11
In the name of the millions of
Jews who have already been murdered,
on behalf of the ones who are fighting so
heroically, and on behalf of all who are
condemned to die, we call out
to the whole world.
And then they start the fire.
By the twenty-second, despite our determination, we are beginning to suffer from the imbalance of forces and resources. There are so many of them, with so much reinforcement, so many heavy and light weapons, in the sky and on the ground. And our numbers are dwindling and we can hope for nothing, no, there won’t be anyone coming to help us. We are running out of weapons and grenades, and our little fighters are dying one by one. Yet even now, we are making the Germans leave.
On April 23, Mordechai Anielewicz and his staff move into a large bunker at 18 Mila Street, one of six hundred underground shelters, well camouflaged and well equipped. From now on, orders to different combat groups will come from here; it’s here that decisions will be made about when, where, and how an action must be carried out. It’s also here that liaison officers like me are sent, bringing messages, instructions, and news. The bunker is full of activity, people going in and out; it’s the hub of the action, the heart of the ghetto, beating hard.
But also on the twenty-third, the Germans change tactics. On that day and every day thereafter, they stay outside the gates of the ghetto. From outside, well protected from our paltry weapons, they attack us with shells and flamethrowers, and the ghetto goes up in flames. The fire gains ground daily, spreading from one neighborhood to the next.
The fire wins.
For how can we fight? What good are weapons when there are no more enemies? What good is courage in the middle of a fire? Mordechai is surprised, caught off guard. He didn’t expect the Germans to choose fire instead of bullets, refuse confrontation, and liquidate us without our being able to retaliate. He feels cheated, frustrated: where is his beautiful battle of man against beast, with the Germans in the role of the beast? How can anyone stand tall and proud in this raging fire that burns our eyes, ignites our clothes, slowly suffocates us? Faced with fire, he is—we are—powerless.
And we’re trapped. When the walls collapse on people, when there are no more staircases and the windows explode, we’ll have to get out, but where can we flee to? Some jump out the windows clutching small children, their little treasures. But they get shot; from the other side of the wall the Germans are practicing their shooting, hunting the flying Jew, and the bodies are already shattered by the time they hit the ground. Other people cling to the balconies and scale the walls like small animals, trying to get up to the attics. There are those who flee into the streets; on melting sidewalks, among corpses, they run screaming through hell.
Meanwhile on the other side of the wall, it looks as if a party’s going on, it’s paradise!
Through collapsed sections of wall, on the Polish side, through black clouds of smoke you can see a sparkling merry-go-round, girls in bright skirts, whirling children living their radiant children’s lives. Through our death cries and cannon fire, the barrel organ can be heard singing its song of life, the one we used to sing too, and there is the sound of laughter. Where they live, children are laughing.
Only a few yards separate us, and yet they are light-years, fire-years away. The wall between us divides the world in two. Our world is black and white and theirs is in color, where they live it’s spring and where we live is hell. We are dying so close to them, yet they look as if they don’t even see or hear us. As if for them we don’t count, we don’t exist. Only the black butterflies of our lives on fire drift across and land on the flowered dresses.
They’re right next door! And they’re letting us burn! They don’t come help us, it doesn’t make them cry. They shed no tears and don’t take up arms.
And the merry-go-round turns and the ghetto burns . . .