Emilia
“Can you believe it? The Jews are fighting back!”
It seemed as though the whole city was abuzz. I was on a tram with Uncle Piotr, the morning after we awoke to sounds of gunfire and explosions from the other side of the wall. As the violence continued into a second day, I couldn’t bear listening to it for another minute. I’d prayed so many rosaries the day before, my fingers were sore, and I’d tried covering my ears with a pillow, but the sounds pierced it. Truda was impatient with my fretting, and Mateusz had gone to work, so I’d pleaded with Uncle Piotr to take me on an outing.
“The Ferris wheels are set up at Krasin´ski Square again,” he suggested. I stared at him in disbelief.
“But the Jews are rebelling on the other side of that wall!”
“I know. But there are plenty on this side of the wall who are curious to peer over the top—those who enjoy seeing the Jews humiliate the Germans, and then of course there are those who enjoy seeing the remaining Jews suffer.” Piotr sighed, but then he brightened. “But we could ride the Ferris wheel and just look at the sights on our side of the wall. That was fun last time we did it, no?”
“Anything but that,” I said flatly. “Take me as far away from the Jewish Quarter as you can.”
In the seven months since I’d lost my supposed job, my world had shrunk all the way back down to the size of the apartment, and all that kept me sane was evenings with Uncle Piotr and Sara. They had obviously grown close, and although Sara assured me they were just friends, I saw the way they looked at one another. I decided it was adorable to watch old people falling in love, and when I told Uncle Piotr this, he reminded me in no uncertain terms that they were both only just forty, which hardly counted as old.
In any case, Uncle Piotr agreed to take me out to a café on the other side of the city. Now, on the tram, I realized my mistake. I could no longer hear the gunshots, but I could hear the incredulous whispers of our fellow countrymen. As the passengers on the tram got on and off, snippets of conversation bombarded me.
“Why now?” one man asked his traveling companion. “I heard it’s almost empty in there, that most of them have been moved to labor camps out of the city where conditions are less crowded. If they had it in them to fight back, why wait until now, when the Germans are trying to help them move to more comfortable accommodations?”
I looked at Uncle Piotr, who was reading his newspaper, apparently unperturbed by the comments behind us. I clenched my hands into fists so tight that my fingernails dug into the soft skin of my palms. I focused on the pain hoping it would drown out the sounds of the conversation.
I told myself that it was entirely possible these men had no idea about what life was like behind the wall, and I tried to remind myself that they, too, had probably suffered under the occupation.
“I heard this fighting is not about conditions at all, but that the Jews are concerned they will no longer be able to make money in the work camps. You know how Jews love their money.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Piotr,” I whispered urgently.
“What for?” he asked me, startled.
I spun around and faced the men, and I hissed, “The walled district has been a cruel prison since it was established, and those left inside know they aren’t being removed to a work camp but to an extermination camp. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
The entire tram fell silent. I looked around, frantically checking to see if there were any soldiers on board—not that this was our only threat. We had no way of knowing how many civilians on the tram would be eager to turn us in.
Uncle Piotr rose silently, took my arm, and all but dragged me to the door. The tram pulled to a stop, and we stepped off. As the tram continued on its journey, Uncle Piotr gave a frustrated sigh.
“I don’t need to tell you how stupid what you just did—”
“I know,” I snapped, shaking his hand off my arm. “I know. But did you hear what they were saying? How could you stand that?”
“It achieves nothing to speak up. Do you really think anything you said will make them question their beliefs? It changed nothing, and you put yourself and me in grave danger.”
“So you sit in silence and let them speak that nonsense about innocent people,” I said as I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration, but then he paused. “You seem awfully sure about the conditions in the walled district for one who has never been there.”
“I’ve heard things,” I muttered, avoiding his gaze.
“Elz·bieta, you only ever speak to the four of us. It wasn’t your parents or me filling your head with this nonsense.” His frown grew deeper, but then his eyes widened. “Wait. Sara didn’t tell you these things?”
“What would Sara know about the Jewish area?” I said lightly, aware that not even Piotr knew about her epidemic-control pass.
“So where did this come from, then?”
“I found an underground newspaper in the courtyard one day,” I lied. “I threw it away as soon as I read it, but it made perfect sense.”
“You can only look out for yourself in a time like this,” Uncle Piotr said quietly. “Find ways to survive...find ways to thrive. You can do nothing for the people in the Jewish area, and you can do nothing to change the minds of those who aren’t sympathetic to whatever the Jews’ plight truly is. Worry about yourself—your family. That’s the best thing you can do.”
“Have you given this lecture to Sara?” I asked him.
He sighed, then muttered, “I’ve tried to. It doesn’t go down well.”
That night, with the sound of gunfire still echoing in the distance, I sat alone with Sara in her apartment and told her about the conversation on the tram and Uncle Piotr’s comments.
“It was foolish of me, I know,” I said. “I lost my temper. I just couldn’t bear it, after the things I’ve seen and the stories we heard.”
“I know, Elz·bieta,” she said quietly. “There is a whole city who would much rather turn a blind eye to the suffering behind the wall, and sometimes that is very difficult to bear. I tell myself that it is enough that history will harshly judge those who did not act, but I know in my heart that it is not enough. I wish I could drag some of these people into the ghetto and force them to look into the eyes of the people we have seen. You understand the problem, don’t you? Bystanders have allowed themselves to be convinced that the Jews are not like us, and as soon as you convince someone that a group of people is not human, they will allow you to treat them as badly as you wish. If those men on the tram or your uncle had the chance to see the humanity of those caught behind the wall, they would never stand for it.”
“Uncle Piotr disappoints me maybe most of all,” I admitted.
“He is a complicated man with complicated principles, that’s for sure,” Sara muttered. I peered at her thoughtfully, then finally gave voice to a question I’d been pondering for some time.
“Do you love him?”
“I could,” she said, after a pause. “But I, too, am a complicated woman with complicated principles, and unfortunately, our principles make us incompatible. That’s why we are only friends.”
We both jumped in fright as the windows rattled with an explosion in the distance.
“What do you think will happen to the partisans in the ghetto?” I asked her, my voice small as I thought of Andrzej and Roman.
“It will be a bloodbath.” Sara’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll be surprised if they last another day. But they will go down with dignity and with honor. I am proud of them for that, and you should be, too.”