“It’s like a maze. They can’t be everywhere, and we wouldn’t be escaping, just trading. I wouldn’t want to be the one sticking my head out of a hole to reach the outside, I understand your worry there.”
“You overheard all of this?” I press.
“Yes, many people know about the tunnels, but I didn’t realize there are trades between us and the non-Jewish Poles.”
I know about the tunnels, too. Ella mentioned that her father and brother go down there for their work with the resistance. However, there isn’t much talk about access points.
“I’m going down there tonight. I’m going to see what I can get my hands on,” Apollo says. “Come with me.”
“I can’t go with you tonight. I promised to help my mother with something. Maybe another night?”
“You never take risks, huh?” he questions me.
I’m not surprised to be accused of this when he’s right. The number of thoughts I’ve had since walking in through those black iron gates in October. I’ve considered sending Ella letters, asking Poles who used to come through here for business to bring a message to her. I stood in front of the gates, watching the other side for hours, wondering if I might spot her among the crowd. Then I realized if I sent her a letter and it was intercepted by a German soldier, they could go after her. If I gave the wrong person a message to deliver, the same thing could happen. There have been so many people passing by the gates daily that it’s likely impossible to spot her among them. I want to protect her, which means living with a heavy heart and wondering what pain I might have caused her. I tell myself they can’t hold us in here forever, surely…?
“I can’t do that to my mother or grandmother. They aren’t well. I need to care for them,” I explain.
Apollo twists his mouth from side to side as if he’s pondering the same thoughts. He has a mother and two younger sisters to care for, too.
“I want to do what I can to care for my family, and this might be the answer.” He curls his hands behind his neck and stretches, staring up to the cloud-covered sky. “You’re right. I should think on this.”
Apollo taps my shoulder and heads back toward the factory. I wish I didn’t know about this tunnel, it’ll be weighing on my mind now.
With a tug of the heavy wagon, I weave between the tradesmen on the street, searching for the next lifeless body lumped alongside a building. A pile of black fabric catches my eye, and I stop, my breath hanging in the icy air. Beneath the fabric, pale feet poke out, frozen and bare. Snowflakes cling to the folds of the cloth.
I tug on the fabric, revealing the face of a young girl. Her porcelain skin is untouched by the dirt of the street, her long lashes resting peacefully against her cheeks. Her lips are blue, and her eyelids carry the faintest tint of frost. My fingers press against her neck in search of a pulse I won’t find. It doesn’t matter how many bodies I scoop up daily, the same tight pain in my chest drains more life out of me for each lost life.
Frail like paper, with bones dangling over my arms, I curl her into my arms then rest her down in the wagon as if I was putting a little girl to bed. She’s no older than seven or eight. She’s someone’s little girl and there’s no saying whether this someone is still alive or looking for her. “I’m so sorry, little princess,” I whisper. Why am I so numb inside? It’s as if I’ve run out of tears to shed. Or this pain has simply become a fiber of my being.
Apollo hasn’t come back to the apartment before midnight once in the last week. He’s still asleep when I leave in the morning, but I assume he decided to take the risk and venture down into the sewer tunnels. I’m curious as to what he found or didn’t find.
Though there are more than a dozen of us living in this one apartment, what belongs to each family isn’t shared. It would be impossible to share evenly. We all must fend for ourselves.
“You’re back,” Mother says, wrapping her frail arms around me. “My wonderful mensch of a son.”
“I’m back, yes. Are you well? Where’s Grandmother?” I peer around the crowded floor, not spotting her anywhere.
“She’s not right,” Mother says, shaking her head and staring up at me with wide eyes. “I’m scared something’s wrong.”
“Where is she?” I ask again, more urgently.
“Between the kitchen and the single bedroom. I didn’t want anyone to disturb her.”
I step over others who are already asleep at this early hour and turn the corner, finding Grandmother curled into a ball, asleep. She’s pale and her breathing is labored, a whistling sound passing through her lips.
Mother wraps her arms around mine as I ask, “What is she sick with?”
“It could be anything,” Mother says. “I would do anything for some of my herbs. I can nurse her back to health much quicker. We’ve gone through everything I had. I should have set some aside. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Mother’s voice breaks as a quiet cry escapes her lips.
“What is it we need to help her?” I’ve watched Mother chop, dice, steam, extract oils from seeds, and then concoct it all over boiling water—turn a bunch of leaves into a serum or tea. I never paid much attention to the process though. Herbal remedies became her focus after our doctors were forced to leave their practices and consider their licenses to be void. She would tell me we’re on our own and must take care of ourselves somehow, and nature can help with that.
There’s no nature within the walls of the ghetto. Even in the late summer and fall, there were hardly any birds, never mind patches of grass, trees, or wildflowers.
“Anything would be more than what we have,” she says. “Garlic cloves and ginger would be helpful, or thyme and honey. Have you seen anyone selling them on the streets?”
People are trading goods more than food. Food is scarce for everyone, inside and outside the walls. Though there are more sources outside than there are here.
“I’ll search tomorrow when the tradesmen are out. I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone selling herbs.”
