The Girl Who Wouldn't Die

AUGUST, 1939

I.

Identification?

I hand it to him and watch his face carefully. He’s not my first Nazi.

The young soldier looks at the photo on my forged Austrian student pass, then back at me. Your reason for entering Poland?

My aunt is dying, I say, hoping he can’t detect the accent in my German. I might be fluent in four languages—five if I count the street slang my gang uses—but I know my accent shines a Polish light on every word.

Where does your aunt live?

Warsaw.

When will you return to Vienna?

I have final exams in two weeks. I have to be back … I frown at him and add, That is, providing I can get back. I’d like to finish my second year before … I stop.

Before what?

A little smile won’t hurt. I’ve been in Vienna for two years, sir. I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming. I adjust my skirt.

Yes, well, he says, these are dangerous times, especially for young women traveling alone.

Don’t I know it! These days, a girl needs to know how to defend herself. In five languages. I keep my valise close to my leg and hope he doesn’t notice the padding in my skirt hem. Money, more forged papers, a knife.

A soldier pokes his head into the room and says, There’s about fifty more out here, Claus. Quit flirting!

This Claus looks at me and his face reddens. He knows I understand. I don’t smile. I watched these Krauts overrun Vienna and I’ve had more dealings with them than I’d like to admit. I know I have an edge here. My very gentile-looking smile, this new shade of lipstick I lifted from a woman on the train, these new silk stockings all help. Not to mention my ability to conjure up tears.

I’m sorry, I say, pulling out a crinkled hankie. Aunt Bożena is very dear to me. I hope I get there in time.

He hands me back the pass.

There’s some sort of scuffle in the hall. I hear a woman cry out and a man make a threat in Yiddish. Others shout in Polish, German soldiers shouting back.

Is everything okay? I ask, tilting my head toward the door.

Yes, yes. Very well, Fräulein, you may go. He pulls a paper off a pad, fills in my name and dates, signs it. Then—ka-chunk!—he pushes down a numbering stamp. I watch over his shoulder. It’s a pass in and out of Poland good for two months. Street value? Big.

I rise, and he hands me my valise. If he finds out what’s in it, I’ll be detained. Or worse. I’m still wanted on two warrants in Vienna. Please, be careful, Claus says. And a little bit of advice, if I may.

Yes?

Try to leave Warsaw. In fact, leave Poland altogether. As soon as you can.

I give him a quick look, but then smile sweetly. Really? Why?

He smiles back and opens the door for me. Well, you don’t want to miss those exams, do you? And he winks at me.

Oops, forgot my hankie, I say, as he follows me out the door and starts to talk to someone in the hall. I rush back in the office and tear off several more passes from the pad and the numbering stamp, pocketing them just as he steps back into the room.

Find it?

Yes, thank you. I dab my eyes, smile, and leave. I walk down the hall against the line of people yet to be processed, and step into the large waiting room. I’m almost there. This train station in Ostrana, Czechoslovakia, is the last checkpoint. Poland is within spitting distance. Then hitch a ride to Warsaw and I’m home free.

But not looking like this.

I find the ladies’ room, slip into a toilet stall, and make my change. The prim, innocent school girl goes in, the street ruffian comes out. Thick cotton pants, boots, a baggy sweater over two shirts and my chest wrap. The blonde wig, the cloche hat, the pleated skirt—everything for the schoolgirl set—gets crammed deep into the trash can after I rip my valuables out of the hem. On second thought, I pull the silk stockings back out. Always a street value. I dunk my head in the sink and wash my face, then grab a towel and hold it over my head.

Come on, you coward. Look, I mutter, daring myself. The towel slowly comes down.

My hacked-short blonde hair is thick from months of neglect. My skin is ruddy and rough and intensifies my blue eyes. I’m sixteen—aren’t I supposed to be blossoming by now? I stand sideways and look at my profile. Flat-chested, scrawny, too tall. My periods still show up unannounced, like an unwelcome maiden aunt.

So, tell me. Just who are you? I ask my reflection. No. What are you?

The scream of a train whistle reminds me to move out fast. I pull my cap down low, hike up these stolen pants, pull down the moth-eaten sweater, and take one last look. This is the real me—not the Abra Goldstein my filthy-rich Jewish parents tried to forge. No, on the streets they call me the Arab, and I’m ready to reclaim my territory on the shady side of Warsaw. Start up a Warsaw Chapter of the Meet Me in Hell Club and fill it with street kids.

