Milkweed

  Something happened up front. The screams got even louder, screechier. I heard a hollow thudding—thock!—as if someone were knocking wood. I leaned to the side, trying to see past the column of people in front of me. Mr. Milgrom jerked me back. “Attention!” I was beginning to get the message: Standing at attention was very important. Perhaps someone up front wasn’t doing it right. I accepted the challenge. You want attention, I’ll give you attention. I had seen many Jackboots stand at attention. I straightened my spine, snapped my heels together, lifted my chin, stared at the back in front of me. I gave them the best attention there ever was. As the screaming went on, I assumed that others were not so good at this as I.

  The back I stared at was green. A lady with a green coat. Snow kept falling. Sometimes a flake tickled my nose. I did not twitch. I did not move my eyes. I barely breathed. Flake by flake the green shoulders of the lady turned white.

  Somewhere up front a baby began to scream. Then another to the right. Then another. The louder the babies screamed, the brighter the lights.

  “Jew dogs!”

  “Filthy swine!”

  Thock! Thock!

  Jackboots and Flops came through the lines, screaming into the people’s faces, poking them with clubs and rifles, spitting in their faces. A Jackboot stopped in front of Mrs. Milgrom. I could see from the corner of my eye. He screamed at her. She fell to the ground. “Get up, Jew dog! Filthy sow! Get up!” he screamed. If he wants her to get up, I thought, why is he kicking and clubbing her? I didn’t understand. At last Mr. Milgrom managed to pull her to her feet.

  The Jackboot passed by me and Janina. I think he looked at me, but I could not see his face for the blinding lights behind him. For an instant I felt proud, as if he had pinned a medal on me for standing at attention so well.

  When he came to Uncle Shepsel, he growled, “Open your mouth.” I heard Uncle Shepsel give a whimpering “Ohhh.” He must have opened his mouth, for I saw the muzzle of a rifle come forward. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I turned my head to see. I saw the muzzle go into Uncle Shepsel’s mouth and push. Uncle Shepsel went backward into the lady behind him, who in turn fell back into the man behind her and so forth as the whole column of people toppled over. The Jackboot laughed.

  I went back to attention. I didn’t want that to happen to me.

  I had known from the start that the green-coated lady in front of me was in trouble. Her attention was very poor. She wavered from side to side, sometimes her head drooped, and her shoulders were not straight at all. When a Jackboot came to her, he must have seen it also. Down came a club. Thock! Then another bash across her chest. The snow went flying from her shoulders into my face. I hoped the Jackboot noticed that I didn’t move.

  It wasn’t long before the lady’s shoulders were white again. Her head was drooping all the time now. I could hear her sniveling. The next time a Jackboot came to her, he said, “You stinking sow! You smell like a pig farm!” He clubbed her again, and again the snow flew from her shoulders. Then it seemed all the Jackboots were telling the people how bad they smelled. They were holding their noses. I was shocked. I had thought I was the only one who smelled bad.

  I sniffed, and I began to smell it myself. I was aware of tiny yips and whimpers erupting around me. I knew what the smell was, but despite what the Jackboots said, there were really no pigs, and therefore no pig flop, in the courtyard. And then I felt down under my stomach the urge to go, and I understood what was happening. We had been standing there for a very long time, and people were having to go, and there was no place to go but where we were standing. And so people just relieved themselves where they were, and I heard the sad shudders as it ran down their legs and into the snow, and when I couldn’t hold my own any longer I did the same. And even then I remained at such splendid attention I was tempted to call out to the Jackboots, Hey, look at me!

  The screaming never stopped. By now people were falling all over the courtyard, falling and staggering to their feet and falling again. It was easy to tell the people who had not fallen: they were the ones with the highest piles of snow on their shoulders and heads. I could now feel the faint weight of the snow on my head. I wondered how it looked. I took even more pains not to move. I didn’t want my snow to fall off.

  I thought of the stone angel. I pictured the snow falling over it, two crests of snow rising on the tops of its wings. So silent, the both of them, the angel and the snow. I pretended I was the stone angel. I closed my eyes and pretended as hard as I could, and after a while I was convinced I could feel wings sprouting from my shoulders. I wanted to look, to see my wings, but I was an angel of stone, so I could not move.

