Chapter Sixteen

STACH RETURNS NEARLY three hours later. His clothes are in disarray. “You will have fifteen minutes inside the synagogue. That’s it,” he says breathlessly. The top buttons of his shirt are misbuttoned. What did he do to make this happen?

I pause, worried that I may have pushed him too far with his Nazi contact. “He could have killed you.”

“The less you know the better.” We are at that stage now, I think. Hiding things. No one is to be trusted. Even me. “Bina, none of this—whatever you do, whatever happens—comes back to me or to this office. Under no circumstances. Even if there is a gun to your head. Are we clear?” His eyes search mine.

“Perfectly. Thank you.” And I mean it.

“Fifteen minutes. That’s it. Not a minute more.” He hands me a satchel. “The pills.”

“Did you rob a chemist?” I laugh.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But a girl who works for a pharmacist and is one of us, she did.”

Enough formality. I fall into Stach’s burly arms and hug him hard. He smells of fresh whiskey. He clearly had more than the one he downed here earlier. This war has ruined all of us. “I won’t forget this, Stach.”

He gently pulls away. “There’s a car waiting for you behind this building. A black Fiat. You will get specific instructions from the driver. He’s one of us. You need to put on these clothes first.” He hands me a drab skirt, a beige headscarf—a schmatte, my grandmother would have called it—old, worn-in shoes, and a ragged blouse. “And put black circles under your eyes. Here’s some makeup. You’re still too pretty. You don’t want to draw any attention to you.”

I smile wanly. “Am I to play the part of the Dour Synagogue Maid?”

His eyes expand. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

IT’S 5:40 P.M.The car is waiting for me in the alley. The driver is clean-shaven, around thirty, wearing a dark suit and a black bowler slung low. It’s hard to see him clearly. He is staring straight ahead like he popped out of a gangster film. He rolls down the window, cocks his head slightly. “Irina?” he asks in Polish. His deep-set eyes are mismatched and penetrating, an arresting silver-gray in one eye, the other a muted brown.

“Yes.”

“Get in.”

I climb into the back seat and focus on the tiny strawberry-blond curls sneaking out from under the back of the man’s hat, too nervous to think about what comes next. When he looks up, I meet his intense gaze in the rearview mirror. Those eyes.

Once we turn down T?omackie Street in the southeastern tip of the district, I see the magnificent Great Synagogue up ahead. My heart aches. The synagogue is one of the grandest structures in all of Warsaw, designed years ago by Leandro Marconi. As the story goes, Marconi was my grandfather’s chief competitor, commissioned to build the magnificent Renaissance-style structure. My father would say that his father never got over losing that commission to Marconi.

But Marconi lived up to his reputation. The sumptuous golden-bronze synagogue is considered the most imposing in all of Europe, with its Corinthian columns and larger-than-life Ten Commandments tablets suspended at its roof. The only thing missing from its ornate fa?ade are the two giant seventeenth-century candelabras perched at the grand entrance. Rumor has it that the synagogue’s rabbi saw the writing on the wall and managed to have those treasures removed and smuggled to safety before he was captured and sent to the death camps. And yet, the gleaming building, with its iridescent tiles at its crown, still stands strong despite being devoid of its candelabras and its Jews. This structure was once the epicenter of Jewish life. My family were members.

We were not religious, but growing up, we lit the Sabbath candles on Friday nights and celebrated the High Holy Days. My father enjoyed going to the synagogue on those special holidays, relished the prayers and contemplation in the immense sanctuary. My mother tolerated it—calling it the Jewish Duomo—but appreciated that we were always seated in the front row alongside the rabbi’s family. No one could dispute the splendor of the synagogue, with its two thousand seats filled with Poland’s most prestigious Jews, especially on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Sermons were delivered in Polish rather than Yiddish, like most of the other synagogues in Poland. The Great Synagogue was meant to cater to families like mine, Eryk’s, Aleksander’s, and all the members of Jakub’s archive committee.

The car slows down, and I see the Star of David twinkling at the apex of the synagogue’s domed roof. I close my eyes briefly and allow the nostalgia to move through me for the very last time.

The driver stops the vehicle a block away. He turns and hands me papers. “These will get you through the door. They are signed.” He speaks in perfect Polish. But I also detect subtle notes of something else. German perhaps? Who is he? I wonder. What else does he do for ?egota? I don’t ask. I have one mission, and whoever this man is, all that matters is that he is making this possible.

