Iwanski was true to his word. Together with several comrades from the Polish Home Army, he smuggled crates of weapons into the ghetto. Through the warren of sewers, where you’d lose your way without a competent guide. A mother there begged him to take her two little girls back to the Polish side, and although it was difficult—you couldn’t stand upright in the stinking sewers and the little children had to be carried to prevent them from drowning in the water, which was very deep in places—Iwanski had taken them with him and hidden them in his flat where his wife was now looking after them.
The captain told us all this, sitting at our kitchen table. When he was finished, Amos asked, “What is it like in the sewers?”
“It’s shit,” the captain answered dryly.
“I can smell it,” Amos laughed.
It was true. There was still a hint of sewage about him, although he’d had a bath in the meantime and was wearing clean clothes.
“Thanks for the compliment,” Iwanski grinned, and got up from the table. As he made his goodbyes he promised, “I will organize more weapons for you.”
We thanked him. I thought about giving him a hug, but then I didn’t dare because it might have seemed inappropriate. Once he had gone, Amos summed up my feelings in one crude sentence:
“Thank goodness there are a few Poles left who’ll go through shit for us.”
“How long do you think we will be able to resist the Germans with Iwanski’s weapons and the ones we’ve already got?”
Amos grew serious again. “A couple of hours maybe, if things go well.”
I should never have asked.
“It’s hopeless, no matter what we do.”
“No, it’s not,” Amos disagreed. “Just think how proud the Jews in the ghetto are now, ever since we killed the soldiers in January. If we wage war against the Germans, generations of Jews will remember us. We are like the Jews who fought at Masada thousands of years ago. It doesn’t matter how long we hold out. A day, a month, or even just a few hours. The main thing is: We will not go like sheep to the slaughter!”
I lacked his spirit. “If there are any future generations of Jews,” I said unhappily.
Amos gently touched my cheek. That felt good. “There will be,” he said.
He sounded so sure. I smiled.
“Mira, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you smile?”
That wasn’t another playful compliment simply meant to cheer me up. Since Amos had confided in me, he was behaving differently. He was more serious than he had been before, and at the same time, he showed more feelings. He’d realized he didn’t have to put on an act anymore when we were alone.
“No, no one’s ever said that,” I answered truthfully. Even Daniel had never mentioned it. He hadn’t paid me compliments. What on earth had he seen in me? We’d never talked about things like that. We’d just been kids really. It had been a childish love that never went further than kissing.
I was a very different person from last summer, grown up in the saddest way.
And in the unlikely event of Daniel’s still being alive, he would be different, too. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t hate me now, but we wouldn’t love each other anymore.
“If no one’s ever told you,” Amos said earnestly, “then everyone you know must be blind, stupid, or dumb.”
I laughed, and I touched his hand touching my face.
“You’re good for me,” I said without thinking.
“Same here,” he said, and he meant it.
We just looked at each other for a moment. Then we kissed. Not like the first time. In the market. This kiss was loving. Tender. More intense. When it was over, we were both trembling. And didn’t dare kiss again. Instead, we moved away from each other and got ready for bed without saying anything. When we’d gone to bed we just lay there holding hands. Until Amos whispered, “Mira?”
“What is it?”
“I … I’d like to kiss you again.”
It was my turn. I said: “Same here.”