We decided to get Andrei over to the Aryan side to reach Christopher de Monti. It is known that De Monti is escorting the Swiss about Warsaw. Andrei reasoned that it would be better not to attempt to get to De Monti, for even if he were to turn in our report the Swiss would not submit it. It is doubtful the Swiss would stick their necks out or suddenly make overt moves in behalf of humanity. I conceded that Andrei was correct. The Swiss do not wish to anger the Germans. They treat the entire war with indifference. We hear of numerous examples of courage by the Danes, Dutch, French, et al., in behalf of their Jewish communities. Even the Swedes, who are neutral, are harboring thousands of Jewish refugees. Could it be that ghettos could exist only in Poland, the Baltics, and Ukrainia? Our Bathyrans in Hungary and Rumania tell us that Adolf Eichmann is even having trouble extracting the Jews there. Ervin Rosenblum works in the basement, filing more and more documents. It seems that everyone is writing diaries these days. There is a terrible fear that we will be forgotten.
Jules Schlosberg continues to build weird weapons in the next room to Ervin. I am certain we’ll be blown up someday.
ALEXANDER BRANDEL
It became dangerous in the streets in the winter of 1941 after the American entry into the war. The only regulars on the streets were the corpses deposited each morning for the sanitation squads. Even the sanctity of the Club Miami became suspect.
Andrei seldom showed up in public these days, so when a feeler was sent out by Paul Bronski for a meeting, Bronski was led through a series of blind alleys before he was finally allowed to come face to face with his brother-in-law in a basement somewhere near the Gensia Gate. Bronski’s blindfold was removed. He adjusted his eyes to the candlelight.
Andrei stood over him, thinner and wearier. He studied Paul. Paul had aged with a sudden sagging of his face muscles. The thin face was prune-like, he shook with constant tension, and his fingers were yellow with tobacco stains.
They changed amenities without feeling.
Paul took out a cigarette and went through one-armed contortions of lighting it “This business of arms smuggling and underground press is putting the entire population in grave danger,” he said.
“Go on.”
“No matter what you think about us on the Civil Authority, we try our best under very limited conditions. If your activities increase it will only antagonize the Germans.”
“Shut up, Paul! For Christ sake—antagonize the Germans. Do you think this death on the streets is a result of any underground? Are you so damned naive after two years of this as to think the population is in any less danger whether there is an underground or not?”
Bronski shook his head. “I told Presser it was useless to argue with you. Andrei, there is no magic formula for getting rid of the Germans. Your activities are costing us millions of zlotys in fines and the lives of hundreds in reprisals.”
“And what about the fines and the executions before the underground existed?”
“I’m trying to do the best I can,” Paul whined.
Andrei could not even bring himself to hate Paul Bronski. Once, before the war, he had had a reluctant admiration for the penetrating mind and sharp wit that could run him through mental acrobatics. The thing before him was a mumbling shell.
How very strange, Andrei thought. Little Stephan Bronski had begun as a runner between the orphanage and the Self-Help headquarters over a year ago and increased his sphere of operation each month. The youngster idolized Wolf Brandel, who taught him the routes around the ghetto over rooftops, through courtyards and basements, and all the secret hiding places. Stephan pressed to be given more responsible missions, even begged to be allowed to go to the Aryan side. Stephan was not yet thirteen years old. How can a boy demand to walk like a man and his own father crawl through the mud?
“Andrei, think what you will of me, but the people here only want to survive. You know that, Andrei—survive. The best way to live is through the Civil Authority. No one has answered your call to arms, Andrei. Your way would be mass suicide. Andrei—now listen—Boris Presser and I have been negotiating with Koenig. Koenig is a reasonable man and he can maneuver Schreiker. Koenig promises that if we can get the underground to stop its activities they will make a settlement with us on rations, medicine, and the disposition of the labor force.”
“Good God, Paul. Can you believe your own words?”
“It’s our only chance!”
There was nothing more to be said. Andrei could not mask his contempt. He handed Paul Bronski a blindfold. “I don’t know anything about an underground.”
Bronski took the blindfold. “You’ll have to tie it on ... I can’t do it with one hand.”
Ervin Rosenblum worked in the musty room below Mila 19, sorting the notes of the Good Fellowship Club. A rap on the false packing crate which served as an entrance made him douse the lights and freeze. Ana Grinspan entered.
“Susan has just come back,” she said. “Get up to your room.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“Go on.”
Ervin felt his way through an aisle lined with packing cases. In the main office on the first floor he saw everyone staring. Alexander Brandel stood by the door of his office, shaking his head.
Ervin raced up the stairs to the second floor carefully. The rail was gone, chopped up for firewood weeks earlier. Down the corridor to that cell which he shared with his wife and mother.
Momma Rosenblum lay on a cot beneath a pile of quilts. It was icy. There was no heat in the house. The room was ugly and bare except for Momma’s cot, double bed for Ervin and Susan, and a single table and two chairs.
Susan’s face was distraught. Ervin felt a catch in his heart. Susan had always seemed resilient to tragedy, plodding on, doing her job regardless. He had never seen her like this. He wiped his glasses nervously, trying to adjust his vision to the change of light from the cellar.
“Tell me,” he said at last.
“Dr. Glazer,” she groaned.
In a way, Ervin was relieved. They had been expecting Glazer to go. Another death, another, another. Key people dying in droves. Glazer had been like a father to Susan from the day she graduated from the university. Little Bernard Glazer who had brought so many children into life had watched them die, helpless to save them. Glazer was better off, Ervin thought. But God, he’d be missed. He was the best man in his field.
Ervin flopped his hands. “Too bad,” was all he could say.
Susan slung a sheaf of papers on the table. “A farewell present to you, Ervin. A minute-by-minute account of his death.”
What a legacy! Ervin stared at the yellowish papers but did not touch them.
“Take it, Ervin!” Her voice rose sharply. “It’s Dr. Glazer’s gift to you!”
“Susan ... Susan ... please.”
“Damn you!” she shrieked. “People die and you write in your lousy journal! God damn you, Ervin!”
Momma Rosenblum stirred. “Kinder, Kinder,” she said weakly, “don’t shriek at each other.”
Susan sat beside the old woman and felt her forehead automatically. “I’m sorry, Momma. I didn’t mean it Ervin.”