I back out of the swinging restroom door and nearly knock over a well-dressed woman coming in.

Pardon me, I say, backing away. Wrong door.

She responds with a bit of a huff as I start toward the waiting room.

Damn! It’s that Claus coming toward the men’s room, walking with another soldier. I look around. Nowhere to duck into. Quick, think! He’ll recognize my valise, if not me! I rush back in the ladies’ room, hold my valise against my chest, and lean against the door. The woman looks at me in surprise. She looks Jewish, but then again, I don’t. Still, it’s my only card. I put my finger to my lips and whisper in Yiddish, Please … We can hear the soldiers walking outside the door. She dries her hands and looks at me, then at the trash can where the blonde wig is just barely showing. An uneven smile comes to her face.

I listen outside the door. It’s quiet. Thank you, I say to her. I pull out the silk stockings and press them into her hands. Already I’ve redeemed their value.

May God go with you, she says, her Yiddish well marked with a German accent.

I peer around the door. The way is clear. If God wants to go with me, fine. Not stopping him, as long as he keeps his advice to himself. God’s one of the reasons I’m in this situation in the first place. No, it’s more likely I’m on my own.

Just the way I like it.

II.

After two days of walking and hitchhiking through Poland, I’m here. Welcome home, Arab. I hop on the back of a passing lorry and take a deep breath. The scents of the Vistula River off in the distance mix with industrial smoke and it’s as though I never left. My gaze wanders north to where my parents’ extravagant home anchors an entire city block. The lorry passes a roadside flower stand and the scent of rose blossoms reminds me of the bushes my mother planted when Ruth was born. Ruthie. That little brat fell into my heart the minute she was placed into my arms. Perfect in every way but one: that tiny, sweet, clubbed foot. But oh, Ruthie’s smile, her eyes, her everything. Despite myself, I adore that little imp.

I wonder if she’d even remember me after two years. After all, she was barely three when I left. Probably doesn’t even have a photograph to remember me by, such was my father’s wrath. But if I’ve learned anything in the last two years, it’s that yesterday means nothing. Tomorrow means nothing. Today is everything.

And today, I have an old score to settle. If he’s still in Warsaw—if he’s still alive—I’ll find him. I’ve been planning our reunion for two years.

I follow all the regular routes, look in our old haunts, hideouts, and meet-up joints. I stroll through Praga Park on the Vistula River and pass familiar places: where Sniper and I first met, our first flirtations, our first confidence game together, our first holdup.

I thought Sniper was the sun and the moon and the stars in between. Back then, I would have walked through hell for him. And I damn near have. I was thirteen, and a stupid little shit—a gawky, clumsy, stupid-in-love Jew-girl. Eager and willing to run with his gang—to prove myself to him. I know what I saw in him: something different, exciting, even dangerous. But what did he see in me? A dupe. Plain and simple. A lamb to throw to the wolves. And I let him.

I look down each street in this district, our old turf, thinking every thin, tall, dark man I see might be Sniper. I can feel my heart pound. Anticipation of—what, Arab? Revenge or—No! Stop thinking that! Revenge can get a girl killed.

I walk past a café and remember I haven’t eaten a real sit-down meal in days. I have some money, but wonder why I should use it when I can see a purse limply hanging off a woman’s chair, begging to be lifted.

I bump my valise into her chair, upsetting her.

Young man! her escort says. I scramble to set things straight. Kneeling down, I easily slip her purse off the back of her chair. Into my valise it drops and—snap!—it’s closed.

I’m so sorry, I say, backing away.

I walk to the next street over, hop a streetcar, take a seat in back, and paw through the purse. I smell the scented hankie—not bad—so I stuff it in my pocket. Hmm, this lipstick is so red! When did that come into style? Not my color—as though I have a style! I open the compact. This stays with me. It’s as good as eyes in the back of my head! And oh, lovely, lovely cash. Enough for me to live on for days, or longer. I find the woman’s identification and pocket that, too. The rest—photos, a comb, tweezers—useless. I leave them and the purse on the floor of the car and get off at the next stop.

I head for one of my old haunts, the Crystal Café. I take a table close to the sidewalk, an old habit—I get an up-close view of the passersby before they get an up-close view of me, and it’s a quick escape if I need it.

Arab? the waiter asks. Is that you? It’s me, Albin!

I look at him carefully. Not everyone in Warsaw is an old friend.

Remember? Spades? He looks around and whispers, You know, from Sniper’s gang?

