The third person everyone in the ghetto knew apart from Rubinstein and Korczak, the one everyone despised, was a man called Adam Czerniakow. He was the head of the Jewish council, and he was standing less than five meters away, on a podium in the middle of the street, giving a speech. He was almost completely bald with a large nose, wearing a perfectly cut light gray suit and smart polished shoes. A man of impeccable taste.
A small orchestra stood waiting to play. In front of him a group of children and their parents were listening to him speak. The head of the Jewish council was here to open a new playground. “Never forget, when times are hard, or if they get worse—no, especially if they get worse—the children are our future.”
He waited for a short moment, and several grown-ups started to clap. Czerniakow seemed to thrive on the little round of applause, as if it had life-giving properties. I suddenly remembered one of the characters from Hannah’s stories. There was a million-year-old chemist named Vandal who made children cry so that he could brew an elixir of life from their tears. When I pointed out to Hannah that Vandal could not have lived a million years ago because humans didn’t exist then, all she said was, “My story, my rules.”
How wonderful to create the world as one pleased. Even if it’s only make-believe.
I didn’t listen to the rest of Czerniakow’s speech. My meeting with Amos had disturbed me. And to make matters worse, the apple juice was rumbling in my stomach. Amos had been right to warn me about that: Drinking too much, too fast could make me ill.
But what really made me feel sick was the fact that he had been ready to kill me. For the first time in my life, someone I cared about had threatened me.
It was true, I did care about Amos. He had saved my life and that kiss had been special.
Well, it meant nothing now.
I’d never care about Amos again.
Let him play Masada with that Esther of his.
Fanatics. Idiots—the lot of them.
Amos would probably have loved to stab Czerniakow, too. Everyone said the head of the Jewish council was a traitor who bowed to the Nazis’ demands and did nothing for the Jews. There were only a few people who didn’t think so. Jurek, for example, defended Czerniakow. One time when I was slagging off the leader of the Jewish council, he said, “Why don’t you all just leave Czerniakow alone? The deluded fool really thinks he’s doing what’s best for us. He believes everything would be even worse if some corrupt person had the post instead of him. Someone like that tyrant in the ghetto of Lodz. Czerniakow allows himself to be spat on and humiliated by the Germans. All because he thinks he’s doing his best for us.”
“He hasn’t made anything better for us,” I answered.
“At least he tries,” Jurek had said. “Which is more than most of us can say.”
Czerniakow turned round and signaled to the orchestra. The musicians started to play a merry tune, and I wondered if the Jewish council was paying them for the performance, or if the chance to play in front of an audience was enough, even if all they got was a round of applause.
Czerniakow called to the children. “You may start playing now.” And the children ran to the shabby playground. As I watched the leader of the Jewish council, the smile slid from his face. The effects of the applause had worn off, and he could not keep up his spirits any longer. Maybe Jurek was right after all. Maybe he was doing everything he could. Maybe he simply didn’t have enough power to come up with anything better than a miserable playground.
But no matter what kind of a person Czerniakow really was, his behavior made one thing very clear: Amos was an idiot. If the Germans were really going to kill us all, the leader of the Jewish council would know about it. And he wouldn’t be opening children’s playgrounds and talking about the future of the children all the while.
Czerniakow patted the head of a dark-haired girl whose parents had allowed her to put on a pretty green dress that was going to be filthy in less than five minutes. Anyone capable of smiling and patting a child like that couldn’t possibly believe that the child and the whole ghetto were about to be annihilated. No Jew could be that evil. Nor could anyone else—not even the Germans.
Yes, Amos was stupid if he thought he knew more than the head of the Jewish council did. It felt good to start calling Amos an idiot in my head. Idiot, idiot, idiot!
Oh, it was going to be good to forget about him at last. I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about Daniel anymore. He was the boy I really loved.
There—I’d said it: I loved Daniel.
Or I’d thought it, at least.
The children and the musicians spurred one another on. The merrier the music, the wilder the children played and vice versa.
What a pity that Hannah was too big for playgrounds. I would have loved to see her join in the fun.
I walked home. And when I reached 70 Miła Street, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Hannah was sitting on the front steps kissing a pale, gangly boy at least half a head taller than me. This had to be Ben, the fifteen-year-old she’d told me about.
“What do you think you are doing?” I asked, appalled.
Of course, it was perfectly obvious what was going on. My little sister was far too young to be kissing anyone, but that was exactly what she was doing. Pretty passionately, in fact!
Hannah let go of the redhead, who at least had the decency to go red. Hannah didn’t have any such decency. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face, laughed, and answered back rudely. “What does it look like?” I could have slapped her.
“You do it with Daniel, too,” she said.
“But I’m older and I don’t do it in public and…? Why on earth am I bothering to argue with you?”
“I was wondering,” she grinned back.
Now I could have slapped her again.
“P … perhaps I should g … g … go?” the boy stammered. By this stage, he was so red in the face that he looked as if he was going to burst.
I was angry and wanted to say something horrid back at him, but I wasn’t mean enough to make fun of him. “Yes, I think you should,” I said.
“Well, I don’t think so,” Hannah disagreed.
“B … b … but…,” Ben stammered.
“You’re staying,” she ordered. She wasn’t looking at him, though. She was staring at me defiantly.
The boy looked from one sister to the other. He was obviously trying to figure out whose fury would be worse.
Poor lad.
He came to the conclusion that Hannah was the greater danger and stayed where he was. I didn’t know what else to do so I grabbed Hannah’s wrist and yelled, “You are coming with me!”
“Let go!” she cried while Ben looked as if he might stop breathing any minute. “No!” I said, and dragged my sister up the steps.
“Let go, I said!” She was furious and thumped me on the arm. Right on my wound. I screamed and everything went black for a second. I let go of Hannah and held on to the railing so as not to collapse on the stairs.
“What’s wrong, Mira? What did I do?” Hannah sounded scared.
Her voice came from far away.
“I … I th … th … think y … y … you … hurt her,” Ben Redhead said.
“I can see that.”
The pain ebbed away slowly. I let go of the railing, cradled my arm, and managed to open my eyes. Everything was blurry, but I could see that I’d dropped the bag of bread. Ben Redhead picked it up while Hannah helped me. The pain was more bearable now, but I felt sick.
“What happened to you?” Hannah asked, pointing at the dried blood on my sleeve.
“Later,” I gasped, and fought the urge to throw up all the apple juice Amos had given me.
Thinking about Amos made me feel sick all over again.
Hannah turned to Ben Redhead. “It would be better for you to go now,” she said.
He thought so, too.
He gave her the bag with the bread and asked, “Will I … I see you to … m … m … morrow?”
“Of course you will,” she said quickly.
I was too weak to stop them from meeting.
Ben Redhead smiled, looking pleased—this young stutterer really seemed to like Hannah—and hurried off.
“I’ll help you get upstairs,” Hannah said.
She hadn’t panicked. She was doing her best to deal with the situation. My little sister was a lot more mature than I knew. Apart from where boys were concerned, of course. I was proud of her for a moment.
And then I threw up on the stairs.