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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 skill set 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.

“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.”

“I figured as much,” Mother says.

“She’s a fighter, your grandmother. She’ll pull through this, I’m sure.”

But my mother’s words lack the confidence of the promises she would make to me when I was younger, assuring me everything would be all right, when really, nothing would be.

To fear fear, is the worst form of fear, is what she would always say.

It makes too much sense now.

Mother resettles herself on the pile of blankets we have, and I sit down beside her.

I sit, holding my knees against my chest, staring toward the last lit candle in the center of the room.

The quiet enhances the number of us coughing and sniffling.

It isn’t just Grandmother who’s sick.

There’s no heat in this building.

We all quiver through the night, sleeping in our coats and boots.

The front door opens and closes, pulling me out of a daze between being awake and asleep.

A hand drops to my shoulder.

“Luka, come out here with me, quick.”

Apollo’s back early tonight and with something important to share.

I push myself to my feet and carefully avoid stepping on anyone as I follow him back to the door.

We’re out in the dark hallway with no light other than a slice of the moon glowing into the cracked window above the stairwell.

“I was down in the sewer tunnel. There’s life down there. There are a lot of people, selling, trading, entertaining. There hasn’t been a German in sight. Not yet at least. I was talking with a few men tonight, taking in information from outside the wall on the advances Germany is making through Poland and then I heard someone calling your name.”

“Me?” I question.

“It was unmistakable, brother. I went through three different tunnels to find where the sound was coming from. I thought I was losing my marbles but then I found the person calling for you.”

“Who was it?” I ask, struggling to catch a breath.

“She didn’t give me a name. I told her I knew you and she shoved a paper into my hand and pleaded that I make sure you get it. I asked what the name was, but she wouldn’t give it to me. She said she’s been looking for you for months, but no one has known your name until tonight.”

Apollo grabs my wrist and shoves the paper into my hand.

I unfold it and try to read it within the darkness, unable to see a thing.

I move closer to the stairwell and the window, waiting for the cloud to move across the moon to offer more light.

Then I see.

Luka,

I’m searching for you.

I’ve been down here…

every night, praying someone will help me reach you.

My heart is broken into so many pieces I’m not sure I’ll be able to put it back together, not knowing where you are or if you’re well.

I love you so very much and I can’t think of anything else but you.

I will do whatever I can to find you.

If you find this letter, please know I’ll keep looking.

I’ll keep waiting. I’m here.

I have been and will be.

Yours Truly,

E

I fall backward, landing on the top step of the stairs, and press my hand through my hair, unable to believe what my eyes are reading.

She’s down there in the tunnels—the place I’ve been fearful to go because of the risk involved.

“Did she leave, or did she stay?”

“She walked away after handing me the letter,” Apollo says.

“Who is she?”

I press the note to my chest and stare out at the moon.

“My love, on the other side.”