village. The streets were black with ï¬lth and rubbish, the stench was overwhelming. On the sidewalks, covered in sheets of newspaper, lay bodies who would never see the stars again. I barely saw them. I was immune to them by then. There in the shadow of a half ruined building lay a small child caterwauling like a cat for something to eat. I reached into my pocket and threw him a piece of bread. There was no Âelectricityâno light and no heat. And walls all around. I knew my way in the dark. I knew every street, every building, every tunnel, every sewer, every crossing. I walked quickly. I had a rendezvous in the Jewish cemetery.
She took the washcloth from him. Lean forward, she said, and she began to soap his back. Youâll need a haircut soon, itâs curling over your neck. All right, thatâs enough, he said and slid down until the water was at his neck and his head rested against the marble rim of the tub.
At the corner of G e ¸ sia and Okopowa, Avi and Stasik and Jurek joined me. Jurek was nervous, as always, his head twisting on his thin neck. If they donât come? he asked. If they change the guards on us? If the trucks arenât there? Jurek, I said to him, in this world of ours anything can happen. And does. I shouldnât have agreed to come along, he muttered.
Why? I asked him. Because you risk your life? So what? Even if you do nothing, you risk it. Whatâs the difference? Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
We passed through the large brick gates of the cemeÂtery. Shards of moonlight fell on the Hebrew lettering of the old stones. The open pits were ï¬lled with corpses, waiting for the new arrivals that would surely come. We passed over the uneven ground, careful not to fall in with the rest. And made our way to the Wall we shared with Pow a ¸ zki, the Catholic cemetery. Half the black market operated over that shared Wall.
It was 10:15 at night. We had agreed on a 10:30 delivery. We were smoking and Jurek once again speaks up. What if they donât come? Stasik says to him: if they donât, they donât. What shall we do? Complain to Berlin? He was driving us crazy, that Jurek.
It was 10:40 when we heard a whistle from the Polish cemetery on the other side of the Wall. All the guards had been paid off. But only the ones on that shift. We had half an hour before the guards changed. It took four of us to set up our wooden ramp, leaning it against the ancient wall. We could hear the sound of their ramp going up, the sound of voices. And then we heard a truck door opening and the lowing of cattle. Well, I said, theyâre here. And there beneath the light of the moon, twenty-six farting, shitting cows made their way up the Christian ramp and came down the other side on the Jewish ramp. What a deafening noise of hooves. They moaned, they grunted and groaned.
What a sight as they stood framed in the moonlight on their way down. Even Jurek smiled. When the ï¬rst one came off the ramp Stasik slapped her on the rump. Whereâs your armband? he growled. Twenty-ï¬ve cows came over. Then what happens? The twenty-sixth balked. She didnât want to come into the ghetto. Can you blame her? We could hear them swearing in Polish, calling her every name in the book. She wouldnât come.
What a clever cow. They shouted at her, they gave her precious sugar, they did everything but climb on her back. At last I gave a whistle. I was afraid the guards would change. Let it be, I called out. You keep her. But remember, you owe us one. They threw a few packets of cigarettes over the Wall. Shalom, Jewish goniffs, they called out with a laugh. Never mind. We had the cows.
Now we tried to load them onto the trucks. One wandered off and almost fell into one of the open pits. Another started to go back up the ramp. Do I look like a cowherd? What chaos. As we prodded them into the truck, these Aryan cows, I thought, just like the Jews, once in the ghetto you
She took the washcloth from him. Lean forward, she said, and she began to soap his back. Youâll need a haircut soon, itâs curling over your neck. All right, thatâs enough, he said and slid down until the water was at his neck and his head rested against the marble rim of the tub.
At the corner of G e ¸ sia and Okopowa, Avi and Stasik and Jurek joined me. Jurek was nervous, as always, his head twisting on his thin neck. If they donât come? he asked. If they change the guards on us? If the trucks arenât there? Jurek, I said to him, in this world of ours anything can happen. And does. I shouldnât have agreed to come along, he muttered.
Why? I asked him. Because you risk your life? So what? Even if you do nothing, you risk it. Whatâs the difference? Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
We passed through the large brick gates of the cemeÂtery. Shards of moonlight fell on the Hebrew lettering of the old stones. The open pits were ï¬lled with corpses, waiting for the new arrivals that would surely come. We passed over the uneven ground, careful not to fall in with the rest. And made our way to the Wall we shared with Pow a ¸ zki, the Catholic cemetery. Half the black market operated over that shared Wall.
It was 10:15 at night. We had agreed on a 10:30 delivery. We were smoking and Jurek once again speaks up. What if they donât come? Stasik says to him: if they donât, they donât. What shall we do? Complain to Berlin? He was driving us crazy, that Jurek.
It was 10:40 when we heard a whistle from the Polish cemetery on the other side of the Wall. All the guards had been paid off. But only the ones on that shift. We had half an hour before the guards changed. It took four of us to set up our wooden ramp, leaning it against the ancient wall. We could hear the sound of their ramp going up, the sound of voices. And then we heard a truck door opening and the lowing of cattle. Well, I said, theyâre here. And there beneath the light of the moon, twenty-six farting, shitting cows made their way up the Christian ramp and came down the other side on the Jewish ramp. What a deafening noise of hooves. They moaned, they grunted and groaned.
What a sight as they stood framed in the moonlight on their way down. Even Jurek smiled. When the ï¬rst one came off the ramp Stasik slapped her on the rump. Whereâs your armband? he growled. Twenty-ï¬ve cows came over. Then what happens? The twenty-sixth balked. She didnât want to come into the ghetto. Can you blame her? We could hear them swearing in Polish, calling her every name in the book. She wouldnât come.
What a clever cow. They shouted at her, they gave her precious sugar, they did everything but climb on her back. At last I gave a whistle. I was afraid the guards would change. Let it be, I called out. You keep her. But remember, you owe us one. They threw a few packets of cigarettes over the Wall. Shalom, Jewish goniffs, they called out with a laugh. Never mind. We had the cows.
Now we tried to load them onto the trucks. One wandered off and almost fell into one of the open pits. Another started to go back up the ramp. Do I look like a cowherd? What chaos. As we prodded them into the truck, these Aryan cows, I thought, just like the Jews, once in the ghetto you
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