I have had the pleasure for a few years now of reading David Stier’s powerful stories for Fiction River and for Pulphouse Fiction Magazine. To say that I am a major fan of David’s work would be an understatement.
This amazingly original story is gritty and hard-hitting and as most of David’s stories, it makes the characters real and tough, often fitting perfectly the rough situations. This original story is no exception and will make you a fan of David Stier as well. You can find his stories in most major online bookstores.
Warsaw Ghetto, August 9, 1942
Ex-Police Inspector Philip Hart reread the postcard—allegedly sent by his brother, Leopold, and Leopold’s wife, Sonia—before placing it into his inner coat pocket. Then he studied the street below his fifth floor flat on Leznow Street to ensure that it was still deserted. The question now was how to approach the problem of this obvious falsehood.
He had enquired with the few people he knew who had family members or friends on any previous transport. Two others had received such postcards, but both families had seen nothing suspicious. He read the postcard once more.
July.27.1942
Dearest Philip,
We are both in good health. Please write when you are able. We are allowed parcels and letters sent to this address. The work is not that difficult. We pray that both you and Dora are well.
Love always,
Sonia and Leopold Hart
Andgrezów Labor Camp, Kreis Litzmannstadt
The Andgrezów Labor Camp was a reality—Philip had checked—and it was also located near the Litzmannstadt Ghetto. The Nazis had at least gotten that part of the subterfuge correct. Additionally, one of the other two postcards had the same return address. But Philip was and always had been unmarried, and while he’d had a girlfriend before she, too, had been deported, her name was not Dora. Further, he knew of no one by that name.
On the street below, a mud-spattered field-gray lorry turned the corner, its back filled with Nazi soldiers. The engine spewed black diesel exhaust that the moderately warm winds blew upwards toward his window. Philip moved further into the room to remain hidden but still able to watch the lorry as it rolled slowly down the street. He waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the exhaust that had wafted into the flat. Refuse on the street gusted around and under the lorry as it lumbered closer to Philip’s building. His stomach tightened as it momentarily slowed before turning the corner onto Vilna Street. It was the third such patrol of the day. While there was little chance the Nazis sought him, it was wise for any Jew in Warsaw to be cautious.
His latest refuge had been the single best stroke of luck he had experienced since being forced inside the ghetto last June. While composed of a single room, it had a bed, bathroom, small kitchen, and running water. More importantly, however, it had direct access to the roof.
As a former detective inspector in the Polish Blue Police Force, he was certain that his name and background were located within one of the insidious record caches that the Nazis so enjoyed keeping, and while his remaining contacts within the Force kept him advised regarding his status, it was only a matter of time until he—like his brother and his brother’s wife—was deported or killed by the Nazi Orpo Police who had grown even more zealous since their SS masters had given them greater autonomy.
Sonia more than Leopold had never believed the Nazi’s claims that Jews resettled in the east were being transported to perform honest labor. Also, one of the more imaginative Propaganda Ministry’s writers had claimed that said deportees would also be free from Polish persecution since it was the Jews that had started the war.
Philip had to smile at that bit of misdirection.
Did that also include Nazi persecution?
Undoubtedly it was Sonia who had composed the text of this postcard—as evidenced by the handwriting. Also obvious was the fact that she had done it to warn her brother-in-law. She knew that Philip’s reputation as a detective inspector had been held in high regard by both Polish and Jewish members of Warsaw’s police establishment. And also like Sonia, he did not believe anything said or promised by any Nazi.
It was possible that both Leopold and Sonia were already dead, but Philip would do what he could to ensure this as fact. And should his suspicion be correct, he could at least inform those more realistic Jews within the ghetto regarding the reality of this situation.
Philip used the roofs to traverse this part of the ghetto until he reached a fire escape that was concealed within a narrow alley. He had also donned worker’s garb and scuffed boots to more easily integrate with the ghetto’s inhabitants. He now carried his Jewish and forged Aryan papers as well. Once he reached the street he rubbed dirt on his hands and face then blended into the increasing throng moving toward the Little Ghetto and the Tobbens Factory.
