Chapter Twenty-Eight

ADRENALINE PROPELS ME forward amid the flaming, red-lit sky, airborne bullets, grenades, smoke, debris, and madness. I could easily curl up and die, take the fast way out by hurling myself in the middle of the uprising and be done. But something bigger than me is pushing me to stay alive. Self-loathing turns to defiance, becoming the wind beneath me. I run, swerve, move, dodge, and twist, pressing my back against one brick wall to the next, as though performing a ghetto ballet in which I’m the principal dancer.

I run for all that was stolen from me, but mostly for Zelda, whose bullet-ridden body was left dangling upside down by a rope off the side of the bunker on Mila Street for everyone to see. Her rebellious spirit, her stubborn voice pushes me ahead. Live, Bina, live. You can make this right. The last bullet—last word—must be yours.

It takes me a good hour of hiding and dodging, but I make my way to the convent where I used to teach drama classes. Beside it is my sewer, the one I used on multiple occasions to smuggle food and supplies in and out of the ghetto. The sewer is positioned close to the park on the Aryan side, nearly adjacent to the tunnel that Vladek had led me through a few days ago. Exhaling deeply, I take one last look at the ghetto burning down around me, then slowly, carefully, I lift the lid and descend into the sewer. Alice spiraling down the rabbit hole.

Above my head, I hear the violent ripple of gunshots and bombs exploding as I move like a lone gazelle through the stench, contaminated water, and sludge, the approximately one-hundred-and-twenty-meter distance from the convent to the Aryan side, not knowing who or what will greet me at the other end, or if this is the end.

With what little strength I have left, ignoring the grinding pain in my ribs, I climb the makeshift ladder built for our young smugglers and lift the heavy lid. In the slim space of air, I don’t see any moving boots or shoes nearby. Most likely, all the Nazi soldiers have been redirected into the ghetto to quash us. Raising the lid higher, I hoist myself up and out, then carefully refit the lid onto the pavement. I look around quickly. It’s now or never. Heart pumping, I sprint toward the nearby park where I hid just a few days ago. I lean against a large, leafy oak tree, make myself as small as I can, and collect my breath. Now what?

I wait.

From my vantage point, I see the fiery bombs arcing like asteroids over the ghetto. I picture our remaining fighters giving everything they’ve got. My heart is crushed. I should be there, not here. Aleks, I know you despise me. I know you will never forgive me, but please live. I can’t bear a world in which you don’t exist.

Taking a tiny sip of water from Zelda’s flask, I carefully search the grounds, hoping Vladek is back out here, scoping his territory for his next customer. I wait for what feels like hours, staring up at the charcoal sky, feeling the cold breeze whip at my face. Guide me, Zelda. I need you.

Thirty minutes later, in the distance, a large shadow materializes, moving carefully from one tree to the next. I stay put, watching and waiting. And then the movement stops. The shape becomes shapeless, but the size of it—it’s him, isn’t it? I can’t stay here forever. It will be light soon. I see a lit cigarette like a firefly in the night, and then Vladek appears in his black leather jacket. I make myself seen as well, and he doesn’t even look surprised, as if a woman emerging from the trees is normal.

He half smiles. “So, Landau’s daughter needs another favor?”

“Yes. I need you to hide me.” Before he responds, I step forward and slap a bunch of zlotys into his palm. “Please, Vladek, take this and get me out of here.”

“Where?”

“Isn’t that your job?”

He points to the ghetto burning. “My job has changed.”

I sigh deeply. I have only one place to go. “I have an address. It’s not too far.”

He replies by stuffing the money inside his jacket—no qualms taking it this time. He points in the direction of the same cluster of trees where I was hiding earlier. I don’t think twice. I follow him.

WE WEAVE AMONGthe trees and the bushes like small children playing hide-and-seek. I remain a good ten paces behind him. He turns, gestures to a truck parked in the distance. I follow him. As I approach the vehicle, I’m surprised that the truck is shiny, freshly painted. The Germans seized everything good, valuable, and new for themselves. And then I get closer and stop cold.

Impossible. Vladek knows exactly what I see and turns away guiltily.

Even in the grainy darkness, I make out the covered-up shadows of the once swirly gold logo concealed beneath the black paint: Landau Sons. A truck that belonged to my father’s fleet. I clasp my hands to my chest. I’m going to be sick. Vladek quickly jumps into the driver’s seat. I should shoot him dead right now. I climb into the passenger side. Nothing matters anymore. Everything has been stolen from me. What’s one more thing.

Vladek doesn’t look at me as he starts the truck. “Crouch down,” he orders. “And cover yourself with that.” He points to the folded tarp on the seat.

I follow his orders and scrunch into the space where my feet should be and grab the tarp, only to realize that it is not a tarp. It’s a pennant. And not just any pennant. Black, oxblood, and white. A swastika in my face. I let out a silent, blood-curdling scream beneath it. A Nazi flag. What was I thinking getting inside this painted-over stolen truck? Either Vladek is turning me in for ransom or he is playing both sides.

I’m an idiot. Why did I trust him blindly? Because he got me back inside the ghetto? Because he didn’t rape me that day? Like everything else in this twisted war, you can’t count on anything or anyone when survival is at stake. How much money is a runaway Jew worth now? I wonder. And why did I tell him that address? How selfish of me. How wrong. I feel the vibration of the road beneath me. I clutch my purse and satchel, and then remember my gun.

Flinging the pennant off me, I quickly climb into the passenger seat and aim the pistol at Vladek’s head. “Who the hell are you really?”

“Put that away now!” he shouts as he drives. “If anyone sees us, sees you...”

I thrust the barrel of the gun against his temple. “Why do you have a Nazi flag?”

“Everyone has a fucking Nazi flag. I’m a smuggler. If I’m caught, I need to show that I support them. It’s a cover. Now get down and hide, goddamn it.”

“Why should I trust you? You stole this truck from my father.”

“I didn’t steal it,” he says. “I took it before the Nazis did. I saved the damn truck. Now get the fuck down!”

Liar. They are all liars. Smugglers always play both sides, loyal only to the highest bidder. But if I shoot him, what do I have left? I can’t take this truck and drive across town without getting caught. I tuck the gun back inside my waistband, crouch back down into the space beneath the seat, and cover myself with the Nazi flag. It’s Vladek or nothing.