“Yes. What about Jacob? I mean, will he be going with me?”
She stops filling the kettle and turns to me, a helpless look crossing her face. “Emma, I’m sorry, I don’t think so. There’s been no further word about his whereabouts or his condition. I had hoped you would be able to go together, but with having to get you out of here so unexpectedly, it’s just not possible. Perhaps in a few months he will be able to follow you,” she adds.
So I will be going without Jacob. For a moment, I consider refusing. “You have to go,” Krysia says, reading my mind. She puts the kettle on the stove and then turns to face me once more. “I know my nephew, and above all else, he would want you and your child to be safe.” If that is true, then why hasn’t he been here with me, I wonder for the hundredth time, instead of fighting with the resistance? If I mattered most, we would be together. He would not be wounded and I would know the child I was carrying was his. But the truth, I know, is not that simple. If Jacob had not gone underground, I would never have escaped the ghetto. We would both be in a concentration camp by now, or worse. Krysia is right, of course; Jacob would want me to do what is necessary to survive.
“What about you and Lukasz?” I ask a few minutes later, as she places the cups of tea on the table.
She shakes her head, sitting down. “We cannot all go together. Making the journey now, ahead of schedule when the mountain snow is still deep, is dangerous enough for you. Lukasz cannot manage it and he would only slow you down. I’ve arranged with the resistance that, when you go, Lukasz will be taken from the house and hidden in the countryside.”
“But why?” I cannot bear to think of Lukasz uprooted again and left with strangers.
“Emma, once you are gone, the Gestapo will surely come here again. I will tell them that you have gone to visit relatives back in Gdańsk, but we need to make it look like Lukasz has gone with you. So you see why it must be this way.”
I do not answer. We drink our tea without speaking, the silence broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. A few minutes later, I clear my throat. “Krysia, there’s one other thing.” I hesitate. “My parents…”
“Oh, yes.” She smoothes her skirt, not meeting my eyes. “I asked about them just now while getting information about your escape plan. They are all right, surviving as well as can be expected. That is all I’ve been able to learn. I was hoping to find out something more before mentioning anything to you.” I can tell by the uneasiness in her voice that she is not saying all she knows.
“I need to see them before I leave.”
She shakes her head firmly. “I’m sorry, it is out of the question.”
“Please,” I implore. “I can’t just leave without saying goodbye.”
“Emma, be reasonable,” she replies impatiently. “Podgorze is not safe now. Security is tighter than ever since the Warszawa incident and there are checkpoints everywhere, especially around the ghetto. You would be risking your life by going there. And even if you went to the ghetto, what is it you would do? Go back inside?”
I hesitate. “I—I don’t know,” I admit. “I mean, no, of course not. But perhaps I can find a break in the wall, like the one I escaped through the night I was brought from the ghetto. I could speak with them at the wall, or at least send word.”
“It’s too dangerous.” Her voice softens. “I will make sure the resistance has someone look in on them after you are gone.”
I am not convinced. I do not doubt the sincerity of her words, but I take them in with the same distrust I have acquired of all those I had once believed in the most. No one would look in on my parents, not unless it was eminently convenient or in his or her own interest to do so. Our families had been collateral damage to the resistance. For the millionth time, I curse myself silently for trusting them, for not trying to do something to get my parents out of the ghetto months ago.
But I know this is not a fight I will win with Krysia. “And the Kommandant?” I ask instead.
“What about him?”
“I am not at all sure he will believe that I disappeared the very day I was to be going to Austria.”
“You let me worry about the Kommandant,” she replies, her eyes narrowing.
“You didn’t seem surprised at his proposal,” I remark.
“Of course not. He is in love with you.”
I look away. “I know.”
She looks up, surprised at my tone. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I do not know what I am feeling. Pity, perhaps, or regret.
Krysia pats my hand. “I understand. It is no fun to break a heart, even one like Richwalder’s.”
