door. When no one answered, I entered the apartment.

“Dobry wieczor, Emma,” Helga greeted me from the kitchen as I entered.

“Dobry wieczor,” I replied. “Do you need help?”

She shook her head. “No, but it would be great if you could stay afterward and help clean up. Katya is sick with the flu.”

“I can help. Marta is sick, too,” I added. I turned from the kitchen to the main room. A dozen or so people were already there, the faces familiar to me after a few weeks of visits. “Emma, come join us,” a boy named Piotrek called out, and I soon found myself listening to a story about a one-legged shoe salesman that I somehow doubted was true. It didn’t matter; I was grateful just to be treated as one of them. A few minutes later, a bell rang, Alek and Marek came out, and the weekly ritual began. I enjoyed the dinner, surrounded by the people I had come to know, but it wasn’t the same without Marta beside me to whisper and share confidences.

The crowd thinned out after dessert, with only a handful of us remaining behind to clean up. Alek, Marek and a third man, whom I had noticed at dinner but did not recognize, retreated to the back room. As I cleared the dishes from the table, I noticed that the door to the room was ajar. Curious, I found myself lingering by the door as I cleared the end of the table nearest to it. Edging closer, I could hear the men arguing. “… the railway line outside Plaszow,” I heard Marek say.

“It’s too soon,” Alek replied. “We need to build up the provisions first.”

“We have two dozen guns, a hundred bullets, some grenades …” Marek protested.

“Not enough.”

The stranger spoke then. “In Warsaw, they are organizing within the ghetto.”

“Warsaw is different. The movement, the ghetto itself, everything is bigger,” Alek said.

“If only Minka can get …”

“Emma,” Helga said, coming up behind me and making me jump. “Do you need help with those plates?”

“N-no, thank you,” I stammered, afraid she had caught me listening. I balanced a stack of plates on my forearm and made my way to the kitchen. As I placed the dishes in the sink and turned the tap on, I heard the door to the back room creak and the men still talking as they made their way to the front door. Alek paused at the kitchen entrance and whispered something to Helga. The three men exited the apartment.

A few minutes later, as I was drying the plates, Helga came over to the sink. “I’ll finish this,” she said, taking the towel from my hands. “Would you mind taking out the garbage on your way down?” She pointed to two bags by the kitchen door. I thanked her and bid the others good-night.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turned and found the back door leading out to the alley. Outside, it was pitch black. I blinked several times, trying to adjust my eyes to the light, before feeling for the step downward. It was a deeper step than I had thought, and icy. I stumbled, almost dropping the garbage bags in the process. “Oh, oh!” I cried.

“Careful,” a deep voice said from the shadows.

I jumped, caught off guard. Then I recognized the voice. “Alek!” I gasped. “What are you doing here? You frightened me.”

“Shhh,” he whispered, taking the bags from me and setting them by the garbage cans. “Come here.” He grabbed my sleeve. He must have asked Helga to have me bring down the garbage in order to speak with me, I realized, as he led me to the far corner of the alley where two buildings met. What did he want? Had I done something to make him mad? I wondered if he had seen me listening by the door. “I have a message.” His voice did not sound angry. He pressed a tiny crumpled slip of paper into my hand.

My heart leapt. “From Jacob?” I asked, my voice rising.

“Shh!” he admonished. He lit a match. “Read it quickly.” I unfolded the paper.

Dearest love,

I am well. I miss you more than you know. Take care of yourself, and do not give up. Help is coming.

Emmeth

There was no signature. Emmeth was the code word Jacob and I had chosen before his disappearance; it was Hebrew for truth. I read the note over and over, until the match threatened to burn Alek’s fingers and he was forced to blow it out. “I don’t understand. Is he near?”

“No, quite the opposite. That note traveled many hundreds of kilometers to reach you.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Alek replied sharply. “He is safe, that is all you need to know.”

“But …” A million questions raced through my mind.

“He is on a … procurement mission,” he said. “Getting things that are very important to us. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

I suddenly realized that my husband was the man about whom they had been speaking in the back room. “Minka?” I asked, forgetting I was not supposed to have heard.

“Yes. Outside the ghetto, we refer to one another by our aliases for safety’s sake. But you should not have been listening to our conversation. Believe me when I say that the less you know, the better.”

“I understand.” But I didn’t really. My mind whirled. Where was Jacob? Was he okay? What did his note mean?

“Your husband has a talent for getting things, for finding what we need and persuading people to help us.” I smiled at this, imagining Jacob’s imploring expression and cajoling tone. I could never refuse him anything, or stay mad at him when he looked at me like that. Alek continued, “He also knows a great deal about guns and munitions.” I realized then how very little I knew about the man I had married. “All right then.” Alek reached over and took the paper from my hand. “You can’t keep that. I’m sorry.” I watched in dismay as he lit another match and held it to the corner of the note.

“But …” I started to protest. Then I stopped, knowing he was right. If the paper was somehow found and traced to Jacob, it could be dangerous. I thought of our marriage certificate and rings, hidden in a book underneath my mattress in our apartment. Nobody knew that I still had them.

