Resistance Page 5

  We stood for the singing of the prayers, though with thin walls and neighbors who’d gladly fatten themselves by blackmailing us, it was little more than rhythmic whispering.

  Shimshon passed around the wine while reciting the blessing, the kiddush; then we lined up for the washing of hands and breaking of bread.

  My mind was supposed to be focused on the holiness of the moment, the sacred nature of each part of the meal. But I kept thinking of my parents, who probably had no bread at all tonight. If they did, it wasn’t challah bread, and their share would be little more than a mouthful.

  The rest of the meal was simple and there wasn’t nearly enough meat to go around, but it was delicious considering the trouble it must have taken to acquire everything, and I was more than grateful to be part of it.

  Grateful … and nervous. The closer we came to the end of the meal, the sooner I would hear Akiva’s plan.

  Following a teaching from the Torah, Dolek gathered us in a circle and stood in the center, looking us each in the face before beginning.

  “There is no turning back,” he said. “If you want life, don’t look for it here.”

  We knew that. We’d always known that this was never about winning, only about dying on our feet, as fighters, not on our knees.

  From behind the circle, Shimshon took over. “Look at what we have already accomplished. We have provided forged papers for hundreds of people to escape the ghettos. We have warned as many as would listen to get themselves into hiding and not to board the trains. We have fed our people, clothed them, armed them when possible. We have smuggled out children who now have a chance to live, thanks to you. Never let it be said that the young are powerless or incapable. Never let it be said that youth is a liability. No, we feel life within us more intensely than most, and whatever happens after tonight, never doubt that you have done God’s work.”

  Dolek pointed to a girl in the corner. I knew her only as Anka, and that she was a courier, same as me. Her cheek was badly bruised, and she’d had difficulty sitting up straight all evening. She’d been released only a few days ago after having been arrested by the Nazis.

  “Anka fights for us,” Dolek said. “She withstood their questions, their brutality. She told them nothing.”

  We honored her courage, but the possibility that what had happened to Anka could also happen to me was constantly on my mind. Even now, she looked strong, resolute, so much of what I wanted to be whenever I stepped into dangerous territory. I wished I could be more like her.

  No, I intended to make myself more like her, armored with courage and determination, and a renewed vow that if I was ever caught, I would live—or die—having remained fully loyal to the resistance.

  Dolek brushed back a lock of dark hair, damp with sweat, that had fallen over his forehead. Then he laid out his plans for our next attack, one very different from anything we’d done before. It would happen shortly before Christmas, one month from now. He promised that specific assignments would come soon, and that no matter what our jobs were that night, we were to carry them out to the best of our ability.

  My eye shifted to Esther when he said that. Ever since our failed raid last month, she had remained as far from me as possible, and rarely spoke to anyone. Whatever her assignment for the upcoming attack, it had better not involve me.

  The night ended with words I would never forget. Dolek’s eyes were bright and he spoke with a clear voice as he said, “We will not win, we will not get glory, not in this life, anyway. We are fighting for our three lines of history just so that it will not be said that our youth went like sheep to the slaughter.”

  Seated in a room filled with people I considered heroes, I doubted that my name would be included in those three lines. Nor should I be remembered, not when my job as a courier was to be forgotten whenever possible. But I understood my purpose, and was glad to have any role to play.

  I would do my best. For Akiva’s fighters. For Poland. For the Jewish people, as long as God preserved us. And for myself. I had no intention of going down without a fight.

  I was ready to claim our place in history.

  December 22, 1942

  Cyganeria Café, Krakow

  The week before we attacked the Cyganeria Café, I barely slept. How could I, when every whisper around me was filled with questions about what might happen that night. What if we failed? What if in the end, all our efforts amounted to nothing? Or, somehow more frightening, what if we succeeded?

  Over the last month, Akiva’s membership had grown to forty people, the swelling of our ranks coming as a response to the rapidly worsening conditions in Krakow.

  Half of all residents still in the Podgorze Ghetto had already been transferred to the Belzec extermination camp, and rumors were growing of other camps expanding their machineries of death, in Auschwitz-Birkenau, Chelmno, Treblinka, and other places throughout Poland.

  The Nazis were preparing for the complete annihilation of the Jews.

  Occasionally, I heard whispers from other Akiva members that we were fools to think our efforts would make any difference. My response to them was always the same. “Let us be foolish, then, because if we save even one life, we are the best of fools.”

  The timing for this attack had been carefully chosen. The German invaders wanted to celebrate Christmas, to buy last-minute presents for their loved ones at home, and to take a break from the war. We’d heard reports of some Allied troops calling for holiday truces at the front. That was fine for them—their war was very different from ours, and their temporary declarations of peace mattered little to us.

  Our Akiva leaders had been planning tonight’s attack for a month, ever since the Sabbath evening we now called our Last Supper. It would be far more dangerous than anything we’d done before. Over the past two months, most of our missions had happened after curfew, in secrecy and silence. But tonight’s mission was meant to draw attention to our cause. We wanted the Poles to see it, the Nazis to feel it, and the world to hear it.