“I suppose not.” I clear my throat. “He’s asked to see me tonight.”
Her hand freezes on mine. “Oh? What did you say?”
“I said yes. I had to,” I add. I can hear the defensiveness in my own voice. “I had no excuse not to.”
She nods. “That’s right, of course. Although it does complicate things a bit, with you leaving in the morning.”
“It will be fine. The Kommandant is a heavy sleeper.” I can feel myself blush as I reveal this intimate detail. “And I’ve left before he’s arisen many times.”
“Still,” Krysia says. “We need to be sure.” Without speaking further, she rises and walks out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returns. “Here.” She presses a small glass vial containing a white powder into my palm. “Sleeping powder,” she said. “If you can slip a little bit of it into his brandy, it will make sure he doesn’t wake up when you do.”
I look up at her, puzzled. “How on earth…?”
“Pankiewicz gave it to me some time ago, before he was taken from the ghetto. It is normally used by doctors to sedate patients for minor procedures. I asked him for it because, well, you never know what you might need.”
I think about all of the times I had waited for the Kommandant to fall asleep so I could search for papers. “Why didn’t you give it to me to use earlier?” I ask.
“I considered it, but the powder is extremely powerful,” she replies. “Even if you had used a small amount, he would have woken up feeling very sluggish, as if he’d had way too much to drink the night before. I thought it was too risky to use on a regular basis, when you had to keep going back there. I was afraid he might get suspicious. But now…”
“I understand.” Tonight is the last night I will ever go to the Kommandant’s. There is nothing more to lose. I tuck the vial into my skirt pocket and stand up. “Krysia, it’s safe, isn’t it?” Now it is her turn to look confused. “For the baby, I mean, if I have to go to the Kommandant’s tonight…” My voice trails off—I am embarrassed.
A look of realization crosses her face. “Of course, you haven’t been with him since you found out you are pregnant, have you?” I nod. “Don’t worry. It should still be fine at this early stage.”
From upstairs comes the sound of Lukasz, awake and babbling. “I’ll get him,” I say, suddenly eager to escape the conversation.
“Okay.” She starts up the stairs to the third floor. “I’ll gather some warm clothes for you and Lukasz.”
Krysia and I spend the rest of the day preparing things for Lukasz’s and my departure the next morning, packing two small bags tight with clothes and preparing foodstuffs that will travel well. We speak little as we work. That evening, Lukasz clings to me tighter than ever as I tuck him into bed, as though he somehow knows it will be the last time.
A few minutes before eight, I hear the Kommandant’s car pull up in front of the house. “You have the powder?” Krysia asks, following me down to the foyer.
“Yes,” I reply as I pull on my coat. “I’ll be back before dawn.”
“Good. Be careful tonight. We are so close now. We can’t let anything go wrong.” Her papery lips brush my cheek. “I will see you in the morning before you go.”
When the car pulls up in front of the apartment building, I am surprised to find the Kommandant waiting for
me downstairs by the front door. “You look radiant,” he says warmly, taking my arm. As he escorts me upstairs, I notice that his face is freshly shaven and that he has put on cologne. Inside, the apartment looks transformed: the tables are cleared of clutter and the air has a faint lemon scent.
I turn to him in surprise. “You cleaned the apartment?”
“Yes,” he says, helping me off with my coat. “Or had it cleaned, I should say. Squalor may be fine for a bachelor like me, but you can’t raise a child in such a place.” I start to reply that the child will not be raised, or even born here, then think better of it. He is trying to show me, I realize, that he will make a good father.
As I walk to the sofa, I notice another change: the photograph of Margot has disappeared from the mantelpiece; a vase filled with fresh flowers sits in its place. “Georg…” I turn back to him and gesture toward the mantelpiece.
He comes over to where I am standing and takes my hands in his. “You are my life now,” he says. “It’s time to let go of the past.” I search his face for any sign of sadness or remorse, but find none. For the first time since I have known him, he looks completely happy. A wave of guilt washes over me suddenly. Tomorrow I will be gone and the charade of Anna will, too. What will happen to him then?