“Emma, I know this is difficult for you,” Alek said when the paper was gone and the flame extinguished. The air around us was dark and cold once more. “You must have faith. Jacob is okay, and you are not alone. At least you have your family.” His voice sounded hollow as he said the last part.

“What about you, Alek?” I could not help but ask. I knew only from what Marta had told me that he had a wife and that she was not in the ghetto.

“My family lived in Tarnów before the war.” His voice was flat. “My parents weren’t fighters. They were terribly afraid. The night before the Nazis came for us, they lay down in bed, took something. The next morning they were dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said helplessly.

“And my wife is not in the ghetto,” he added. I could not tell from his tone if he considered this a good thing.

“So you are alone here?”

“Yes, except for my cousin, Helga.” Surprised, I pictured the round-faced cook in my mind. I had not known they were related. “So you see, I understand what you are feeling being away from Jacob. We have to be patient.” I nodded. “Okay, hurry home now. I promise to let you know if I hear anything more about him.”

If, I thought. Not when. “Thank you, Alek.” I reached up and kissed him awkwardly on the cheek, then turned and walked quickly from the alley. On the way home, I puzzled over all I had learned. Jacob was traveling somewhere, getting weapons for the resistance. I shuddered. It sounded terribly dangerous. But at least he is alive, or was when he sent the note to me. My thoughts shifted to Alek. He, too, was separated from the person that he loved. And he was the head of the resistance, yet his own parents had given up, refused to fight. I considered my own parents, who kept going day after day. Suddenly, their simple acts of getting up each morning, of putting one foot in front of the other, seemed remarkably courageous. They did it, I knew, for me. As I reached the safety of our apartment, a wave of gratitude washed over me, and I had to fight the urge to go over to their mattress and hug them as they slept.

I undressed and lay awake in bed, thinking of Jacob and the note. Alek had been unwilling to tell me where he was, but I had seen the piece of envelope on which it was written. The postmark was from Warsaw. It didn’t mean that he was there, but maybe … I shivered. The one place that was more dangerous than Kraków. And his message: help is coming. The words echoed in my head until my eyes grew heavy and I fell into a deep sleep.

That night I dreamed I was with Jacob in the mountains. It was bitterly cold and we were being chased by wolves through deep snow. My feet had gone numb. The harder I ran, the slower I moved, until at last I was several hundred meters behind but he did not notice. “Jacob!” I cried, but he was too far ahead to hear me. One of the wolves leapt at me and I fell, screaming.

I awoke with a start. A floorboard creaked. It was just a dream, I told myself, drawing the blankets closer. But I could not fall back to sleep. On the other side of the curtain, my mother snored. The floor creaked again, louder this time. A shadow appeared suddenly by my bed. I sat up, but before I could react, a hand clamped over my mouth.

“Quiet!” a strange voice whispered. “I’m not here to hurt you.” Panicked, I struggled to break free, but the stranger’s grip was too strong. “Stop it! Alek sent me.” I could make out the stranger’s face faintly in the darkness. He was the man who had been arguing with Alek and Marek in the back room after dinner. “Emmeth,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Emmeth.” I relaxed slightly as the stranger repeated my and Jacob’s code word. I realized then that it was Jacob, most likely through Alek, who had sent this stranger to me.

“Who …?” I started to ask as he released his hand from my mouth.

“Shh! There’s no time. Get dressed.” I leapt up. Maybe Alek had at last found a way for me to help, I thought as I hurriedly put on my work dress over my nightgown. Perhaps Jacob needed me. I climbed into my boots and coat, and followed the stranger toward the door of our apartment. A few feet before the door, I paused by the curtain that separated my parents’ bed from mine. I drew back the curtain. My parents were sleeping soundly, my father’s large arm wrapped protectively around my mother.

“Come,” the stranger whispered harshly, tugging at my arm. I let the curtain drop and followed him from the apartment. The stairway was dark, and each step creaked beneath our feet. At last, we reached the ground and stepped out the back door of the apartment building.

Taking my hand, the stranger led me through the back alleyways of the ghetto. The streets, slick with frozen moisture, were empty except for several large rats scurrying between the gutters. A few minutes later, we reached a corner of the ghetto I had never before seen. There, a crack no more than twelve inches wide separated two sections of the outer wall. Looking furtively from side to side, the stranger pushed me ahead of him, and I realized he meant for me to fit through the hole. I sucked in my breath and held it, forcing myself into the hole. Halfway through, I could go no farther. “I’m stuck,” I whispered, panicking. The Nazis would surely find me here, trapped. I felt the stranger’s arms on me, pushing me hard from behind. The rough stone edges scraped my skin and threatened to tear my clothes. Finally, I broke free and found myself standing on the other side of the wall. Grunting, the stranger then squeezed through behind me.

Grabbing my arm, the stranger pulled me into an alleyway, then peered out onto the street in both directions. “Come,” he mouthed silently, tilting his head to the right. He began to walk with small, swift steps, hugging the side of the building, remaining in the shadows. I obeyed, following as quickly and quietly as I could. At that moment, shocked and confused, I did not realize I had just escaped from the ghetto.