if he had asked for my opinion. He could have gotten mad or defensive, but instead he just laughed and nudged me on the shoulder, saying, “One day you won’t be so critical when it comes to girls.” With that, he was off again to meet Miriam, to stroll hand in hand, maybe to make plans for a future life together.
During Tsalig’s absences, I found ways to keep myself busy. I went to a secret Hebrew school in a rabbi’s darkenedapartment. I made friends with other boys my age, including Yossel and Samuel, whose father, Mr. Bircz, was a shoemaker. They lived in the apartment below ours. My friends and I played cards and explored the maze of alleyways in the area. We staged spontaneous “shows” of our own in the courtyard behind our building, and I mimicked a comedy routine with a hat teetering on my head. I suspect my imitation was pretty poor, but my friends laughed all the same.
I even taught myself (sort of) to ride a bike. A man in our building had a bike parked outside his apartment. One day he asked me to clean it for him. In exchange, he promised to let me take it for a spin. Though I had never ridden a bike, I was intrigued. After I finished scrubbing and polishing the bike, I climbed on, stretched my legs to reach the pedals, and wobbled a few feet before falling over. I got back on, and when I finally thought I had gained my balance, I pushed off on what was my boldest attempt, steering around the corner and gaining speed. I felt almost airborne, flying down the street. For those few seconds Iwas not a prisoner in a Nazi ghetto, trapped behind high walls, but a twelve-year-old boy like any other, relishing the mix of danger and excitement. Not even the inevitable end to my ride—when I crashed to the pavement, gashing my forehead—dampened my spirits or my enthusiasm.
Such diversions were precious few. I spent most of my time focused on the critical task of finding food. Every day I combed the sidewalks and alleys looking for a crust of bread or anything else edible in the attempt to combat my constant hunger. It’s hard to believe that my family survived even the first weeks in the ghetto, given how little food we had. My mother concocted a variety of soups, all with water as the main ingredient, and my father, whose work permit allowed him to leave the ghetto to work in Schindler’s factory several blocks away, tried to bring back a potato or piece of bread. I still remember standing by his side every evening as he emptied out his pockets, praying that buried in the lining might be some extra food we could share. Sometimes food was available on the black market, but one had to have something to exchange. TheNazis provided limited amounts of bread but not much else.
Mr. Bircz, the shoemaker downstairs, had dealings outside the ghetto. One day he returned from a customer with galareta , a Polish dish of jellied chicken feet. Although they had little enough themselves, the family shared their meal with me. Even with a special treat like that, my raging appetite didn’t subside. I was hungry, really hungry, all the time. Sleep became my only relief, the only time I wasn’t thinking about eating, but frequently visions of food filled my dreams.
My family had already spent our safety net of gold coins, and my father’s savings had disappeared. All we had left to barter were the last of my father’s suits. When we were most desperate, Father once again asked his friend Wojek, who lived outside the ghetto, to sell one on the black market. As before, after taking a cut for himself, Wojek gave us the remaining coins.
Other Jews were better off than we were. Some had come to the ghetto with money or jewelry that they couldtrade for food. A wealthy woman in the apartment above ours occasionally asked me to run errands for her. One day when I returned to her apartment, she took out an entire loaf of bread and cut off a thick slice for me as payment. I watched in astonishment as she liberally spread butter
During Tsalig’s absences, I found ways to keep myself busy. I went to a secret Hebrew school in a rabbi’s darkenedapartment. I made friends with other boys my age, including Yossel and Samuel, whose father, Mr. Bircz, was a shoemaker. They lived in the apartment below ours. My friends and I played cards and explored the maze of alleyways in the area. We staged spontaneous “shows” of our own in the courtyard behind our building, and I mimicked a comedy routine with a hat teetering on my head. I suspect my imitation was pretty poor, but my friends laughed all the same.
I even taught myself (sort of) to ride a bike. A man in our building had a bike parked outside his apartment. One day he asked me to clean it for him. In exchange, he promised to let me take it for a spin. Though I had never ridden a bike, I was intrigued. After I finished scrubbing and polishing the bike, I climbed on, stretched my legs to reach the pedals, and wobbled a few feet before falling over. I got back on, and when I finally thought I had gained my balance, I pushed off on what was my boldest attempt, steering around the corner and gaining speed. I felt almost airborne, flying down the street. For those few seconds Iwas not a prisoner in a Nazi ghetto, trapped behind high walls, but a twelve-year-old boy like any other, relishing the mix of danger and excitement. Not even the inevitable end to my ride—when I crashed to the pavement, gashing my forehead—dampened my spirits or my enthusiasm.
Such diversions were precious few. I spent most of my time focused on the critical task of finding food. Every day I combed the sidewalks and alleys looking for a crust of bread or anything else edible in the attempt to combat my constant hunger. It’s hard to believe that my family survived even the first weeks in the ghetto, given how little food we had. My mother concocted a variety of soups, all with water as the main ingredient, and my father, whose work permit allowed him to leave the ghetto to work in Schindler’s factory several blocks away, tried to bring back a potato or piece of bread. I still remember standing by his side every evening as he emptied out his pockets, praying that buried in the lining might be some extra food we could share. Sometimes food was available on the black market, but one had to have something to exchange. TheNazis provided limited amounts of bread but not much else.
Mr. Bircz, the shoemaker downstairs, had dealings outside the ghetto. One day he returned from a customer with galareta , a Polish dish of jellied chicken feet. Although they had little enough themselves, the family shared their meal with me. Even with a special treat like that, my raging appetite didn’t subside. I was hungry, really hungry, all the time. Sleep became my only relief, the only time I wasn’t thinking about eating, but frequently visions of food filled my dreams.
My family had already spent our safety net of gold coins, and my father’s savings had disappeared. All we had left to barter were the last of my father’s suits. When we were most desperate, Father once again asked his friend Wojek, who lived outside the ghetto, to sell one on the black market. As before, after taking a cut for himself, Wojek gave us the remaining coins.
Other Jews were better off than we were. Some had come to the ghetto with money or jewelry that they couldtrade for food. A wealthy woman in the apartment above ours occasionally asked me to run errands for her. One day when I returned to her apartment, she took out an entire loaf of bread and cut off a thick slice for me as payment. I watched in astonishment as she liberally spread butter
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