who delivered this not knock? What if they are an informer?’
We heard many stories about informers these days, traitors selling their soul for a bit of bread, some extra privileges. Yes, we needed to be careful, but this invitation did not smell of such things to me.
‘Mother, they are promising us sugar and jam. When was the last time you tasted something sweet?’
She looked away.
‘I have to go, Mama.’
‘I’m coming too,’ Ellie said, rising from her chair.
‘That’s absolutely out of the question. Ellie is staying here,’ Aunt Cara intervened. Something had hardened in her since Paul’s death. I don’t think she had even cried over him; instead she shuffled around the rooms as if she were wearing an old, heavy suit of armour. Also we still had no news about my uncle. Cara often made it all the way to the Pawiak, only to be turned away.
Ellie said nothing. She knew she couldn’t argue with her mother. She slumped back into her chair, picked up her heavy book and disappeared into her world of stories, as if nothing else mattered.
5
I left our apartment early the next day. Wrapped in Grandfather’s coat, I reached deep into its pockets for the comforting presence of the puppets. I had decided not to bring the stage or many props – this time the coat itself would be the stage.
On the surface I looked like any other boy, but emboldened by the coat, I strode along at a good pace, ready for my hero’s journey through the ghetto. What evil could possibly penetrate my magical coat?
I stepped out into the road and moved swiftly along Gęsia Street. With my mind occupied by thoughts about Ellie and the puppets, I had not noticed how much worse the ghetto had become in the past months. Like our flat, the ghetto was bursting at the seams. There had never been enough space, but now I passed whole families sitting on the pavement, a piece of rug with suitcases on either side marking their small territory like islands. Many, wrapped in rags, begged with thin voices, stretching out their bony hands. Even our puppets were better dressed. And the closer I got to the ‘small ghetto’, the worse it got: not only were there hundreds of beggars lining the roads, but emaciated corpses lay on pavements or in gutters, flimsily covered with newspaper, or half naked and exposed, many barefoot. Shoes, like bread and warm clothes, were among the most precious items in the ghetto. The dead did not need shoes any more, but no one should have to enter the otherworld barefoot. I counted five corpses on my way, two of them children, maybe not older than six years old.
I reached the wooden bridge connecting the large and small ghettos. When I got to the middle, I stopped. It was forbidden, but I couldn’t prevent myself from letting my eyes drift over our lost city – this was the only place where we could see beyond the ghetto, down into Chlodna Street, where trams filled with Christian Poles went right through our ghetto. Chlodna Street was so close and yet unreachable. I rushed on.
When I turned into Krochmalna Street, I saw a thin arm sticking out from under some newspaper like a dry branch. My stomach heaved and I began to run as fast as I could. What would happen to all these people? Would anyone throw a hand full of earth on their graves, speak some kind words? Or would they end up in a hole, thrown in with other bodies, covered with chalk, no one even remembering their names?
Every evening we saw the sad wooden carts trundling through the ghetto, pulled by a few thin men, who picked up the corpses and tossed them into the carts like empty sacks. During the daytime, the bodies lay where they had died, passers-by stepping around and over them. Just another obstacle, one more annoying feature of ghetto life. What had we become?
Chilled to the bone, I pulled my coat closer. Crowds gathered around small fires, others stood in long queues, waiting for a ladle of soup from the soup kitchens that had sprung up
We heard many stories about informers these days, traitors selling their soul for a bit of bread, some extra privileges. Yes, we needed to be careful, but this invitation did not smell of such things to me.
‘Mother, they are promising us sugar and jam. When was the last time you tasted something sweet?’
She looked away.
‘I have to go, Mama.’
‘I’m coming too,’ Ellie said, rising from her chair.
‘That’s absolutely out of the question. Ellie is staying here,’ Aunt Cara intervened. Something had hardened in her since Paul’s death. I don’t think she had even cried over him; instead she shuffled around the rooms as if she were wearing an old, heavy suit of armour. Also we still had no news about my uncle. Cara often made it all the way to the Pawiak, only to be turned away.
Ellie said nothing. She knew she couldn’t argue with her mother. She slumped back into her chair, picked up her heavy book and disappeared into her world of stories, as if nothing else mattered.
5
I left our apartment early the next day. Wrapped in Grandfather’s coat, I reached deep into its pockets for the comforting presence of the puppets. I had decided not to bring the stage or many props – this time the coat itself would be the stage.
On the surface I looked like any other boy, but emboldened by the coat, I strode along at a good pace, ready for my hero’s journey through the ghetto. What evil could possibly penetrate my magical coat?
I stepped out into the road and moved swiftly along Gęsia Street. With my mind occupied by thoughts about Ellie and the puppets, I had not noticed how much worse the ghetto had become in the past months. Like our flat, the ghetto was bursting at the seams. There had never been enough space, but now I passed whole families sitting on the pavement, a piece of rug with suitcases on either side marking their small territory like islands. Many, wrapped in rags, begged with thin voices, stretching out their bony hands. Even our puppets were better dressed. And the closer I got to the ‘small ghetto’, the worse it got: not only were there hundreds of beggars lining the roads, but emaciated corpses lay on pavements or in gutters, flimsily covered with newspaper, or half naked and exposed, many barefoot. Shoes, like bread and warm clothes, were among the most precious items in the ghetto. The dead did not need shoes any more, but no one should have to enter the otherworld barefoot. I counted five corpses on my way, two of them children, maybe not older than six years old.
I reached the wooden bridge connecting the large and small ghettos. When I got to the middle, I stopped. It was forbidden, but I couldn’t prevent myself from letting my eyes drift over our lost city – this was the only place where we could see beyond the ghetto, down into Chlodna Street, where trams filled with Christian Poles went right through our ghetto. Chlodna Street was so close and yet unreachable. I rushed on.
When I turned into Krochmalna Street, I saw a thin arm sticking out from under some newspaper like a dry branch. My stomach heaved and I began to run as fast as I could. What would happen to all these people? Would anyone throw a hand full of earth on their graves, speak some kind words? Or would they end up in a hole, thrown in with other bodies, covered with chalk, no one even remembering their names?
Every evening we saw the sad wooden carts trundling through the ghetto, pulled by a few thin men, who picked up the corpses and tossed them into the carts like empty sacks. During the daytime, the bodies lay where they had died, passers-by stepping around and over them. Just another obstacle, one more annoying feature of ghetto life. What had we become?
Chilled to the bone, I pulled my coat closer. Crowds gathered around small fires, others stood in long queues, waiting for a ladle of soup from the soup kitchens that had sprung up
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