  Next thing I knew my face was in the snow and Mr. Milgrom and Janina were hauling me to my feet. “What happened?” I said.

  Mr. Milgrom smacked me. “Quiet. They’ll beat you. You fainted. You’re too stiff. Bend your knees a little bit.”

  This was all getting complicated, not to mention very tiring. I was supposed to move but not move. I tried. I bent my knees. Jackboots screamed. Babies screamed. Lights screamed. We stood so long my pants dried out.

  When they finally let us go, the sky was turning gray above the rooftops. We lurched across the snow. Mobs stampeded for the bathrooms. There was one on each floor. I myself did not understand bathrooms. I had never used one, never needed one. The world was my bathroom.

  I dragged myself up the stairs with the Milgroms. Uncle Shepsel and Mrs. Milgrom performed a groaning duet that grew louder with each step. I followed them into the room. I wanted only to sleep. I collapsed onto the floor.

  When I awoke, I thought I was back in the courtyard under the blinding lights, but it was only the sun in the window. And Uncle Shepsel, propped on his elbow, was pointing at me and saying, “Why is he sleeping here? He smells.”

  “I regret to inform you,” said Mr. Milgrom, “that you are not a rose garden yourself these days.”

  Uncle Shepsel pounded the floor. “He’s not family.”

  Mr. Milgrom looked straight at him. “He is now.”

  21

  Kuba lifted the newspaper. “He’s dead.”

  “Kaput,” said Enos.

  We were standing in the snow around the body of Jon. I wasn’t sure how they could tell. Jon was no grayer, no more silent than usual. Other people walked by, not looking.

  “Shoes,” said Ferdi.

  Jon had fine shoes, like the rest of us, except Big Henryk. When one pair wore out, we stole another.

  “Somebody will take them,” said Enos.

  “But it’s Jon, ” said Olek. He meant to point at Jon, but only his shoulder moved forward. Sometimes Olek forgot his right arm was gone.

  “Give them to Big Henryk.”

  Uri’s voice. He hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  “Big Henryk doesn’t like shoes,” I said.

  This was true. Even before the ghetto, even before the Jackboots came, Big Henryk wore gray bank coin bags on his feet. Even in the snow. They were tied at his ankles with drawstrings.

  “They won’t fit,” said Ferdi. I couldn’t tell if Ferdi’s cloud-breath was from the cold or his cigar.

  “Big Henryk has little feet,” said Uri. “Take them off.”

  Kuba pulled off Jon’s shoes.

  Uri swiped away snow with his foot. He made Big Henryk sit on the curb. He pulled off Big Henryk’s bank bags. He put Jon’s shoes on Big Henryk and tied them tight. Big Henryk stomped his feet like a baby. He let out a loud squawk. Uri grabbed Big Henryk’s ears and twisted. I thought he was going to twist them off. Big Henryk’s eyes bugged out. Using the ears as handles, Uri hauled Big Henryk to his feet. He let Big Henryk squawk some more, then said to him, “Are you going to wear the shoes?” Big Henryk nodded sharply. Uri let go.

  As we were walking away, I said to Uri, “Will an angel come for Jon?” This was what I had heard under the braided rug, that when you die an angel carries you off to a place called Heaven.

  Enos, overhearing, sneere
d. “Yeah, here comes the angel.”

  It was a horse, so skinny it seemed made of sticks and paper bags, clopping through the snow and slush of the street. It was led by two bedraggled men, and it pulled a wagon with a dead and naked body on it. We looked back. The horse stopped at Jon. One of the men grabbed Jon by his feet and pulled him to the wagon. The other man grabbed Jon by his armpits, and together they swung him back and forth. It reminded me of the girl orphans jumping rope. Suddenly they let go of Jon and he sailed through the air to the top of the other body. The wagon rolled on.

  “Where are they taking him?” I said.

  “Where do you think?” said Enos. “Off to Heaven he goes.”

  I believed him. “What happens there?” I said.

  Kuba laughed. “He becomes a Jackboot!” Others laughed loudly, even Uri.

  I was confused. “But he’s dead.”

  “Not anymore,” said Ferdi.

  “Nobody is dead in Heaven, right, Uri?” said Kuba.

