“Ella?” he searches around for prying eyes and ears before continuing. “What are you doing over here, alone in the dark?”
“It might be too much to explain.”
“You shouldn’t be over here. It’s dangerous.” He shuffles his satchel higher on his shoulder and conceals his weapon, tighter beneath his arm.
“I understand, but I’m looking for someone in the ghetto.”
“You can’t. Tomorrow, an announcement will be made public that no one else will be coming or going from inside. The Jewish people will be locked up in there for good.”
“The tunnels…they go beneath the walls, don’t they?”
Arte exhales sharply. “Yes, but it’s not a corridor. It’s a sewer with water knee high.”
“I’ll join the resistance. I’ll help,” I offer.
“Have you hit your head or something? You’re talking nonsense. I’m going to walk you home.”
“No, no, Arte, I haven’t hit my head. Can people from within the walls go through a sewer tunnel on their end?”
“Yes, that’s why we’re?—”
“Show me, please.”
“You’re out of your mind. I’m taking you home. Your father wouldn’t want you here.”
ELEVEN
LUKA
January 1941
Warsaw, Poland
The wagon putters over every stone, its wooden wheels grumbling in protest. Each stone that catches beneath a wheel sends a tremble through my arms as I grip the worn handles tighter to steady the load of bodies piled up on the bed.
Mother and Grandmother were spared from work duties, but as Apollo, my tenement-mate stated on the day of our arrival just over two months ago, I would likely be assigned to work the next day, and I was. I was assigned to maintenance duties, with little to no instruction other than to keep the streets clean.
I want to be a singer and composer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Mother and Father told me I would have to fight hard as an artist, and it would come with challenges, but I didn’t expect this sort of challenge. After the other Jewish children of Warsaw were kicked out of public schools, I had little else to do but sit in my apartment, writing lyrics and composing music on Grandmother’s piano. I didn’t consider a trade because I knew what I wanted to do. So now, I’m here without a physical skillset aside from singing a tune. I suppose that’s why I’ve been assigned to cleaning up deceased bodies from the sidewalks.
With winter upon us, there are new challenges to face, ones I hadn’t considered in the autumn weather. A young boy stumbles past me, barefoot and coatless, teeth chattering. His tiny legs, bare beneath his kneecaps, are covered in sores. His lips are cracked and layered with dry blood, and his cheeks are covered with streaks of dirt. He reaches out his frail hand toward a man selling scraps of bread to a line curling around a corner, but the man shoos him away while shielding the pile of goods he plans to barter off. Everyone here is forced to beg the street tradesmen for food, fabric, leather, anything and everything because they have nothing. Some steal, but who can blame them?
Overhead, the cloudy sky hangs low, the color of ash. Snowflakes flutter, melting into the grooves between the cobblestones. The air bites at my face and hands, and freezes my heavy breaths, forming short puffs of fog.
“Luka!” I hear between the clattering of the wagon’s wheels. I turn, in search of whoever called me, finding Apollo trudging toward me through the mass of people. His factory-issued overalls are too thin for winter, and his breath clouds in front of him as he rushes over. His hair is a pile of dark, greasy curls. He’s tall and lanky like me, and walks with long, gaping strides, giving him a goofy look. But then he also has a sly, crooked smile and mischief in his eyes, making it hard for me to predict what he’s going to approach me with next. He keeps me entertained at least, and it’s been nice to have a friend here.
“Why aren’t you at the factory?” I ask him. He spends his days crafting tools for Germans, while I cart dead bodies away from the sidewalks.
“I have to talk to you,” he says, breathless. His somber-looking eyes dart around, searching for whoever might be listening.
“What is it?” I follow, scanning the area for any Jewish Ghetto Police or members of the Judenrat. They linger everywhere with their sharp stares, and dark souls sold to the Germans for crumbs.
He nods his head toward a quiet corner, and I follow him, dragging the wagon behind. “The black market,” he says.
“The one no one can find?” I add.
“One of the other men at the factory was talking about it this morning. There’s a black-market underground in the sewer tunnels. People are exchanging goods with folks outside the ghetto.”
“I’m sure the Germans are down there, too,” I tell him. It’s not that I haven’t considered every possible way to get to the other side of these walls, but I’ve watched many try, then, the moment they’d make it to the other side, I’d hear one sharp blast of rifle. Their attempts have been a warning but not a deterrent to all.
