The Old Brown Suitcase (5 page)

“If anyone asks what you are doing, answer politely that you are playing games with paper, glue, crayons and cards. Above all, do not mention the word ‘school’ outside of this classroom to anyone. No one must know what we do here. Learning is forbidden in the Ghetto. Breaking these rules can cost us our lives. Do you understand?”

We all answer “yes” in unison, with very serious faces. But soon we begin to enjoy ourselves. Fela and Hala are very patient. They laugh with us, and teach us songs and poems.

I can hardly wait from one day to the next to go to school. I am finally learning. There are stories to read and listen to, wonderful stories about life in Poland, geography and history, and even a bit of math. We draw and paint and make things out of coloured tissue paper. When the materials run out, we laugh, and puzzle over how to do a project for which there are no tools. When there isn’t any coloured paper we use whatever paper we can find. When we run out of ink, we use pencils. Fela calls it “using ingenuity and common sense.”

One day someone knocks on the door. Fela gives us our cue. We pick up our drawings, exercise books and pencils and throw them into our boxes. Meanwhile, Hala swiftly picks up the textbooks and disappears into another room. All that is left on the table are some playing cards. Fela goes to the door. But there is nothing to panic about. Just an elderly man looking for someone. He looks in and shakes his head.

“You are fooling with danger,” he says, “but I admire your courage. I hope that you are also learning what it means to be a Jew.”

Our teachers laugh. “We don’t need to study being Jewish, we are living it!” says Fela. The man shrugs his shoulders and leaves.

I try to avoid our cold apartment and the courtyard with its screaming kids, stench of potato peel soup and laundry. I love only the school, where I feel a part of an important and secret society.

One day we sit in school as usual, while Fela outlines our work for next week. Books and papers are strewn all over the tables. Suddenly there is a loud knock on the door.

The children’s frightened eyes are fixed on the teachers. My hands shake as we go through our drill, and I drop things. “Hurry, children hurry,” whispers Fela.

She opens the door, and two tall men in black uniforms stride into the room. Their boots pound at the floor and the black swastikas stand out against their red arm bands. The shorter of the two bellows out at Fela in heavily accented Polish.

“What is all this,
Fraulein
? What are you and these children doing here?”

“We are just playing, sir. Children get bored doing nothing. We sing, play cards,” answers Fela quietly.

The SS officers look around suspiciously. “You know that school is not allowed,
verboten
,” he shouts at Fela, shaking his finger at her. “And you, who are you?” he asks, this time pointing his finger at Hala.

“She is my sister,” explains Fela.

“Sister, huh?” barks the SS man and pokes Fela’s shoulder with his finger. His companion snatches our cards off the table and puts them in his pocket. Without another word, but with hatred on their faces, the two officers leave the room. Their boots thunder up the stairs. Then all is still.

We sit silent as stones, reminded once again that we are helpless in the face of the enemy, and that learning is a crime.

Fela and Hala congratulate us on how quickly we carried out our drill, and as we leave the school they smile and say, “Don’t worry, we’ll see you all tomorrow.”

But nothing consoles me as I walk home with a sick feeling in my stomach. When Father and I return the next day, the door is boarded up. On it is a placard that says in ugly black letters, “
Schule Verboten
,” and other words I don’t understand.

No one in the neighbourhood knows what happened to Fela and Hala.

Father tries to cheer me up. On the way home from school we stop at a building. “This is the orphanage run by Dr. Korczak, who is not only a doctor but also a writer of children’s books and a great teacher,” he says. “I want you to see the children. I have helped him on occasion to find food and clothing for them.”

A woman greets us at the front entrance and says that she is Dr. Korczak’s assistant. The doctor isn’t feeling well today, but we can see the children. Many of the orphans are gathered in the main room. Their heads are shaved because of lice, and their bodies are almost skeleton-thin. These are the children whose parents are either dead or missing. But they smile at us and play and talk among themselves.

