“There was in our gang a narrow-eyed Jew from Koźminek. His wife had died of typhus in the ghetto and he had lost his children to pneumonia. He hung around with us, not entirely belonging, sometimes talking of his wife, sometimes of his children, but his main concern was potatoes. His mind was completely obsessed with the topic, and he would stand among us discussing a shipment of potatoes he had seen being unloaded on Limanowa Street, which would probably go to the sycophants of the Authority. He discussed potatoes distributed in the public kitchens, which were damaged from faulty storage over winter. This was his entire preoccupation: potatoes that were, that would be, that he intended to get hold of. Potatoes. And between them, like drops of rain, a word or two about his children. Antek, three years old, had died in the hospital. His Rozka had not even seen the inside of a hospital. For two days she lay coughing at home, and suddenly one night she got a high fever. He wrapped her in a blanket and took her in the middle of the night, hoping they would treat her. They told him the hospital was overflowing with typhus and boils patients. She should have hot drinks and she would get better. He offered all his food stamps and a small treasure of hoarded potatoes as bribery. But the sacrifice did not help. She died in his arms, six-year-old Rozka. He would have given his entire stock of potatoes, but they did not want it. Why would they? Bursting with fatty foods, hiding huge storehouses from the masses, full of potatoes, only for them. And here the potatoes erupted again. The unfair allocations. The shipment rotting in a warehouse because a few clerks in the office were lazy. A certain type of potato that was a curse, causing the stomach to bloat, God save us, we had to watch out. And so on and so forth.
“One day, when there was great hunger, this Jew from Koźminek decided to attach himself to me. He stood close to my body and for a moment I thought that was it — a knife and I would be done for. He had a thieving look in his eyes, which led me to believe that it would be him, of all the men in our gang, who would overcome the force of the rumors and rob me for my potatoes. But the Jew from Koźminek, it turned out, was seeking my wellbeing. Standing close to me, his words crazed, frightened, he was actually trying to warn me:
“‘In our circle…hmm…they think about you, nu…Where did you come from? And some believe we should…nu, in the neck…there are youths here…’
“He was trying to tell me that my life was in danger, and at the hands of whom?! The rumors protected me from regular thieves, but the underground, the people who acted in the name of ideology, considered me a target. Oh dear! Why did Ahasuerus bring these troubles on me? He could have left me at some distance from the town, where I would have ended up wherever I ended up. What did he care? I knew my condition was grave. I did not know how grave it was yet to become.
“In the meantime, something of note occurred. The chairman of the Lodz ghetto Judenrat, Rumkowski, the “Elder of the Jews,” who lorded over the small kingdom of two hundred thousand ghetto subjects, summoned me to see him. He wanted to talk. The most important of the ghetto Jews, the ‘president,’ as we were required to call him, invited a lonesome Jew of the Wesoła Street wanderers to his room.
“He talked to me for a long time, trying to figure me out. If I were an agent, how did he not know? There were agents about whom the Gestapo notified Rumkowski, and others, if the Gestapo hid them from him, Rumkowski the fox uncovered on his own. And me? Who was I? He stared at me. An elderly man with a strong face. He asked where I had come from, what I did. He chatted about himself and the troubles of his kingdom. And all this time his eyes were watching me, wondering who I was. A cunning and wise man, this Rumkowski was. Some say he was bad for the Jews, some say he did great things for them, finding himself between a rock and a hard place. Who can judge? He met his end in Auschwitz too, may God avenge his blood. With me he was relaxed. He asked if my life in the ghetto was adequate, if I was finding nourishment, if I was treated well by his subordinates. He asked how he could help. I gave him a detailed description of Feiga, which he wrote down, and he said his people could make enquires in nearby ghettos.
“All this time I wondered — should I confess? Open my heart to this grandfatherly Jew and tell him that I was no agent and no nothing? Should I restore myself to the people of Israel, or cloak myself in secrecy and preserve the confusion? After all, it was only my secret that protected me from the robbers, like a coat of armor. Perhaps I could give him my money to keep? German and Polish bills were forbidden in the ghetto and were of no use in any case. But I did not reveal it to him. Not a thing. I went back to the street, and he, in his office, was left wondering who I was.
“I kept roaming here and there through the streets. A lonesome Jew, longing for life. Thieves in pursuit, murderers lurking for the money hidden deep in my coat pocket. I could not spend a penny of Ahasuerus’s treasure. And whom did I fear? The underground youths. I did not want to die like an agent, a traitor. Better to be killed by a robber, better tuberculosis, typhus. Every young man who came in my direction looked like an assassin to me. I tried to find ways to contact the underground — perhaps I would knock on their door and settle the misunderstanding. Take the entire treasure out of my coat pocket and say, Here, all my money can go to your cause. But what door could I knock on? How could I, the chief of agents, find out on the streets where the underground met? Nu, what an affair!
“One day there was a chance of sorts. On Dolna Street, I happened to meet a man by the name of Yanek Leib, a Jew of short stature who used to be in our gang of misfits and then disappeared. A peculiar sort of Jew. His eyes were extremely large, made even more pronounced by a pair of bushy eyebrows. From the first I had sensed something odd about him, as if despite spending time with us, he did not wish for human company, only needed it so he would not stray too far. He was silent when he was with us, his head bowed, and he never made any efforts to introduce himself. If he was forced to talk, he would immediately grow anxious, emitting sort of ‘humpf humpf’ noises between his words, waving his hands, wishing to finish his piece in any way possible. He behaved as if a secret were burdening him and he was afraid it would escape — he could not find anyone to share his secret with. Then he found me.
“When I met him he was in a fever, walking towards me as energetically as a defense attorney hurrying to defend the town dignitaries in court. When I enquired as to his destination, he at first tried to conceal his excitement, as if our meetings were a daily occurrence — why would today be anything special? But within a moment or two his appearance changed. He wanted to tell me something right away. I have already told you that, sadly, ordinary Jews, regular people, kept their distance from me, while certain characters stuck to me. And Yanek Leib, he was the greatest of characters. He sat me on an odd-looking staircase that was not connected to any building, serving only the backsides of two conversationalists. He began to talk. Then he stopped. He inhaled, as if trying out his words. He whispered, ‘humpf humpf,’ preparing his vocal chords. Finally he looked at me.
“‘I am a simple Galician, as you know. Yanek Leib, from the township of Okhanow. From a young age I aspired to reach great distances, humpf, and great distances I have reached…’