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I start to shake my head, then remember the vial of powder. “A bit,” I lie. “Perhaps something light. Why don’t I pour the drinks while you get it?”
He disappears into the kitchen and I walk to the glass-front cabinet where he keeps the liquor. I take out two glasses and, looking quickly over my shoulder, tap a small amount of the powder into one of them. I hesitate uncertainly. Krysia had not said how much to use. I add an extra pinch for good measure, then pour brandy into both glasses. “Here we are,” the Kommandant calls as he comes through the door of the kitchen carrying two plates.
Trying not to panic, I stash the vial hurriedly back in my skirt, then turn to him. “That looks delicious,” I manage to say, as I carry the glasses to the low table by the sofa.
The Kommandant makes small talk as we eat, as though this was any other day and I was not leaving the country in the morning. I watch carefully as he drains his glass of brandy, hoping the powder has completely dissolved and will not leave a telltale trace in the bottom of the glass. A few minutes later, I study his face to see if there is any effect, but his eyes are clear and give no indication of sleepiness. I wonder how long it will take for the powder to work. When we have finished our meal and had coffee, he starts to reach for me.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” I suggest. If the powder takes effect here and he falls asleep on the sofa, it will be harder for me to sneak out of the apartment.
“Okay,” he agrees. In the bedroom, I begin to see the effects of the drug. His pupils are dilated, and his kisses are slow, his hands clumsy. A few minutes later, he falls away from me, eyes closed. He is breathing heavily. The powder is really strong, I think, rolling away from him. I hope that I have not given him too much. I look at the clock on the nightstand. It is after eleven. I had not realized we had been talking over dinner for so long.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering what to do. I would like to leave now, but I don’t know how long the powder will last and I am afraid he will wake up and find me gone. No, I should stay at least for a little while. Though I had largely pretended to drink my glass of brandy, the few sips I took have made me drowsy and I have to pinch myself a few times not to doze off.
As I lay in bed, my thoughts turn to my parents. It has been so long since I have seen them, and now I am supposed to leave, without even saying goodbye. My earlier conversation with Krysia plays over and over in my mind. She is right, I know; by going to the ghetto I would be risking my life, and the safety of everyone around me. It would be a crazy thing to do, especially now, when we are so close to the end. And there is no guarantee that I would even be able to reach my parents. But even as I play the risks over and over in my mind, I know that I have to try. In a few hours I will leave Kraków, possibly forever. I had already walked out on my parents once the night I escaped from the ghetto. I cannot do it again.
I look over at the clock again, then back at the Kommandant sleeping. Krysia had told me that I needed to be back at the house by four o’clock. The Kommandant’s apartment is only a short walk from the bridge to Podgorze. There is time, I realize; time to go to the ghetto, if I dare. My mind is made up. Silently, I slip from bed. The Kommandant snorts and rolls over. I freeze, terrified that he has awoken and that I will be unable to leave, but he continues breathing evenly, eyes shut. I dress quickly and start for the door of the bedroom.
Then I stop and turn to look at the Kommandant. This is the last time I will see him. I tiptoe back to the side of the bed where he is sleeping, fighting the urge to climb back into bed beside him, to wrap myself around him once more. A wave of sadness passes over me. There are so many things I want to tell him. That I’m sorry for deceiving him, for not being able to really be the woman he thought he loved. That I wish things could have been different between us. But there is no time for regrets. I bend over, touching my nose to his hair, and kiss him lightly on the forehead to say goodbye. He does not stir.
