any bones? I saw that my hands were trembling.
Before I had even had a moment to make a plan, the woman had made her decision. She opened the door and there he was, the policeman who had pulled me off the convoy some three weeks before. Here, at my door, in the middle of the night.
‘You, boy, come now.’
I was frozen with fear. I did not move.
‘NOW!’
I was still wearing all the clothes I had. You did not dare take them off at night because they might be stolen. I let the policeman lead me away.
He marched me down the stairs and into the street, loudly promising to take me to theauthorities for what I had done. I did not understand what I had done.
Eventually, he turned left and right, then into an alley and down an outdoor stairwell to the entrance of a cellar. This, I knew, was not the police headquarters. By now he had stopped shouting about how I was going to be punished. I felt the fear tighten in my stomach.
Then the policeman knocked on the door. Not a normal knock, but in a strange rhythm. Three quick blows, then two slow ones. A voice spoke on the other side of the tiny basement door.
‘Ver is dort?’
Who goes there?
‘Einer fun di Macabi.’
A son of the Maccabees.
The door creaked open and the policeman darted in, grabbing me with him. Inside were three other men, their faces lit by a single candle at the centre of a small, rotting table. To me they looked old, their eyes dark and sunken, their faces gaunt. But now I know they were young, one of them barely twenty.
They stared at me until one, who seemed to be the leader, said finally, ‘It's a miracle.’
Then another nodded and said, ‘He's perfect. Our secret weapon.’
The leader then spoke again, his face harsh. ‘Take off your trousers.’
I hesitated and he repeated it until I realized I had no choice. I lowered my trousers slowly.
‘All the way down! So we can see.’
And once they had seen, the three men all gavea small smile. One even managed a brief laugh. None spoke to me. ‘Well done, Shimon,’ they said and the policeman nodded, like a child praised by his teacher. ‘You have truly brought us a Jewish miracle.’
I had heard about the Jewish underground, but I had not believed it. The kids spoke about a resistance that was coming, how some Jews were trying to get guns to fight the Nazis, even to break out of the ghetto. But we had seen no sign of it. I believed it was a fairy tale, the kind of story boys tell each other.
Now though, I understood where I had been taken. The policeman had called himself a ‘son of the Maccabees’: that had been the password. I knew that the Maccabees had been the great Jewish fighters, the Hebrew resisters who had battled to save Jerusalem.
I was a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy with an uncircumcised penis. I could pass for an Aryan. Perhaps they would use me to smuggle food into the ghetto. I was excited; I knew I could do it. After all, had not Hannah sent me out as a little Lithuanian orphan boy, to beg from our gentile neighbours who might take pity on a gentile child?
But then the leader of the men sent Shimon away and began whispering in Yiddish with the others, oblivious to the fact that I was still there, standing right in front of them. One said they could not afford to wait: ‘The boy has seen our faces.’ Another nodded. ‘He knows about thisplace. We can't afford to risk it.’ I did not know what they were going to do to me.
Finally, the leader raised his hand, as if the discussion was over. He had reached a decision. Only then did he turn and look straight at me. He told me his name was Aron. ‘Are you brave?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Are you brave enough to perform a task that carries with it a grave risk – most likely a
mortal
risk?’
‘Yes,’ I said, though of course I had no idea of such things. I was saying what I thought would save me.
‘I am going to give you a task on behalf of your people. You are to travel to Warsaw, to an address I will
Before I had even had a moment to make a plan, the woman had made her decision. She opened the door and there he was, the policeman who had pulled me off the convoy some three weeks before. Here, at my door, in the middle of the night.
‘You, boy, come now.’
I was frozen with fear. I did not move.
‘NOW!’
I was still wearing all the clothes I had. You did not dare take them off at night because they might be stolen. I let the policeman lead me away.
He marched me down the stairs and into the street, loudly promising to take me to theauthorities for what I had done. I did not understand what I had done.
Eventually, he turned left and right, then into an alley and down an outdoor stairwell to the entrance of a cellar. This, I knew, was not the police headquarters. By now he had stopped shouting about how I was going to be punished. I felt the fear tighten in my stomach.
Then the policeman knocked on the door. Not a normal knock, but in a strange rhythm. Three quick blows, then two slow ones. A voice spoke on the other side of the tiny basement door.
‘Ver is dort?’
Who goes there?
‘Einer fun di Macabi.’
A son of the Maccabees.
The door creaked open and the policeman darted in, grabbing me with him. Inside were three other men, their faces lit by a single candle at the centre of a small, rotting table. To me they looked old, their eyes dark and sunken, their faces gaunt. But now I know they were young, one of them barely twenty.
They stared at me until one, who seemed to be the leader, said finally, ‘It's a miracle.’
Then another nodded and said, ‘He's perfect. Our secret weapon.’
The leader then spoke again, his face harsh. ‘Take off your trousers.’
I hesitated and he repeated it until I realized I had no choice. I lowered my trousers slowly.
‘All the way down! So we can see.’
And once they had seen, the three men all gavea small smile. One even managed a brief laugh. None spoke to me. ‘Well done, Shimon,’ they said and the policeman nodded, like a child praised by his teacher. ‘You have truly brought us a Jewish miracle.’
I had heard about the Jewish underground, but I had not believed it. The kids spoke about a resistance that was coming, how some Jews were trying to get guns to fight the Nazis, even to break out of the ghetto. But we had seen no sign of it. I believed it was a fairy tale, the kind of story boys tell each other.
Now though, I understood where I had been taken. The policeman had called himself a ‘son of the Maccabees’: that had been the password. I knew that the Maccabees had been the great Jewish fighters, the Hebrew resisters who had battled to save Jerusalem.
I was a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy with an uncircumcised penis. I could pass for an Aryan. Perhaps they would use me to smuggle food into the ghetto. I was excited; I knew I could do it. After all, had not Hannah sent me out as a little Lithuanian orphan boy, to beg from our gentile neighbours who might take pity on a gentile child?
But then the leader of the men sent Shimon away and began whispering in Yiddish with the others, oblivious to the fact that I was still there, standing right in front of them. One said they could not afford to wait: ‘The boy has seen our faces.’ Another nodded. ‘He knows about thisplace. We can't afford to risk it.’ I did not know what they were going to do to me.
Finally, the leader raised his hand, as if the discussion was over. He had reached a decision. Only then did he turn and look straight at me. He told me his name was Aron. ‘Are you brave?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Are you brave enough to perform a task that carries with it a grave risk – most likely a
mortal
risk?’
‘Yes,’ I said, though of course I had no idea of such things. I was saying what I thought would save me.
‘I am going to give you a task on behalf of your people. You are to travel to Warsaw, to an address I will
Similar Books