The odors of stale tobacco, sweat, and the stench of death surrounded him as, hands in pockets, he trudged forward, one more tired laborer on his way to work as a Nazi slave. Just before crossing the footbridge towards the ghetto entrance on Zelazna Street, he stepped over a dead teen’s body—an increasing sight—but as evidenced by the people’s apathy, one that was now mostly ignored.
As he neared the gate leading to the Polish side of Warsaw, he slipped into a recessed doorway to better identify the two Jewish ghetto policemen and wait for a Nazi Orpo guard to leave the area. Once it became safe, he took out two twenty-zloty notes and moved toward the gate.
“Good afternoon, Adam,” he said, hand outstretched in greeting, secreting one of the bank notes into Adam’s hand. “And you as well, Samuel,” he said, repeating the same maneuver. “I have some business to attend to on the other side.”
Both notes magically disappeared.
“Good afternoon to you as well, my friend,” Adam said. “How long will this business take?”
“Yes,” Samuel added. “The Orpos have increased surveillance at this gate.”
Greedy bastards want more.
“I understand that life can be difficult,” Philip said while slipping another ten-zloty to Adam while Samuel opened the waist-high, rusted screen gate, the hinges screeching like an angry cat. “I will be sure to use another entrance upon my return.”
“That would be acceptable, my friend,” Adam said as Philip passed through and into the Gentile side of Warsaw.
The phone was answered after the third ring.
“Sergeant Klimek,” the voice said. “Please state your business.”
“Jozef, my friend. Powel here,” Philip said, using the code they had arranged after Philip had been sacked because of his problematic ancestry. “I have some information you might find of value.”
“Meet me at the usual place in one hour,” Jozef said, then hung up.
The Krasinski Gardens was a place Philip had not visited in months, now that Jews were banned from all public parks. He remained under cover of the oak, linden, and maples that still appeared to be well tended, but the pond was almost empty. A thick green scum covered the pond’s sides and decomposing leaves floated upon what water remained. The area reeked of methane decay, an apt metaphor of the current state of Poland and Europe in general. The ducks and most of the other wildlife had fled, too, making it appear that they had made the wiser choice.
“Philp, my friend. It has been too long since last we met.”
Philip cursed silently for the lapse in awareness but he was gratified not to have started in surprise. He forced memories of his brother and Sonia into the recesses of his mind as he turned to face his former partner.
“Ah, Jozef,” he said while they shook hands. “It is good to see you and also good that you are still as fat as ever,” he concluded with the joke he had used for as long as he could remember.
Jozef lifted his stomach in both bear-sized hands and shook it once, smiling all the while, then he seized Philip in a bone crushing hug.
“Not from overeating, I fear,” Jozef said. “The Nazis steal all the food they can lay their greasy mitts on. Fortunately they bring in enough beer to make up for it.”
The two friends walked farther into the grove until the shade reduced the summer heat and lessened the chance of suspicious ears from hearing their business.
Philip took out the postcard.
“I received this from my brother and his wife yesterday. A friend who is aware of my new address brought it by. Tell me what you think.”
Jozef read the message, then tapped it with one of his meaty thumbs.
“Who is Dora?” he asked then handed the postcard back.
Philip took out a packet of cigarettes, shook one free for Jozef, then slipped one into the corner of his mouth. With a fingernail he struck a match and lit them both.
“That is the question,” he said, then inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke off to the side. “I know of no one by that name and never have. Why would my sister-in-law leave such a clue? What is your opinion on that, my friend?”
For a time Jozef smoked in silence so Philp copied his actions, waiting him out. In their ten years as partners, Philip had never seen Jozef leap to conclusions, which was the main reason he had sought him out.