Once on the street again, I look up at the building and see an elderly man with glasses and a white beard watering flowers on the balcony. They are the only flowers among the twisted iron balconies and dark windows of the buildings on the street.

“That’s Dr. Korczak,” says Father. “He is a great man.”

As we walk away, I keep turning around until the last red dot of Dr. Korczak’s flowers disappears.

(WARSAW, 1942)

I AM NINE
.

In the months to come I resume playing games with the kids in the courtyard, but soon even that comes to an end.

The latest orders from the Germans are that everyone who wants to survive must work. Father already works for the
Werkschutz
, in the work shop Security Force. He arranges for Mother to work at one of the
Wehrmacht
work shops set up in the Ghetto by the German army, to fix uniforms and sew other things that the soldiers need.

Mother and I walk each morning to the Schultz Company. The room upstairs where Mother works is very long, filled with tables, sewing machines and workers.

Children are not supposed to be here, but Father makes special arrangements for me to get in, as long as I make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

All day Mother sews fur collars for German uniforms. I hide on the floor under the table and try to help by picking up pieces of fur and thread, but it feels stuffy and uncomfortable under the table. For lunch, the workers are given soup and sometimes a piece of bread. The soup looks like brown water and is tasteless, and the bread is stale. But it is all we have to eat for the entire ten-hour day. I am always hungry these days, so I feel lucky to have even that. The hunger makes us weak, and often I see Mother swaying on her feet from exhaustion.

When we walk to and from work, we see terrible things in the Ghetto. Children beg in the street. Dirt and garbage piles up, and huge rats scuttle in dark corners. We see a man shot because he refuses to bow to a German officer. We see another man hung naked on a tree by soldiers, who laugh at his nakedness. Old people are shot to death simply because German soldiers consider them useless.

The Ghetto is overcrowded. More than four hundred thousand people are living in a space where only a hundred and sixty thousand used to live. But now the German authorities want to send us away — those who have not died from sickness or starvation. The soldiers begin to raid different parts of the Ghetto and take people away. No one knows when their street or home will be raided next. Just in case, we keep our suitcases packed and ready. My own brown suitcase is beginning to look a little battered.

One early morning, they come to our building. We can hear their boots march into the courtyard. They shout in German, banging on doors. We wait in our room until they come, their black polished boots echoing up the long corridor. They come closer and closer, and then stop. A heavy fist pounds on our door. It bursts open and a red-faced soldier rushes into our room. He levels his rifle at us.

“
Juden raus
!” he hollers, telling us to get out, and his rifle follows us as we take our suitcases.

We file out of the building and join the others in the courtyard. Everyone lines up with their belongings at a table set up in the centre of the courtyard. As the officers check everyone’s identity cards, they tell the people to line up in two rows. When our turn comes, the officer ignores the fact that my parents work for the German Shop and orders us to line up at the left. My parents say nothing. The soldiers herd us out onto the street where there is already a long column of people waiting. Jews, young, old and middle-aged. All look shabby, sick and starved. We line up with them and wait.

People whisper. Some are sitting on their bundles.

“Where are we going?” they ask one another. “What will happen to us?”

A man in a torn coat asks Father, “Do you know about the labour camps? They say that it’s better there. If you work, you survive.”

“There are so many rumours,” answers Father. “People are taken to a collection place called
Umschlagplatz
, and then deported by train to some resettlement camp in the east. I am sure that is where we are going. But I don’t know exactly what happens when we get there.”

The soldiers order us to start walking. They stride alongside pointing their rifles at the moving throng. Although it is early fall, the day is cold and rainy. My coat and shoes are soon soaked through.

“Faster,” shouts the soldier who ordered us from our room. His red face scowls out from under his steel helmet. He shoves an old couple forward with the butt of his rifle, and they fall to the ground. They lie there, while the soldier orders us to walk over them.

Another soldier beats a woman with a black truncheon. She falls screaming to the ground. The soldier forces her to get up and continue without her belongings.

