It was very early in the morning. Birds were arrowing through the trees, and once the fog burned off, we’d probably have a day of sun. Five Polish soldiers and one German SS commander stood outside the pit, their guns drawn.
After the Jews had excavated another foot of earth, the German ordered them to go down into the pit. The men, women and children helped one another. A few of them dared to whisper, though they’d been warned not to talk.
A father jumped in before his daughter and raised his arms to summon her forward.
She hesitated. ‘Where’s Rudy?’ she asked; perhaps he was her older brother, or maybe even the family dog.
‘Come here, Katarzyna,’ her father whispered.
She knelt down, reaching out to him, and he lifted her into his arms.
He kissed her on the cheek, then again on her lips. He never told her where Rudy was. Instead, he pressed her head gently into his chest so that she could no longer see the soldiers.
Katarzyna was the youngest among them. She looked seven or eight. She was calm, but twenty-six other hearts were racing, including her father’s. I knew that from the way they looked up at the soldiers.
The German’s order came as a surprise. As did the hail of bullets.
The Jews in the pit weren’t yet ready. And I wasn’t either. But whoever is?
The Polish soldiers used automatic rifles. Katarzyna’s father fell right away. The girl spilled out of his arms.
Several people screamed and kept screaming. But not for long.
Katarzyna’s father died immediately, as best I could tell.
The girl didn’t. I stood at the rim of the pit and looked down at her. One bullet had hit her in the shoulder, another in the leg.
For several more minutes she continued breathing, though her eyes were closed.
By the time the Poles picked up their shovels all but two of the Jews were dead, though most of the twenty-seven bodies had become tangled and I can’t swear that they were the only ones left alive.
Besides Katarzyna, the only other person who showed signs of life was a young man with a shaved head and bright blue eyes, in his twenties I’d guess. He was groaning and trying to sit up.
The Polish soldiers shovelled soil on top of him and Katarzyna, and kept shovelling until I could see nothing more of either of them.
Why am I telling you a story you’d prefer not to hear, Heniek? Because one of the things it proves is an essential truth that you may not yet have understood: we can never return to the Before Time.
We must create a new calendar, one that begins in 1939, when we were walled inside.
It is now Year Two in our struggle to keep our shadows from vanishing.
I lost what I loved most, and with it, my second chance. Not unusual, of course; before this struggle is over, the best among us will have been killed, imprisoned or exiled. Those left alive will be the cowards and collaborators – the tiny, fearful men who worship darkness and call it the sun. They will live to a ripe old age. Their faces will pucker and their hair will fall out, and they won’t even remember their own birthdate, and yet they will recall the days when they fought for the Fatherland in fine-edged detail and with proud fondness, as if a rousing Wagner fanfare were always playing in the background. Because they were young and ruled the world for a few brief years.
They will tell their children and grandchildren – and anyone else who dares to ask – that they had no choice but to work for the Nazis, though they were never Party members…
Caligula will even tell little Martin and Angela – his beloved grandchildren – that he worked hard to save the Jews in his care.
And little Martin and Angela will believe him.
But you and I, Heniek, we know how it was. And our understanding means everything to me now, because it means I can stop telling my story. And I can let you put down your pen.
We all want to be listened to – to feel we matter. We want to be able to tell the story of our life without being interrupted or judged, or asked to get to the point.
Freud and Chekhov, Jung and Dickens would all agree with me. I know it. And that is why they would understand why I’ve told you about my life the way I have.
‘The worst that can happen is that the Nazis will shoot us,’ Izzy once told me.
How many of us are able to live our lives knowing that there are far more terrible things than dying with a German bullet in your chest or a noose around your neck?
Those who can’t will always hate those of us who can. We know that now, you and I.
If you make it out of here, Heniek, then remember this: beware of men who see no mystery when they look in the mirror.
‘What’ll you do now that we’ve finished your story?’ Heniek asked me.
We had spent the last two days editing the manuscript and were seated on his couch. He was putting a slice of boiled onion onto a wedge of black bread.
‘I’ll wait around Warsaw,’ I replied.
‘For what?’
‘For Adam and Stefa. I made it back home, so maybe they will too.’