  First to leave the bunker were the less experienced girls, assigned to post anti-Nazi flyers around Krakow, calling on Poles to resist, to fight back. Even if only a handful of citizens were encouraged to join resistance efforts, at least it ensured that our movement continued, regardless of what happened to us.

  Next to leave were the boys assigned to post Polish flags at key locations around the city, places where our flags had always stood. We wanted the people to remember Poland as it had been, and that we were not a conquered people as long as we refused to accept it. There was another strategy at work, one I credited to Dolek’s genius. He hoped the Polish flags would make the Nazis suspect that this was the work of the Polish underground, not the Jews.

  The third part of the operation was important symbolically. Two of our members were assigned to lay a wreath at the broken statue of Adam Mickiewicz, our beloved national poet. Many Poles were nearly as angry about the destruction of the statue as they had been about our country being invaded. We hoped the wreath would remind them of that anger. If they would not fight for millions of living Jews, perhaps they would fight for the memory of a single dead poet.

  Those Akiva members who lacked enough experience to go far from the bunker were to call the fire department at coordinated times, reporting fires at various places around the city. There wouldn’t be any fires, but we wanted the confusion.

  I expected that would be Esther’s assignment. She could do the least amount of harm there. But that was not the plan. Shortly before we left, Rubin pulled me aside. “You should know, Esther has been assigned with us to the Cyganeria Café.”

  My jaw fell open in utter disbelief. “What?” By far, the most dangerous part of tonight’s attack was the Cyganeria Café.

  I’d watched Esther earlier today, and already knew she’d spent most of the afternoon knitting. Knitting, while the rest of us prepared for the biggest attack we’d yet attempted!

  “She’s part of our cell, Chaya.”

  “S
o is Jakub! He still walks with a limp, thanks to her.”

  Rubin tightened his lips, then said, “The plans are set. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  I would’ve argued further, but it wouldn’t have made any difference, and besides, it was time to leave. My backpack was loaded with my identification papers and layers of clothing in case I was searched. Buried beneath the clothes were three grenades. If I could have, I would’ve brought more.

  In total, Akiva would be attacking three cafés known to be frequented by German officers. This late into December, the nights were brutally cold, so the cafés would be full. Busiest of all would be the Cyganeria Café, a simple and pleasant restaurant where my family used to eat.

  My fellow cell members and I left separately, each of us taking different routes to the café, and each of us aware that regardless of who did or didn’t make it there, the attack must go forward. Other Akiva cells would be there too, though I didn’t know how many or which ones.

  The route I was given took me through a German district, since I was less likely to be stopped. Not only because of my looks, but because I knew the expectations for my behavior around the Germans. I walked in the street like all Poles did—the sidewalk was for conquerors, they said. I kept my head up and eyes focused on the road, but never looked directly at anyone. Confident, but not arrogant. Purposeful, but not driven. Formidable, but not dangerous.

  I smiled at that thought. Whether I made it to the café, or if some unfortunate soldier stopped me along the way, these grenades I was carrying were going to be thrown.

  One way or another, I intended to be exceptionally dangerous.

  Because of my longer route, I was one of the last to arrive, but I took my place across the street, biding my time by pretending to window-shop. The Cyganeria Café was on a busy street, surrounded by other shops and businesses, all decorated for the Christmas season. The building itself was made of large bricks and stone divided by tall arched windows. Through them, I could see the café was full of German soldiers. Civilians bustled along the streets, hurrying home with their holiday packages. We had no wish to harm them. The timing would have to be exact.

  Outside the café, other Akiva members had quietly gathered. I recognized a boy who’d recently joined us, leaning against the bricks, reading a newspaper. Rubin stood beside a street sign, eating a pastry, and others still were milling about, engaged in any activity that wouldn’t draw attention their way. Dolek was near the café’s entrance, off to my left. He would give the signal for us to begin.

  I checked my watch—fifteen minutes before seven o’clock, our start time. I lowered my wrist but immediately felt desperate to check it again, eager to see the minutes tick away. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t look as anxious as I felt.

  Staring in the window across the street, I returned to watching the reflection of the Cyganeria Café behind me. Inside, soldiers were clinking together mugs of Pilsner, perhaps laughing about how easily we had become a conquered people. I thought again of the grenades I carried, itching to throw them.

  I’d also been mentally counting down the time. Five minutes must have passed by now, then ten. When I was sure it had been fifteen minutes, I stole a quick glance at Dolek, who’d just politely stepped aside to allow other soldiers to enter. He wouldn’t abandon our plans. Perhaps my counting was off.

  Even a year ago, I could never have imagined being here, ready to attack, eager to attack. Shooting that soldier in the train yard two months ago had deeply affected me. For long nights afterward, I’d lain awake in bed in a cold sweat replaying that moment. Finally, I came to understand that even one less Nazi in Krakow might save the lives of hundreds of Jews.

  Esther sidled up next to me, arriving last of all with a freshly knitted scarf around her neck. “Are you ready?” Before I could answer, she quickly added, “Of course, we could never be truly ready. I just wondered if everything is in place. It’s almost seven o’clock.”

