the German we called âFrankensteinâ was on duty, the number of people brought to the hospital was ï¬ve or six times higher. How tireless he was, beating and shooting and whipping. If only we had had a gun.
She held out her glass. How exhausted I feel. Come to bed, he said. Weâll forget the reading and everything else. Weâll order up dinner and have it in bed. How about it, darling? Four courses and a dessert. But the reading, she said. Why else did we come?
He leaned over and ï¬lled their glasses. It was July 1942. Es wird schon was kommen, said Horowitz the Gestapo informer. Something is going to happen. You can say that again. Something was certainly going to happen. Only we didnât yet know what. And then the posters began to appear all over the ghetto. All Jews to be resettled in the East . . .
The heat was suffocating. The Grosse Aktion had begun. German, Polish, Jewish policemen smashed open doors and kicked the Jews out into the street. They needed 10,000 Jews a day driven to the Umschlagplatz for the trip to Treblinka. Guarded on every side, they pressed through the streets, carrying their bundles and suitcases, pillowcases swollen with their few remaining possessions. When the Jews had passed by, the streets were ï¬lled with pieces of broken furniture, cupboards, tables, chairs, abandoned pots and pans, discarded clothes. And everywhere the feathers that had escaped from pillows and eiderdowns. The ghetto was like a ghost town. Half the apartments deserted, their doors gaping open. A terrible heat hung over the ghetto. They were hosing down the cobblestones.
That summer, said Jascha, the city of Warsaw was not so big and it was getting smaller and smaller. The ghetto boundaries were shrinking, the apartments were emptying out. As soon as the Jews left with their bedding, in moved the Poles with new bedding. One morning a woman could no longer bear the tiny hole in which she was lodged. She climbed out on the roof with her pillow, lying ï¬at so she couldnât be seen.
But somehow she fell asleep and began to roll. A shot rang out. The feathers of her pillow ï¬ew up into the air in a ï¬urry of white feathers, a temporary snowfall above the city of Warsaw. And the woman rolled off the roof and fell in a tangle of limbs on the street. Who paid any attention? Another corpse? Was that anything new? The streets were full of them. We didnât see them anymore. No one even bothered to cover them with newspaper anymore. Cover me, said Jascha. I feel cold.
Why do you talk about this? asked Lilka and she pulled the eiderdown over him. Why indeed? he replied. Give me a cigarette. He left the cigarette in his mouth and inhaled. Jascha, she cried, youâre holding it right next to the eiderdown. Youâre going to set the place on ï¬re.
By midsummer of â42, he said, the deportations were at their height. The panic was indescribable. The Jews were trying everything imaginable to avoid the trains. The Accountant had people coming at all hours, desperate to escape, or buy their way out. Anyone not working in a German shop was to be deported. Anyone found hiding was killed on the spot. The ghetto was in chaos. Stores shut down, bakeries stopped functioning, and for the ï¬rst time, smuggling stopped abruptly. Food was unattainable. The Accountant no longer slept. Get some rest, I told him. Do you think you can save every Jew in the ghetto?
Have you forgotten I was there? asked Lilka. As thousands of Jews were pressed into the walled square, we threw down white hospital gowns from the windows of the hospital that overlooked the Umschlagplatz . They rained down like parachutes, ï¬oating and twisting on the way. If you grabbed one and disguised yourself as a medical worker, you had a chance to get out. Nurses were running down to try to get out a parent, a brother, an aunt, a school friend. Later even a white uniform couldnât save you. Everyone was to
She held out her glass. How exhausted I feel. Come to bed, he said. Weâll forget the reading and everything else. Weâll order up dinner and have it in bed. How about it, darling? Four courses and a dessert. But the reading, she said. Why else did we come?
He leaned over and ï¬lled their glasses. It was July 1942. Es wird schon was kommen, said Horowitz the Gestapo informer. Something is going to happen. You can say that again. Something was certainly going to happen. Only we didnât yet know what. And then the posters began to appear all over the ghetto. All Jews to be resettled in the East . . .
The heat was suffocating. The Grosse Aktion had begun. German, Polish, Jewish policemen smashed open doors and kicked the Jews out into the street. They needed 10,000 Jews a day driven to the Umschlagplatz for the trip to Treblinka. Guarded on every side, they pressed through the streets, carrying their bundles and suitcases, pillowcases swollen with their few remaining possessions. When the Jews had passed by, the streets were ï¬lled with pieces of broken furniture, cupboards, tables, chairs, abandoned pots and pans, discarded clothes. And everywhere the feathers that had escaped from pillows and eiderdowns. The ghetto was like a ghost town. Half the apartments deserted, their doors gaping open. A terrible heat hung over the ghetto. They were hosing down the cobblestones.
That summer, said Jascha, the city of Warsaw was not so big and it was getting smaller and smaller. The ghetto boundaries were shrinking, the apartments were emptying out. As soon as the Jews left with their bedding, in moved the Poles with new bedding. One morning a woman could no longer bear the tiny hole in which she was lodged. She climbed out on the roof with her pillow, lying ï¬at so she couldnât be seen.
But somehow she fell asleep and began to roll. A shot rang out. The feathers of her pillow ï¬ew up into the air in a ï¬urry of white feathers, a temporary snowfall above the city of Warsaw. And the woman rolled off the roof and fell in a tangle of limbs on the street. Who paid any attention? Another corpse? Was that anything new? The streets were full of them. We didnât see them anymore. No one even bothered to cover them with newspaper anymore. Cover me, said Jascha. I feel cold.
Why do you talk about this? asked Lilka and she pulled the eiderdown over him. Why indeed? he replied. Give me a cigarette. He left the cigarette in his mouth and inhaled. Jascha, she cried, youâre holding it right next to the eiderdown. Youâre going to set the place on ï¬re.
By midsummer of â42, he said, the deportations were at their height. The panic was indescribable. The Jews were trying everything imaginable to avoid the trains. The Accountant had people coming at all hours, desperate to escape, or buy their way out. Anyone not working in a German shop was to be deported. Anyone found hiding was killed on the spot. The ghetto was in chaos. Stores shut down, bakeries stopped functioning, and for the ï¬rst time, smuggling stopped abruptly. Food was unattainable. The Accountant no longer slept. Get some rest, I told him. Do you think you can save every Jew in the ghetto?
Have you forgotten I was there? asked Lilka. As thousands of Jews were pressed into the walled square, we threw down white hospital gowns from the windows of the hospital that overlooked the Umschlagplatz . They rained down like parachutes, ï¬oating and twisting on the way. If you grabbed one and disguised yourself as a medical worker, you had a chance to get out. Nurses were running down to try to get out a parent, a brother, an aunt, a school friend. Later even a white uniform couldnât save you. Everyone was to
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