“I have heard rumors that the Nazis are trying to hide something,” Jozef said after he’d finished his cigarette. “It is a secret spoken of only in whispers by SS higher echelons. Once I entered the Chief Inspector’s office without knocking. Inside was an SS colonel, and before I could state my business I was thrown out and later told never to enter again without permission.”
Philip pinched off the end of his smoke and placed the remainder back into the almost empty packet.
“I have been making a rough count of Jews that have been deported since July twenty-third in what the Nazis are calling a Grossaktion,” Philip said. “At least six thousand Jews, half during the day and the other half at night, are herded to the Umschlagplatz collection point near the Danzig Train Station on Stawki Street. By the next morning they are all gone, replaced at noon and again at night by another six thousand.”
Philip again took out the postcard. “Have you seen or heard of this subterfuge?”
Jozef took a full packet of cigarettes and handed it to Philip, then he looked in all directions before moving closer, almost whispering.
“The entire police force has also heard of this Big Action, but all—myself included—have been warned on pain of death not to speak of it. Your sources are very good, my friend, if you have learned of it so soon.”
Jozef gently grasped Philip’s shoulder.
“I have not seen or heard of this postcard ploy yet, but I will keep my nose and ears close to the walls. I know you too well, Philip. You are planning something. I can see it in your eyes. I would try to dissuade you if I could.”
Philip shook his head and grasped Jozef’s shoulder in return.
“I must leave now if I am to return to the ghetto tonight.”
Even though his flat was nearby, relatively speaking, it took most of the following night to reach the Umschlagplatz. Since he had been forced into the ghetto, Philip had learned not to use direct routes—especially now that the Nazis had increased surveillance throughout the entire city.
At first Philip utilized the roofs until he reached the ghetto wall. Then he used the sewers to cross into the Polish side of Warsaw. As a former policeman, he had become familiar with how criminals used the city’s extensive drainage system to transport contraband. The smell of feces was oppressive and the red eyes of the sewer rats, watching his progress within their domain, were disconcerting. Fortunately, his route was short, leading to a secluded manhole behind an abandoned café. It would have been safer to use more of the sewage system, but he could easily become lost in what he well knew to be a maze, so traversing the streets it had to be.
Reaching Stawki Street proved to be a challenge. Twice he was nearly spotted by the increased number of Nazi Orpo Police patrols, but early in his career as a uniformed constable, he had worked diligently to learn the streets. That knowledge now served him well. Slowly, he drew ever closer to his goal.
He hid within a recessed doorway while a troop of black-shirted Ukrainian SS Auxiliaries marched by, the sounds of their hobnailed boots echoing up and down the street as they goose-stepped in unison towards Stawki Street and the Umschlagplatz. Once they had passed, Philip followed close behind, using the noise and their presence as cover until he spotted yet one more Orpo patrol and had to detour once again.
Eventually he reached the Jewish Cemetery, which was unguarded. The headstones—many of them tilted over or completely knocked down by Nazi and Polish vandals—supplied excellent cover, as did the ground fog that crept throughout the graves and within the overgrown foliage and threadbare trees. His pace was slowed somewhat because he had to watch for protruding roots that the nebulous fog concealed, but once he reached the cemetery’s edge near Okopawa Street he made better headway. Within the hour he had found an abandoned building on Stawki Street overlooking the Umschlagplatz. Once secreted on an upper floor, he took out a set of binoculars, better to observe what had become a nightly spectacle.
Floodlights illuminated a large open square crammed with people of all ages. They sat on suitcases or on the cobblestoned street. All wore white armbands with a blue Star of David. Black-shirted SS Axillaries—perhaps the same troop as Philp had seen earlier—strutted amongst their charges, occasionally clubbing some hapless victim with truncheon or rifle butt. Some also had dogs, held on short leashes with which they occasionally menaced Jews. Many axillaries laughed while many screamed at the terrified mass. Perhaps even worse were the bored expressions of the black-uniformed German SS that stood at the edges of the cavernous enclosure.
Just doing their job, ya?