  Everyone looked at Uri. Uri said nothing.

  “They pump the air back into you and you’re good as new!” said Kuba. More laughter.

  Enos raised his fists. “Let’s hear it for Heaven!”

  Everyone cheered but Uri, even Big Henryk, and then we were silent for a long time. The only sound came from Big Henryk, trying out his new shoes, clopping them like a horse into the slush and snow. When he splattered the ankles of other people, they gave us ugly looks.

  Someone gave us more than that. A Flop.

  Flops were all over the place. The Jackboots hired them to guard the Jews in the ghetto. The crazy thing was, the Flops were Jews too. Jews guarding Jews! It made no sense to me.

  Flops were not allowed to carry guns, but each had a whistle and a wooden club as long as my arm. They wore uniforms, but they fit no better than our clothes—no high boots, no silver eagles. And of course, being Jews, they wore armbands.

  So this Flop came along and began to yell, shaking his club, “Armbands! Armbands!” As always at times like that, we scattered like cockroaches. But this time one of us got caught. Big Henryk. Big Henryk was clopping away in his new shoes and did not notice anything else until the Flop had him by the arm. I heard a bellow and stopped to look back. Big Henryk was standing in front of the Flop, holding his head with both hands while the Flop screamed at him and waved the club in his face. The Flop was short and scrawny. He had to look up at Big Henryk as he screamed at him.

  Then I saw a flash of red hair. It was Uri coming up behind the Flop. He grabbed the club and pulled the Flop over backward to the sidewalk.

  By now the rest of the people were on the other side of the street, pretending they didn’t see. Now the club was in Uri’s hand and Big Henryk was just standing there watching, and that was when Uri conked the Flop on the top of his head. Just like that: thock! Like the sounds in the lineup.

  Now it was the Flop holding his head, wobbling about the sidewalk. This must have tickled Big Henryk, for he took the club from Uri and bopped himself in the head. That must have tickled the rest of us, for suddenly we were all dashing out of our shadows, passing the club around, bopping ourselves in the head just hard enough to be fun and send us lurching around the wobbling Flop. When the Flop lost his balance and toppled to the ground, we got other notions. We pulled off his shoes and flung them into the street, and all the people on the other side suddenly had eyes and dove for the shoes. And then the Flop’s jacket went flying, and then his pants.

  “Take his feet,” Uri said to Enos, and Enos took his feet and Uri took his arms, and I was having too much fun to think: Uri, you’re not being invisible. They swung him like a jump rope, like the wagon men had swung dead Jon, and let him fly, and the Flop went sailing through the air, landing in a slushy splash. Uri wound up and flung the club far into the rubble, and the Flop groaned in the snow in his underwear, and once again there were no eyes on the other side of the street.

  22

  SPRING

  “Here comes the big shot,” said grim-faced Enos.

  “The new Jew,” said Kuba the clown.

  “The family man,” said Ferdi. His cigar flapped in his mouth as he spoke.

  “The littlest Jew,” said Enos. “We are honored by your presence.” He stood and bowed to me.

  Uri smiled.

  I no longer slept all the time with the boys. Sometimes, over Uncle Shepsel’s objections, I slept at the Milgroms’. When I returned to sleep with the boys, they ribbed me. There were mountains of rubble to climb over to reach the braided rug. We slept on top of it now. It was spring.

  From the moment Mr. Milgrom said, “He is now,” my identity as a Gypsy vanished. Gone were the seven wagons, seven brothers, five sisters, Greta the speckled mare. Deep down I guess I had always known my Gypsy history was merely Uri’s story, not reality. I didn’t miss it. When you own nothing, it’s easy to let things go. I supposed my last name was Milgrom now, so Pilsudski went too. I kept Misha. I liked it.

  I kept something else too—the yellow stone around my neck. The yellow stone my father had given me. I knew, as something in me had always known, that that was the one true part of Uri’s story.

  We lounged on the rug, on our backs, our hands behind our heads, taking it easy, enjoying the mild air, watching the stars fade. Soon there was only the moon and one star. A smear of robin’s-egg blue showed beyond the rubble. Day was coming.

  We were night people now. We were all smugglers now, even Big Henryk. Smuggling was a nighttime thing.