“There was another woman assigned to this particular job,” he explains, then clears his throat. “She is not going to make it. You are taking her place. That’s the cover story. Are we clear?”

That wasn’t a question. I nod.

“You are required to do the final check of the girls,” he continues, explaining the job. “That’s your assignment. A different group of maids came earlier in the day. They hosed down the girls...” The driver’s face is cold, his incongruous eyes are unblinking. Hosed down the girls. I think I’m going to be sick. I look away, not wanting him to see the revulsion. He checks his watch, gestures to the synagogue. “You tell the guards this... now listen closely: ‘Ich bin für den letzten Schliff hier.’ It means, ‘I am here for the final touches.’ Can you say that, Irina?”

“Yes.” I repeat the sentence in perfect German. Final touches. Final solution.

His blondish-red brows rise in unison. “Your German is surprisingly good.”

So is your Polish, I think. Who the hell are you?

“Keep your head low,” he commands, like a man used to being obeyed. “The girls are in the basement. You are allowed only fifteen minutes once you’re inside. That is all that could be arranged. Use the time wisely.”

Fifteen minutes. How can I do everything I need to do?

“I will be waiting for you here.” He points again at the synagogue. “You will have three sets of guards to get through. The first hurdle is at the entrance. You tell them: Pokojówka—maid. Nothing else, just that. Then, you will be sent to the back entrance. That’s when you will say what I told you to say. You will then repeat the same sentence to the guards on the inside.” His mouth tightens. “Polish first and then German twice. You got that?”

I feel chilled. Nazis and their unbending rules. I stare at him. You are clearly not Polish.

“And the girl,” he adds with a sharp squint. “Tell her to pretend that she is dead. Someone will come for her. Warn her not to move. Jews will be brought in from the ghetto to clean up the bodies in the morning. She will be removed and brought to safety.”

The way he explains this with zero emotion. I don’t trust him. “Please, don’t let anything happen to her,” I beg.

“That will be up to her,” he says impassively, and I wonder what Stach has on this man, or worse, what Stach sees in this man.

The driver turns around, faces the windshield. I glimpse both of us mirrored in the glass reflection. “Now go.”

I WALK ALONGthe gravel road toward the synagogue entrance like I’m walking the plank. The two guards at the entrance are watching me, amused. I climb the synagogue steps slowly, trudging, tired like a maid would move. I keep my gaze plastered to the ground, as the driver instructed. I stop in my tracks when I see boot tips pointing in front of me.

“You!” a Nazi guard calls out in German.

My breath quickens. I don’t look up. “Pokojówka,” I say timidly in my best Polish peasant accent, then hand him the papers that the driver had given me. My throat tightens as if there were two hands clasped around it. A minute or two passes in silence. My heart is a ticking time bomb.

“Gehen!” He gestures finally to the back side of the synagogue, where another guard duo awaits, exactly as the driver had laid out.

Now comes the German. I repeat the “final touches” sentence, hold my breath, and I am admitted inside. Exhaling deeply, I walk toward yet another armed guard, repeat the same sentence. He points me to what looks like a storage closet, which I assume contains the cleaning supplies. The guard has a Polish interpreter standing next to him repeating instructions in Polish to ensure that nothing is missed in translation. “White nightgowns. Sterilized,” the man orders. “The girls need to be dressed in white before the officers arrive for inspection. If any of them have rashes, we are to be informed immediately. If any are coughing with croup or you spot any sores on their bodies, we must be informed. Understand?”

I nod without looking up. I feel chilled. I don’t know who is worse: the Nazi or the traitorous Polish translator.

May you both get syphilis, I scream silently with my eyes glued to the marble floor, knowing that “informed” means immediate death. Oh, you will be informed all right.

I drag two large bags stuffed with the white cotton nightgowns from the closet toward the basement, where another armed guard waits at that door. How many of them are there? He doesn’t help me with the bags. Instead, he opens the door and presses his gun to my back. “Fifteen minutes.” Then with a little shove and a chuckle as I stumble, he closes the door behind me.

Fifteen minutes to kill ninety-three girls and save one. I touch my stomach, where the pills are taped around me in a small bag. I had asked Stach for a few extra tablets, should I need one as well, only he didn’t know that part.