At the north end of this human stockyard stood a high wooden fence with a gate in the center. Beyond the gate were several rail lines, now empty, but in the distance echoed the sound of a steam whistle.
A loudspeaker blared instructions for the thousands of Jews to stand and form into ranks. Both Ukrainian Axillaries and their SS masters all moved in at this command.
“Raus! Raus! Schnell! Schnell!” coarse voices screamed.
The Jewish terror was palpable and those not moving quickly enough were treated to another round of beatings until all were formed into ranks of fifty wide and columns of sixty deep.
Minutes later the distant chuff of a steam engine was heard, and soon after, a long line of freight cars began backing down one of the rail lines. Once it stopped, the gates to the Umschlagplatz were thrown open and the loudspeakers blared once more. Many of the SS Axillaries rushed to the freight cars and began sliding open the doors.
Philip had to inspect the freight cars with his binoculars for identifying serial numbers so he tried to focus on that, but occasionally the voices of screaming Nazis, vicious dogs, and the faint sounds of their terrified victims forced him to scan the tableau below. With shaking hands he took out a notebook and wrote down as many serial numbers on the freight cars as he could.
By now the freight cars’ doors had all been thrown open and the Nazi furor increased, forcing people inside until they were full. Philip’s fingertips throbbed and his stomach knotted while his knees grew weak. After thirty minutes, the last freight car’s doors were slammed shut.
The steam engine’s whistle let out a single piercing blast and the transport receded in the distance. Once the now-empty space was swept and the refuse removed, the guards retreated into their barracks. Soon after, the sounds of drunken revelry could be heard. Philip moved further into the abandoned building to await the afternoon’s developments.
The entire process was repeated during the day. Philip was able to identify many of the same freight cars through their serial numbers. Six thousand Jews had been deported in the last twenty-four hours. The destination could be no more than a few hours away—perhaps even less once time for unloading and turning the train was taken into account. He had to await nightfall again before returning to his flat, so he used that time to form some kind of plan.
Philip calculated the full roundtrip travel time from Warsaw to the unknown destination at less than ten hours. By subtracting five hours for unloading and train turnaround, that left five hours’ actual distance for the round trip, which amounted to a one-way route of eighty to ninety kilometers.
There were two possible routes. One leading back into Poland and the other leading further into the General Government area occupied by the Nazis. The second route also traveled through more rural and secluded areas. The following morning he rode the trolley to the edge of Warsaw, where the two rail lines split, and waited at a café to watch which line the transport took.
As suspected, the transport took the route leading further into the General Government. He used the rest of the day to prepare his cover story for the trip and to map out where he would exit the regularly scheduled train.
The terrain seen from the window in the second class car had steadily changed from smaller cities and towns to forests and farms. There were fewer people in the car than he would have liked, hoping to better blend in, but his cover as a farm laborer had so far held up. He took out a cigarette and lit up, letting the tobacco smoke aid in diffusing the stale smell of unwashed bodies and sour cabbage.
His false Aryan papers had passed the conductor’s inspection at Warsaw’s train station and the one time a Nazi transportation official asked to see them at the first stop. Now, as they neared Urle, another Polish official entered the car, working his way slowly down the seated passengers. His experience as an undercover plainclothes constable had aided him greatly in assuming uncommon roles, but the more than usual inspections did cause some concern. He flicked ashes into the ashtray while watching the outside scenery.
“Kennkarte, please,” the conductor said.
With a bored expression Philip handed him his papers.
The official studied them for longer than Philip hoped, comparing the photo with Philip’s face.
“What is your destination?” he finally asked with a slightly suspicious expression.
“I have been offered a job near Brok, harvesting summer rye,” he said. Jozef had given him the name of a farmer he could safely use for his cover story.
“Brok? I know that area. Which farm did you say?”
“Antoni Smolak is the name I was given,” Philip said as a knot formed in his stomach. “More than that I cannot say.”