I stumble. The soldier screams at me and hits me on the shoulder. I fall. Father instantly picks me up and steadies me. “Be brave,” he whispers.

I don’t feel brave. My knees are bloody, and my shoulder hurts, but I still hang on to the brown suitcase. I feel like an animal who is being punished for something. But what did I do? They drive us along in a pony-like trot. We cower beneath the menacing batons and guns, shoulders hunched over.

There are people lying on the sidewalks. Some dead, some still half alive. Blood stains the pavement. Starved children with swollen bellies and bony legs hover next to the buildings, watching us pass.

Suddenly the column comes to a halt as shots boom out. I am lost in a maze of filthy coats and rags. Blue Stars of David flicker before my eyes. People push against me. Its hard to keep my balance. Then I find myself next to Mother, who is carrying my crying sister. I clutch Mother’s arm with my free hand. When I finally let go, there are red marks in her flesh, where I have dug my nails. Father appears at my side and pulls Mother and me out of the lineup. “Run, run, quickly, through that gate!” He thrusts us forward. We run through an arched gateway into a quiet courtyard. No one follows us. Father leads us through an open door into a deserted apartment. We huddle in its dark corridor for what seems a long time.

Finally, Father breaks the silence, wiping the perspiration off his forehead. “It was a chance we had to take. We were only five minutes away from
Umschlagplatz
and the trains. I have seen them pack those cattle cars. They put so many people in each, how can they breathe? And who knows where they go from there. I’ve heard that they separate parents from children, and that no one comes back.” Father’s voice is weary. Basia is asleep, and Mother sits on the floor against a wall, with her eyes closed. We haven’t eaten all day.

When all appears quiet, we leave and learn that we must find another place to live because our part of the ghetto has been liquidated.

Several weeks later Father hears a rumour that all the children in the Ghetto will be taken from their parents and sent away. No one knows where.

Father and Mother decide that my sister and I must leave the Ghetto. There are many questions I want to ask, but the troubled look on my parents’ faces keeps me silent.

Each night I lie awake, terrible thoughts flooding my mind. Each day I wait for Father to tell me that I must leave. There is hardly any food, even at the factory. Except for the walk to Schultz I never go outside any more and it’s almost spring.

I awake one morning with a fever.

My head hurts, my body is on fire. Through a mist I hear voices saying, “It’s measles. She can’t go anywhere.” I toss and turn and sweat for days. Once when I wake up I see Mother standing over the cot. She is holding Basia, who is dressed in a coat and hat.

“Say goodbye to your sister. She is going away,” says Mother quietly. Through a daze I try to focus on the bundle in a brown wool coat and a white hat with bunny ears. Two big blue eyes in a little face look down at me. What does she want from me? Can’t she see I’m sick? I push her away, and turn towards the wall.

In the morning I wake up feeling better. The fever seems to have gone. The sun is shining outside. Where is everyone? I look around the room and see that Basia’s bed is gone. I run to the wardrobe and see an empty shelf where her things once were. My God, I didn’t know she was leaving for good. I didn’t even say goodbye.

That evening my parents make sure that my brown suitcase is properly packed. Although it is so full that it is hard to close, I refuse to part with my books and my sunflower costume. I beg and they let me keep them.

“Now don’t be frightened,” says Father almost cheerfully. “You will have to leave soon, but I don’t know when.”

I go to sleep feeling comforted but wake with a start.

Someone is shaking me.

“Hurry, hurry,” says Father. Mother dresses me quickly and hugs me. As she says goodbye her voice is thick with held-back tears.

A minute later, Father and I are shivering on a misty street. It is dawn.

The street is deserted.

We walk quickly. I ask no questions, for I know what we are doing. When we hear the rumble of a truck approaching, Father pulls me into a doorway. An army truck passes, and we continue walking.