With trepidation, I walk slowly down the creaky basement steps. Unlike the rest of the synagogue, this dungeon space is filled with floating cobwebs and furred with thick dust. The maids certainly didn’t clean this area. I imagine they will not be bringing the officers down here. I picture them parading the girls in the main sanctuary, on the bimah, the platform in the synagogue from which the Torah is read. I envision young Dina down here and the others, their cries of sheer terror as the sadistic guards make examples of a few of them to shut them up and ensure that they follow orders. Zelda was right. Better to die with dignity than live through this hell, to be used, abused, broken, discarded, and then sent to the death camps or shot dead on the spot.

I blink my eyes rapidly, not knowing which way to look. The girls are all huddled together in various corners of the massive basement—naked, freezing, starving, an entanglement of flesh, bones, and limbs. The older girls seem to be consoling, protecting, the younger ones. As I walk toward them, the talking and tears stop immediately. The girls all cower in silence. Trained dogs. We have been taught to do exactly what those barbarians want. They’ve broken us. They won.

I square my shoulders. Not this time.

I see Dina in a corner. Skinny like a knife. White as if the color has been sifted right out of her. Her terrified eyes are wide like saucers and her mouth drops open when she sees me. I also recognize many other girls who have been in my classes over the past few years. “Mrs. Blon—” I hear a few call out.

I shush them immediately and make the cut gesture across my throat. No one utters another word. They understand hand signals. Except for one brave girl who comes forward. I recognize her too. Her father is the editor of the Jewish Gazette, the same man who made my fake identification. Lilah, I believe her name is. She is around sixteen. I have seen her passing out newspapers in Muranowski Square. A confident girl, a born leader, a wheeler-dealer. She will make the decision for the others, I can tell. She is the one I must convince and do it quickly.

The girl’s hair is long, dark, and straggly. She is medium height and clearly was once a curvy girl who has been starved to the bone, but her curves remain. They will come after her first if they get their hands on her. “We know what those Nazis are going to do to us,” Lilah says. “I saw the edict in the paper. So did everyone else here. How did you get inside? Did you come to save us, Mrs. Blonski?” Her voice is numb and clinical.

There is no tiptoeing around this. No time. “They are going to bring you to a hotel, turn it into a brothel, make you their whores, and then kill you,” I say. “Rape then death.”

She nods, understands, doesn’t cry, nor do any of the others listening in. We have all seen so much death and destruction that it’s become the norm, not the exception. “If you’re not here to save us,” she asks, “then why are you here?”

I blow the wind out of my cheeks. I’m here to help you die. “I am with the resistance in the ghetto. We are all going to die, but how we die is the issue at hand. I’m here to give you a choice.”

“I see... death by their hand or ours,” Lilah reflects quietly, exhaling deeply, tugging at the ends of her hair, a nervous habit; a giveaway that she is still a girl, not as strong as she seems. “Just like Masada.”

“Yes.” I nod sadly. “Exactly like Masada.”

The story of Masada, a fortress and symbol of the ancient kingdom of Israel, is one of the most powerful historical tales depicting the Jews’ heroic last stand against the Roman conquerors two thousand years ago, in which 967 Jewish men, women, and children fought until the very last moment and reportedly chose to take their own lives rather than endure enslavement or death at the hands of the encroaching Roman army. Every Jewish child learns this story, not to romanticize death, but so they will stand up and fight for their Judaism.

“That’s why I’m here.” I lift my shirt, pointing to the black satchel taped around my stomach. My breath hitches in my throat. “I have pills... there will be a seizure, perhaps loss of consciousness, and then it’s over. Over, before they can get to you. And they are coming for you tomorrow.”

Lilah looks behind her at all the other girls. “We’ve talked about it. We would rather die than be violated and destroyed. And here you are, our angel of death. I was in your class, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I say, trying to prevent my eyes from welling up. They all need to see me strong, but especially her. “You were a good actress, and then you left because your father needed help after—”

“After my mother was murdered,” she interjects. “And now it’s my turn.”

I reach for her arm, which stubbornly remains at her side. “I’m sorry it has come down to this, Lilah. You are so brave. Tell them all exactly why I’m here. I’ve been given fifteen minutes, and we are now down to eight.” I glance at the watch Stach had given me. I remove the satchel of pills from around my stomach and hand it to Lilah, then I point to the bags. “Put those nightgowns on to cover your bodies. Take the pills. And you will be buried Jewishly... I was promised.” I lie. Let her believe that. Let her and the others die modestly in a white nightgown, virginity intact, trusting they will be buried Jewishly. So many lies.