  Ferdi passed around his cigar. We took turns puffing and coughing. The stars were fuzzy beyond the cigar smoke.

  “Himmler coming!”

  These words were followed by the silence of surprise, as they were spoken by Big Henryk, who often bellowed like a cow but hardly ever bellowed words.

  At last Enos said, “Himmler? The Himmler?”

  “Himmler coming,” Big Henryk repeated.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Enos.

  “Why is he coming?” said one-armed Olek.

  Enos asked Uri, “What do you think?”

  Uri had the cigar. He blew a stream of smoke at the stars. “I think Himmler can go anywhere he wants.”

  “Who’s Himmler?” I said.

  Enos laughed.

  “Just the Number Two Jackboot, that’s all,” said Kuba, who had taken a seat on a pile of bricks.

  “You can thank Himmler for this wonderful bedroom,” said Enos. “And for the growl in your stomach. And the bodies in the streets. And the wall.”

  “Himmler Schmimmler,” said Kuba.

  “We’re as good as dead,” said Enos.

  “Himmler coming!” bellowed Big Henryk.

  The sun came up and we went to sleep. We woke at noon and scattered. I looked for Himmler everywhere. I didn’t see him. I was disappointed. I wanted to get a look at the Number Two Jackboot. I had heard of a man called Hitler, who was boss of all the Jackboots, who were also called Nazis. But it was Himmler, Enos said, who was in charge of the ghetto. In charge of the Jews. In charge of us.

  I usually brought food to the Milgroms. This time it was news: “Himmler is coming!” I announced. After giving me his greeting—“Ah, the smelly intruder”—Uncle Shepsel looked me over and said, “Where’s the food?”

  Mr. Milgrom was lancing a boil on his wife’s leg. “A little gratitude would be nice.”

  “I hate Himmler,” said Janina. She was playing pick-up-sticks on the floor. She had brought them from the old house.

  “Don’t you want to see him?” I said.

  “If I see him,” she said, “I’m going to go right up and kick him.” To show me, she stood and kicked the leg of the table.

  “Who says he’s coming?” said Uncle Shepsel.

  “Big Henryk,” I said.

  “Who’s Big Henryk?”

  “He’s big,” I said. “He didn’t used to wear shoes. Now he wears dead Jon’s.”

  “I’ll stop there,” said Uncle Shepsel. ??
?Are you going for food?”

  “Not now,” I said.

  “I’m hungry now.”

  Mr. Milgrom snapped: “Shepsel!”

  Uncle Shepsel slunk back into his usual corner. Mr. Milgrom finished with the boil and pulled Mrs. Milgrom up to a sitting position, her back against the wall. She had become skinny and gray. She no longer worked at the uniform factory. She tilted to one side. Her hair was like a mop. She looked like rag dolls I had seen Doctor Korczak’s orphan girls carry. She coughed, and the force of the cough toppled her over. Mr. Milgrom straightened her up again.

  He pushed himself to his feet. He shuffled across the room to me. I knew he was going to talk to me. He seemed to feel he had to be close to me in order to speak. And he never spoke without touching me. Sometimes he laid his hand on my head, sometimes he ran his fingertip across my shoulder. He did this with Janina too. And he always smiled when he spoke to us.

  “You’re a good boy,” he said.

  I was sure he was about to praise me more, but Janina interrupted. “Am I a good girl?” she said, pressing up to his leg.

  He laid his other hand on her head. “You are both good. You are the best children.”

  “But who’s better,” said Janina, “Misha or me?”

  Mr. Milgrom looked down on us. His smile seemed to double, so we would both have a full share. He pretended to give the question great thought. “No one is better,” he said at last. “It’s a tie.”

  Janina stomped her foot. “Tata! It can’t be a tie. Somebody has to be better.”

  “Who says?” said her father.

  “Tata! I beat Misha all the time when we race.” (This was a lie. It was I who always won. Janina lied a lot.) “And I’m better at pick-up-sticks.” (True.) “And look.” She did a split. “And look.” She attempted a headstand. For a few seconds her feet hung in the air inches above the floor. Her shoes were caked with spring mud, crusty and torn. The shoes came back down. She stood proudly. “See.” In her mind she had done a magnificent feat. “I can do that for a whole hour if I want to.”