“Antoni, eh? He’s a good man but try not to let him cheat you,” the official said with a smile. “And a word to the wise, my friend,” he said in a lower voice. “Stay out of Malkinia.”
“Why is that?” Philip risked, asking.
The official frowned. “That is not your affair and if you are wise you will forget what I said.”
And before Philip could respond further, the conductor moved onto the next passenger.
Malkinia was roughly fifteen kilometers from Brok, but there were several farms in that direction so he trudged on, small satchel in hand containing an extra set of clothing and some toiletries—in keeping with his farmhand persona—prepared to use his cover story if needed. An hour or so during his trek, a horse drawn cart piled high with a mound of summer rye plodded by and the driver offered him a ride to the granary outside Malkinia if Philip agreed to help in unloading. He readily agreed as this would make his presence even more believable. The unloading took thirty minutes, and with a final wave, the cart and Philip parted ways.
Philp crept the last few kilometers to Malkinia in the forest that paralleled the tracks. He smelled the presence of wetlands farther into the forest, which explained the clouds of mosquitos that pestered his progress. He buttoned his shirt to the collar and lowered his worker’s cap, trudging onward, careful not to let their annoyance detract from his caution.
Once a smaller train passed, flying Nazi flags and filled with black-shirted SS Axillaries—some on the passenger car roofs keeping guard. Philip felt for the knife secreted in his boot. He’d thought to bring his revolver and binoculars, but decided that would be too great a risk.
As he rounded a bend, the forest began to thin, and before he could move further into the woods, two green uniformed SS appeared.
“Halt! This is a restricted area. State your business!” one of the guards said—a corporal from his collar insignia and most likely Volksdeutsch since he knew Polish. His hand rested on a holster while the other guard swung his Mauser in Philip’s general direction.
Philip stepped closer until the second guard’s rifle motioned for him to stop.
“I am looking for work harvesting summer rye,” he said, rolling the dice so to speak, and hoping the story would be believed. There were supposed to be farms in this area.
“Let me see your kennkarte,” the corporal said, the hand that had rested on the holster’s secured flap now outstretched.
Philip set down his satchel, using the time to study his surroundings. There were no rocks large enough to use as a weapon but the ground was covered with dry sandy soil. He stood back up and slowly reached into his breast pocket.
The corporal briefly studied Philip’s papers, then slipped them into a trouser pocket.
“You will come with us so that your story can be checked.”
Philip looked from guard to guard with what he hoped was a servile expression.
“Please, sirs,” he said in a trembling tone. “I am just a simple farmhand looking for work to feed my family.”
The rifle-carrying guard moved closer, which was what Philip had hoped for.
“Keep your trap shut, Polack, unless you want to taste the butt of my rifle,” this one said in broken but understandable Polish.
“Yes, sirs, I am sorry, sirs,” he said. “May I at least bring my satchel?”
The corporal nodded acceptance to the request and Philip bent to do so. Then he grabbed a handful of the sandy soil and threw it into the rifle-carrying guard’s face. With a curse, that guard dropped his rifle, both hands reaching for his now-blinded eyes. The corporal struggled with his holster’s flap while Philip pulled out his knife and quickly slit his throat. With a strangled gurgle, the corporal collapsed, blood flowing down his tunic and pooling on the ground. Philip turned and kicked the other SS man in the groin, who collapsed with a howl while rolling into a fetal position. Philip bent over, stabbed him twice in the kidneys while covering his mouth.
Philip dragged them both farther into the woods, careful not to let any blood stain his clothing. He returned to the killing ground and spread more of the sandy soil on the spilled blood, using some of it to soak up the single blood stain on the sleeve of his shirt. Then he returned to the two corpses and rifled their pockets, taking what money they had as well as their papers and placed the booty in his satchel. He also took the corporal’s Luger and ammunition, which he placed in his satchel as well. Next he dragged both corpses to the marsh, rolling them into the dark green water. Lastly he located a tree with a distinctive crook above the trunk and buried his satchel five paces farther into the forest.