“And you?” Lilah asks accusingly, folding her arms over her ample breasts. “Tell me about your death with dignity.”

I feel feverish. “I am staying here on the Aryan side, smuggling weapons into the ghetto so that those who are left can fight back, die with dignity, too, and kill as many Nazis as we can before we go.”

“Make them suffer,” she says coldly. “Make them bleed and pay for what they have done to us.” She turns and looks at all the girls, who seem to trust her, their naked, courageous leader. The things Lilah could have done with her life. “This is a mitzvah,” she tells them. “None of us will be violated. We will all die by our own hand—our choice, not theirs. I didn’t envision my life ending like this. But here it is. Let’s do this together before they come for us.”

My heart pounds. How can I save Dina? How can I kill ninety-three girls and keep one alive? What kind of a monster am I?

“Lilah. There’s one more thing,” I call out. She turns.

“One of you must live to tell the story. A witness to what happens here after I go, someone to say Kaddish.” The Jewish prayer for the dead. Most of these girls are religious. The Kaddish means something. I put on my best act for a teen girl who is about to choose death for herself and all the others. “I was given word that a Christian family is willing to hide one girl, the smallest, the youngest,” I lie again, but it’s all I’ve got. A bottomless reservoir of lies. I turn to see all the haunted, frightened faces. Every inch of me is howling inside. I will never recover from this.

“Her,” I say, pointing at Dina. “She is so small. She can hide.”

Lilah nods and then recites a verse from the Talmud. “‘Anyone who saves a life is as if he saved an entire world.’”

Lilah says this just as I’m wondering if there is even a God anymore.

“Do you have paper, anything to write on?” she asks. “I want to send you with a letter, so we are not forgotten.”

Three minutes.

The only thing I have on me is the permission papers to get inside the synagogue. There is a pile of charcoal in the corner. I point to it. Another girl runs to get a small piece of charcoal. I hand it to Lilah. Probably stupid on my part. I may need these papers again. But these girls are about to die, I won’t refuse them anything.

Lilah writes quickly: Remember us. We died pure. We died brave. She signs it. I stuff it inside my shoe. “I need another piece of paper.” She glances at Dina. “For her too.”

The basement door opens, and a guard shouts down, “Pokojówka!”

“Almost done,” I respond in Polish and wait for the translator to interpret.

One minute later, the door slams shut. I let out a sigh of relief. “You will never be forgotten,” I tell the girls as I wipe the tears from my eyes. So many beautiful young lives lost... but mostly, I cry for Jakub. Now I understand what those archives detailing history, interviews, testimonials, meant to him. Proof, evidence of our existence, for generations to come. Forgive me, my husband, for ridiculing you.

“Come here,” I call out to Dina. “Quickly.”

Dina looks to the other girls, glances at Lilah, who nods. Dina is covering her private parts self-consciously as she walks toward me. I kneel before her and whisper, “Eryk came to me. I promised him I would save you. Dina, these girls are going to take pills and die before the Nazis can hurt them. You will keep one pill with you if you are captured. Hide it, okay? For now, you are going to live. Do you understand me? You must live.” I beg the child with my eyes. “Your brother will come find you, I promise. But you are going to have to be very, very brave.”

She puts her thumb in her mouth. I gently remove it and take her small, shaky hand inside my own, speaking loud enough for the others to hear. “You have been chosen by the girls, Dina. You are the smallest. Can you stay alive? For Eryk? For them?” I point to Lilah. “They need you to stay alive to one day tell their story. You will have to hide beneath their bodies and pretend you are dead. Can you do that, maleńka?” My tone is motherly, endearing, sugar-coated. I want to scream.

“Take me with you, please, Mrs. Blonski.” Tears fill Dina’s eyes, and she clings to me like a necklace. If only I could. But I can’t. We will both get killed.

“Now!” the guard shouts down.

I peel Dina off me, look at Lilah one last time. The fate and last fight of the ghetto’s daughters is now in her young hands. She straightens her shoulders valiantly, places her hand to her heart. Gratitude. This courageous girl is thanking me for giving her poison—thanking me for sparing her a brutal, abusive death at the hands of our tormentors. This is how low we have come: death by choice is the best option in a world of no options.

My heart rips straight down the middle and tears are slick on my cheeks. Words elude me, falling away like ash descending from the sky. I am not religious, but I look up at the cobwebbed beams. God, if you are there, make it quick, make it painless. Watch over them.

I turn to go. My fifteen minutes are up.