I cross the living room and pick up my coat from the chair where I had placed it earlier. As I start to put it on, I hesitate, looking down at the low table where our dinner plates still sit, half filled with meat and cheese. So much waste. I will take the food with me to give to my parents, I decide. I tiptoe hurriedly into the kitchen and grab a paper bag from the cupboard, then return to the living room and put the food inside. I make my way out of the apartment. Outside, the street is deserted, the air bitterly cold. I head toward the bridge, hugging the shadows of the buildings. My every nerve stands on end; I must not get caught. Soon, I reach the river’s edge and cross furtively over the railway bridge.
The streets of Podgorze are silent and dark. I know, though, that the Gestapo could be hiding anywhere, lying in wait for someone to come along. When I reach the ghetto wall, I press myself against it, trying to hide in the thin shadows. I look at the wall, which seems to stretch endlessly in both directions. An urge to turn and leave washes over me. Perhaps Krysia was right. I press myself flat against the wall as I inch my way along, feeling with my hand until I touch a small break in the stone, no larger than a loaf of bread. I peer through the hole. The streets inside are also deserted. This is the industrial side of the ghetto near the kitchen, I realize. It is unlikely that anyone will be here in the dead of night. Inhaling deeply, I continue along the wall.
Several meters farther down, where the wall turns and curves inward, there is another, bigger break in the stone. I look through the hole, relieved to see apartment buildings instead of warehouses. This street is not far from the street where my parents live, but it too is deserted. This is hopeless, I think, looking nervously over my shoulder at the empty street behind me. I should go now, before I get caught. But I cannot leave, not when I have made it this far. A few minutes later, I hear a faint scratching sound on the other side of the wall. I press my head through the hole, craning my neck in both directions, but I can see nothing. It’s probably just a rat, I think, sinking back. Then I hear the sound again, louder and closer. I look again. An old man shuffles along the ghetto street toward me, head down. His back is hunched to the point he is almost doubled over as he takes his tiny steps. As he nears, I start to call him over to ask if he has seen my father. Then I stop, mouth agape. The old man is my father.
“Tata,” I whisper loudly, pulling back my shawl. He looks up. Several minutes pass before the light of recognition crosses his face. He walks slowly toward me.
“Shana madela,” he rasps in Yiddish, stretching a bony hand through the hole in the wall. Pretty girl. The eleven months since I have seen him last have aged him beyond all recognition. His face is like a skull, barely covered with skin. Only a few patches of his beard remain. The few teeth that still remain of his
once full smile protrude grotesquely from his sunken mouth.
“Tata, what…?” So many questions flood my brain, I do not know where to begin.
“I walk at night sometimes,” he says, as though that explains everything. I remember, as though from a past life, the hunger pains that came at night in the ghetto, shooting through my stomach like knives, making it impossible to sleep.
“Here,” I say, pulling out the bag of food I brought from the Kommandant’s apartment. I push it through the crack in the wall. “It’s not kosher, but…” He takes the bag and holds it limply, as though he does not realize it is there. My stomach twists. Something is horribly wrong. “Mama…?” I ask, not wanting to hear the answer. My mother never would have let him out alone at night. She never would have let his hair be unkempt, or his clothes dirty, even in the worst of times.
“Ten days ago,” he says, his eyes turning to dark pits.
“What…?” I ask, not wanting to understand the meaning of his words. I notice then that the front of his shirt has been torn in the Jewish ritual of mourning. “No…”
“She’s gone,” he whispers with difficulty, tears springing to his eyes.
“No!” I cry loudly, oblivious to the danger that someone might hear. Suddenly I am five years old and in bed with the flu in our Kazimierz apartment. My mother had slept with me when I was ill, and rubbed grease on my chest and made soup and sung songs. “Mama…”
My father looks at me helplessly through the hole in the wall, a tortured expression on his face. He could never handle my crying, even as a child. The notion that something was wrong with me that he could not fix had always been an unbearable one to him. My grief, I know, is worse for him than his own. “She first became sick last autumn with a terrible fever.”
“I know,” I reply between my sobs. “I tried to get help.” I cannot bring myself to tell him the resistance refused to help. “Krysia tried to do something.”