He was able to reach Malkenia without further incident, using the forest cover to circumvent the small town. A suspicious set of tracks branched off from the main line heading into a densely wooded grove. Philip squatted down behind a large oak tree to wait. He checked his watch. The Nazis loved meticulous scheduling so by now the afternoon transport would have left Warsaw approximately an hour ago.
Now I wait.
In the distance the familiar chuff of a steam engine grew louder. Minutes later the transport turned off the main route and slowly rolled down the concealed line of tracks. As the freight cars passed, Philip identified several of the serial numbers he had recorded. After the transport faded with the distance, he hunkered down once more to think.
Certainly he now had enough evidence to disprove that the claims of resettlement to the East were false. His primary responsibility lay in getting this information back to the Judenrat Ghetto elders and the growing resistance movement within the ghetto about which he had heard rumors. But this transport pulled on him like a magnet. Should he leave now, the still-unanswered questions would haunt him even more than what probable horrors lay at the end of these tracks.
The decision made, Phillip moved farther into the covered grove.
Once he reached the last freight car in the transport, he crossed over to the other side of the rail line where there appeared to be more concealment. Slowly the transport inched forward, an action Philip copied. When he was certain no other guards were present, he crept further down the line, hidden by the bushes that grew around the tall spruce trees. As he passed each freight car, the cries and wails of the people became all too apparent. The humidity and heat was oppressive outside. Philip could only imagine what it was like inside one of those enclosed wooden boxes crammed full of innocent victims.
The canopy thinned halfway down the line of freight cars. He crawled up onto a grassy embankment and moved forward as far as he could while still remaining hidden. He carefully parted the high-grown grasses.
In the distance he made out the engine, white steam puffing from its stack. The first few cars had been emptied already. Two uniformed men in black shirts, field gray trousers, and boots unlatched, then slid open, the doors of the next two freight cars as more of the same breed moved forward, screaming commands while yanking hapless Jews out and onto the ground. Occasionally he heard a rifle or pistol shot over the sounds of screaming and crying. Whether they fell or not—men, women, children—was of no matter and if they were too slow in rising, truncheons and rifle butts hurried them on. Once crude ranks had been formed, the victims were bludgeoned into movement and forced past some kind of open gate.
If Philip tried to move closer he would almost certainly be spotted, but just past his position—also covered in high grass—was another somewhat higher embankment, so he crawled slowly to its top.
Little else could be seen save for a high-walled enclosure. Sometimes he made out people running in many directions on the other side, and farther in the distance a large pall of black smoke rose into the air. The wind shifted in his direction and he gagged on the stench of burning pork and petrol.
The last thing he saw before the horror grew too great was what appeared to be a multi-colored brick train station on the opposite side between the camp and transport train. On the roof’s edge was a white sign with TREBLINKA written in large block letters.
Warsaw Ghetto, August 23, 1942
“You are Mordechai Anielewicz?” Philip asked, surprised at the age of the young man who sat behind a scarred wooden desk. Perhaps the information he’d received about the leader of ZOB, the Jewish Fighting Organization, was in error, but the men and women surrounding this young man looked capable enough. They all worked hard to maintain blank expressions.
“And you are Philip Hart,” the young man said with a slight smile, “who is no doubt surprised at my appearance, eh?”
Philip returned a guarded smile of his own.
“Actually I expected someone older, but that is of no matter. If you are indeed Mordechai Anielewicz, then I wish to relay important intelligence I have gathered regarding the Grossktion transports.”
He took out the Lugar and two SS identification booklets. That it had been difficult to find ZOB spoke well for their efficiency.
“I would also like to join your organization.”
Anielewicz stood, held out his hand, which Philip shook.
“If you are indeed Philip Hart, formerly Inspector Hart of the Polish Blue Police Force, then you are most welcome. But first we need to hear the information you have,” Anielewicz said, all pretense of humor now gone.