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Authors: Gwen Edelman
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wonât get out again. Suddenly I was sorry for them. They too had mothers and fathers, sisters and grandmothers, uncles and aunts.
I rode in back with the cows. Stasik went home. Avi and Jurek sat up front next to the driver. The cows were packed in so tightly they couldnât move. Well, Aryan cows, I said to them. How does it feel to be in the ghetto? Packed together in trucks. Like sardines. Like Jews. They groaned and mooed, their soft mouths wet with slobber. I gathered they werenât too happy to be on the Jewish side. The truck slowed, and in their panic they began to push against each other and against me. I felt squeezed in by warm ï¬anks, and I slapped them and pushed them aside.
The truck entered a courtyard where there was a warehouse. The driver got out and knocked four times and the door was rolled up. We drove downhill and soon came to a halt. The back door opened. We were below ground in a large empty warehouse. There were signs of the previous occupantsâcow patties, ï¬attened hay, feeding troughs. Here, underground, men in overalls led the cows down one by one from the truck.
Where are their armbands? cried one. We wonât take them without. I looked around me in amazement. I hadnât seen anything like this before. A small emaciated man with tiny black eyes watched me. We milk some of them, we slaughter the rest. Come back tomorrow for some milk. The Accountant has promised a pail of it to a Polish policeman with young children who gives him information.
It was a primitive structure. It looked like a great barn from the previous century. Now it housed twenty-ï¬ve cows. With relief I took out a cigarette and lit it. Put that out, cried the little man, are you crazy? With all the straw in here and no exit. Do you want twenty-six cows to go up in smoke and me along with them? I put it out and placed it back in my pocket. Twenty-ï¬ve, I corrected him. The twenty-sixth didnât want to come. Iâm wondering, I said, how the hell I get out of here. The man grinned. Take the stairs, he said and pointed to the back. It was two ï¬ights up. When I was back on street level, I had to go through several doors until I was shown a small doorway. I knocked twice and went through to an apartment.
A large woman with swollen legs sat knitting in a rocking chair. She asked my name and holding her knitting in one hand, checked me off on a list. Have you got cigarettes for me? she asked and held out her hand. I gave her a few packs along with what we owed her. How many tonight? she wanted to know. Twenty-ï¬ve, I told her. The twenty-sixth refused to come into the ghetto. Smart cow, she said. Everyone seemed to share that sentiment. The price of milk will go down tomorrow, she said. Itâs always that way. She went back to her knitting. Donât take Karmelicka Street tonight, she said. Theyâve brought in some tourists.
They shot Avi and Jurek on their way home, he said. A lunar moth lives eight days. The average lifeÂspan of a Jew in those days. He lay back and closed his eyes. Iâve forgotten nothing.
Lilka lifted the carefully folded white bath towel. Itâs time to get out, she said. Youâve been in there for ages. Are we in such a hurry? he wanted to know. I remember the ï¬rst time, said Lilka. She touched his wet curls. You said to me: what are you waiting for? Do you think we live forever? Do you think this parade goes on and on? The days in the ghetto are short and the nights shorter. From one moment to the next you can disappear. So you donât take years to make up your mind. These days a long engagement has lost all meaning, you said. The bride to be could be dead in twenty-four hours. But, said Lilka, I wasnât sure . . . Ha, replied Jascha, splashing his neck. As though I had to talk you into it.
That long ago night in his tiny room in the ghetto, she had rolled toward him and pressed herself against him on the tattered
I rode in back with the cows. Stasik went home. Avi and Jurek sat up front next to the driver. The cows were packed in so tightly they couldnât move. Well, Aryan cows, I said to them. How does it feel to be in the ghetto? Packed together in trucks. Like sardines. Like Jews. They groaned and mooed, their soft mouths wet with slobber. I gathered they werenât too happy to be on the Jewish side. The truck slowed, and in their panic they began to push against each other and against me. I felt squeezed in by warm ï¬anks, and I slapped them and pushed them aside.
The truck entered a courtyard where there was a warehouse. The driver got out and knocked four times and the door was rolled up. We drove downhill and soon came to a halt. The back door opened. We were below ground in a large empty warehouse. There were signs of the previous occupantsâcow patties, ï¬attened hay, feeding troughs. Here, underground, men in overalls led the cows down one by one from the truck.
Where are their armbands? cried one. We wonât take them without. I looked around me in amazement. I hadnât seen anything like this before. A small emaciated man with tiny black eyes watched me. We milk some of them, we slaughter the rest. Come back tomorrow for some milk. The Accountant has promised a pail of it to a Polish policeman with young children who gives him information.
It was a primitive structure. It looked like a great barn from the previous century. Now it housed twenty-ï¬ve cows. With relief I took out a cigarette and lit it. Put that out, cried the little man, are you crazy? With all the straw in here and no exit. Do you want twenty-six cows to go up in smoke and me along with them? I put it out and placed it back in my pocket. Twenty-ï¬ve, I corrected him. The twenty-sixth didnât want to come. Iâm wondering, I said, how the hell I get out of here. The man grinned. Take the stairs, he said and pointed to the back. It was two ï¬ights up. When I was back on street level, I had to go through several doors until I was shown a small doorway. I knocked twice and went through to an apartment.
A large woman with swollen legs sat knitting in a rocking chair. She asked my name and holding her knitting in one hand, checked me off on a list. Have you got cigarettes for me? she asked and held out her hand. I gave her a few packs along with what we owed her. How many tonight? she wanted to know. Twenty-ï¬ve, I told her. The twenty-sixth refused to come into the ghetto. Smart cow, she said. Everyone seemed to share that sentiment. The price of milk will go down tomorrow, she said. Itâs always that way. She went back to her knitting. Donât take Karmelicka Street tonight, she said. Theyâve brought in some tourists.
They shot Avi and Jurek on their way home, he said. A lunar moth lives eight days. The average lifeÂspan of a Jew in those days. He lay back and closed his eyes. Iâve forgotten nothing.
Lilka lifted the carefully folded white bath towel. Itâs time to get out, she said. Youâve been in there for ages. Are we in such a hurry? he wanted to know. I remember the ï¬rst time, said Lilka. She touched his wet curls. You said to me: what are you waiting for? Do you think we live forever? Do you think this parade goes on and on? The days in the ghetto are short and the nights shorter. From one moment to the next you can disappear. So you donât take years to make up your mind. These days a long engagement has lost all meaning, you said. The bride to be could be dead in twenty-four hours. But, said Lilka, I wasnât sure . . . Ha, replied Jascha, splashing his neck. As though I had to talk you into it.
That long ago night in his tiny room in the ghetto, she had rolled toward him and pressed herself against him on the tattered
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