We stop at a half-burnt building. Father pushes at the front door, which squeaks open, and we walk into a dark apartment. It is empty, and Father tells me to sit on my suitcase and wait.

“Don’t be scared,” he says. “I am waiting for someone.” He paces up and down as if rehearsing some speech in his mind.

The door squeaks again, and I jump. A man walks in wearing the cap and badge of the Jewish Police Force of the Ghetto. Father greets him with a handshake, then takes a small jewellery box, a pair of leather gloves and a bar of soap out of his pockets and hands them over. The man opens the jewellery box, and in the dawn light something sparkles. It’s Mother’s diamond ring. The man stuffs the things into his coat pocket and leaves.

Father tells me to be patient. He tells me what I already know, that I am leaving the Ghetto.

I sit on my suitcase and keep silent. A rat scurries across the floor. Then another. I move my suitcase away from the squeaking rats, and Father stops pacing. He shoos away the rats and sits down next to me on the floor.

“If all goes well, you are going to your grandmother in the country,” he says slowly.

Babushka! I will see Babushka! For a moment I am overcome with excitement. I feel brighter in this gloomy room.

“Are you coming too, Papa?” I ask.

“No, darling girl, I am not. We would be too conspicuous, and I can’t leave your mother alone. Just remember what I told you. We can’t let the Germans win. We must survive. So when the time comes, you must follow my instructions perfectly.”

“I will, Papa,” I mumble into his shoulder. My throat is choked up, but my eyes feel dry. I try not to cry.

As daylight approaches, I hear sounds I haven’t heard for months. I hear streetcars and other vehicles, sounds of a normal city.

“Where are we, Papa?” I ask.

“Near the Ghetto gate to the other side,” he replies, confirming my guess.

The policeman returns.

“It’s all fixed,” he says. “I gave them the goodies. They promised to pretend not to see her. But you know them; they can turn on you anytime. It’s a chance you have to take. Good luck!” He salutes and leaves.

Father sits down on the floor again, this time with his head in his hands. After a long moment, he gets up.

“We’re leaving now. Remember what I told you,” he says, taking my hand and my suitcase.

We leave the building and walk for several blocks. We stop and Father squeezes my hand tightly.

About half a block from us is a busy checkpoint in the Ghetto wall. Three soldiers in steel helmets hold rifles as if ready to shoot. They march back and forth in front of the large opening. Several Polish policemen in navy blue uniforms stand by the opening.

“This is the way out of the Ghetto, Slava. You are going to cross the line in a few minutes,” Father says gravely. “In the pocket of your coat is a false identity card. The name on it is ‘Irena Kominska.’ It says that you are a Catholic orphan from Warsaw. There will be a woman waiting for you on the other side. She will know you, and she will take you to Babushka’s.”

I am frozen. I say nothing. Father gives me the suitcase. My hand can barely hold it.

“When I tell you, start walking,” he says. “Walk through the checkpoint at a normal pace. Do not hesitate, or run. Above all, do not turn around to look at me.” He hugs me with tears in his eyes.

“Now go!”

I look at him for one last moment, let go of his hand, and begin the longest walk of my life.

I try to feel brave as I march towards the checkpoint. As I draw closer, the green German uniforms grow bigger, and the brass buttons of the Polish police coats gleam in the sunlight. I arrive at the checkpoint and begin to walk through. The gendarmes and the police do not appear to notice me. As I walk straight ahead, they turn away. My knees feel weak, and my heartbeat fills my throat, but I keep on walking. A few more steps and I am on the other side.

I hear shouting beside me.

“I know who you are, you little Jewess! I saw you!” A small boy in rags points his finger at me. I clutch my suitcase tightly as if it were Father’s hand, expecting the worst. All of a sudden the shouting ceases as a tall woman in a grey suit grabs my hand and pulls me into a side street.

She stops for a moment to take my suitcase from me. “You can call me Agnes,” she says. “Don’t be afraid.” Only then do I remember that Father had said someone would be waiting for me on the other side.