  “Are you ready?” I asked. “We’re all counting on you tonight. Not like—”

  “I made a mistake at the train tracks that night, I know.” Her expression tightened. “I learned from it. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  I sincerely hoped that was true. The success of this operation balanced on a paper-thin edge. Even the tiniest slip could ruin everything.

  “If you don’t want any mistakes, then back away from me,” I said. The Nazis were suspicious of people in close conversations on the streets. It was not uncommon for them to be stopped and questioned separately about what they had been talking about. If their two stories didn’t match exactly, it could be grounds for their arrest.

  Only a minute later, the church bells of Krakow rang out, my heart pounding harder with each toll. Seven bells. Seven o’clock.

  Still near the café door, Dolek struck first, pulling the pin from his grenade and throwing it through the large front window, which shattered in an ear-piercing crash, followed immediately by an explosion inside the café. Violent shouts of alarm and panic immediately rang from everywhere around me: shoppers rushing into the streets, screaming passersby running in any direction they could away from the café, cars on the street slamming their brakes. Inside the café, all I could see was chaos. Through the thick smoke pouring out the broken windows, furious soldiers began to emerge, many with obvious cuts on their faces or uniforms. They became the target of my first grenade. My second splintered apart the front door. My third went inside the café and exploded with enough force to blow some of the bricks off the building.

  Sirens began shrieking toward us, and the bitter smell of dust and smoke and blood irritated my senses. From the corner of my eye, I saw Esther throw her grenades too, though with all the commotion, I wasn’t sure where they landed. My ears picked up orders being shouted in German. We needed to go. Now.

  Esther pointed down the street to where Dolek was signaling with hand gestures. “We’re supposed to run!”

  “Get somewhere safe,” I shouted to her, already hurrying away. Nazis who had survived the attack were scaling the rubble, their rifles in hand. When they began firing, I saw bodies in civilian clothes fall, but through the smoke, I couldn’t tell if any of them were ours. “Run!”

  Everyone who could get to the Akiva bunker was supposed to meet there. I tried to get there too, but soldiers were emerging on every street like angry hornets from the hive. Military vehicles with searchlights and sirens roamed every street, forcing me into the alleys, and orders were being shouted through loudspeakers that everyone not indoors would be arrested or shot on sight.

  My senses seemed to be on high alert, as if I saw every movement, even the flutter of a lingering autumn leaf in the wind, heard every whisper from apartments above wondering who I was, why I was running. Beneath my feet, I almost had a feel for which way to turn, and which direction would lead me to the Nazis now swarming the city.

  I was only a couple of blocks from the safe house where our cell had stored our supplies over the last two months. I’d go there for the night and then make my way to the Akiva bunker as soon as everything calmed down, as soon as I calmed down, maybe in another few days. My safe house was on the second floor of a small apartment building. I slid inside it through an alley entrance, barely escaping the notice of a squadron of soldiers who were running through the streets, weapons drawn. I was the first to enter but didn’t lock the door, certain that by the end of the night, others would join me.

  I stayed awake until dawn, peering out curtains, listening for any faint cries for help, pacing the floor and wondering if everyone else had made it to Dolek’s bunker. Were they there now, reviewing what we’d done, celebrating our victory? Did anyone wonder where I was?

  Or … panic seeped through my entire body … was there no one left to wonder about me?

  Maybe not.

  No one came that night.

  Nor the next night, nor the one after that. I snuck out the following day to try to enter our bunker, but the en
tire building was surrounded by Gestapo officers.

  Something terrible must have happened in the aftermath of the attack. I caught my breath in my throat and hurried back toward my safe house, several streets away. If the Nazis had breached the bunker, then they knew about Akiva. We were always careful to keep personal information about ourselves out of the bunker, but traces of every single one of us were there. I tried to think of what I might’ve left behind. A change of clothes, one of the bags I used for smuggling, full of my grandmother’s shawls. What else?

  I slammed the safe house door behind me and locked it, then leaned against it, trying not to be sick.

  Had I left anything behind that could lead back to me, or my parents? No matter how hard I tried to think, I just wasn’t sure.

  Did they know about me? What had happened to the rest of Akiva? Was I next?

  February 13–14, 1943

  Akiva Safe house, Krakow

  The attack on the Cyganeria Café was well over a month ago, a lifetime ago. Eleven dead, the papers said, and thirteen wounded. For all we lost, it should have been more. Every day that passed seemed years separated from the day before. The raids on German trains and warehouses, our attack on the café, all of that became a memory, a drifting piece of time that felt more like a dream. I had become a shadow of someone I once was, not the actual me.

  Gradually, I began venturing out into the city and found myself at the building where our bunker had been. It wasn’t guarded anymore, so I cautiously entered, hoping not to see anyone else who lived there because how would I look at them and smile as if all was well? It wasn’t.

  I got as far as the bunker’s front door before I saw the bullet holes. I raised a hand to feel them and could almost hear the exchange of gunfire that must have happened in this very place. Spots of blood were on the wood floor beneath me. Was that our blood or theirs? I wanted to go in, to see our former bunker for myself, but a door slammed on the floor above, startling me so much that I quickly left, retreating to my safe house. A place where I no longer felt safe at all.