My heart takes a leap at the sound of Sniper’s name. I offer him a slight smile. Sure. I remember you. Good pickpocket.

Where’ve you been hiding out? He hands me a menu.

Oh, here and there.

Gosh, I felt bad when you got caught. Never trusted Sniper after that.

I glance casually at the menu. So Spades the pickpocket is now Albin the waiter. What a world. I grin up at Spades. Remember when we used to steal tips off these very tables?

Got caught, got lucky, got wise, Spades—Albin—says. He nods toward the inside of the restaurant. Owner gave me a break.

Well, good.

You aren’t going to … you know … eat and then take off. Like in the old days? Because …

Of course not. I don’t do those cheap tricks anymore, I say, reaching into my pocket for the change from the purse I just lifted.

Well, I thought, because, you know, you’re dressed like that. Like you used to be when we ran together.

My wardrobe is being altered, I say, giving him a smirk. Lost a lot of weight while I was … here and there.

Understood, he says, nodding. So, what’ll it be?

Coffee, cruller, raspberry jam. He starts to leave, but I pull him back by his apron. So, where’s Sniper these days?

He stands straighter. Oh, around. I see him every so often.

He still have a gang?

Yeah. But—

Just tell him I’m back, if you see him.

Arab, I don’t think that’s wise. I mean, he set you up plain and simple, and then he laughed when you got caught. Said you didn’t have what it takes and … then bragged about you … you know … proving yourself … in other ways.

I feel my jaw tighten. Maybe there was a time I would have proven myself to Sniper if given the chance, but I never did. I’m going to prove myself to him, all right, but the Arab he meets now won’t be the same Arab he remembers.

And how about Lizard? Ever see him? I ask, resurrecting another name from my past.

The Pickpocket Priest? he asks.

Some altar boy he made, huh? We both chuckle over the memories: stealing sacramental wine, smoking in the confessionals, sneaking cash from the donation box for poor children.

Spades smiles and pretends to be swiping away crumbs on the table. Oh, that Lizard! He’s just about everywhere these days. Him and Sniper broke it off after you left. Big fight. Went out on his own. They’ve tangled a few times, but mostly Sniper stays on his side of town and Lizard hangs out around Three Crosses Square. I think he has about half a dozen little shits in his gang. I see them coming and have to shoo them away, the brats. Sure brings back the old days.

Someone snaps their fingers for Spades’s attention. Coming, sir! Then, looking back down at me, he says, Arab, listen. Sniper’s far more dangerous now than he ever was. I mean, we were just kids then. He’s changed, and not for the better.

I don’t want to gang up with him. Just let him know I’m back. That’s all. Just tell him I’m back in Warsaw. I’d like to see him.

I take time to savor my coffee. How long has it been since I had a warm cup? And this jam! I think how lovely it is to be back home, here, this café, Warsaw. Why the hell didn’t I come back sooner? I leave Spades a nice tip, compliments of some lady looking everywhere for her purse by now.

I stroll down Sienna Street in the fashion district and take time to gaze into the windows, see what the upper crust ladies of Warsaw are wearing these days. I catch my reflection in the window. I take off my cap and ruffle my short hair. Wonder what my mother would think of me, dressed like this, having been kicked out of school in Vienna, having left with warrants, fines, two arrests, one conviction, no education except the one I earned on the streets. All I really know is the streets. Conning dupes, picking pockets, thieving. I put my cap back on. I need to get a place to stay. And who knows? Maybe I’ll scoop up a few kids for my club. Maybe give Sniper a run for his money.

I find a cheap room, settle in, and make my plans.

III.

I’d forgotten how beautiful Warsaw is in late summer. Hot, of course, but I’ve missed the glimmer off the Vistula, the green of the parks, the rush of people along the sidewalks, the piano music—Chopin, of course—wafting from some music teacher’s window.

I hear a horse whinny off in the distance. Ruthie, I think with a grin. Even as a toddler she was horse-crazy. Once I borrowed—well, stole—a pony from a fruit seller’s droshky cart. Unhooked the harness from the traces and trotted the pony home. Ruthie on that chubby little pony’s back, her shrieks of joy as I led her around and around our block were worth what it cost me. Finally, the pony’s owner came, gendarmes in tow, hollering, swearing, shaking his fist.

Maybe it won’t hurt to … What? Would knocking on the door, stepping inside, really coming home be … What am I thinking? My mother’s heart was always so weak. I’d just be a thorn in her side—that’s if my father even allowed me on the property. Hell, for all I know, Mother’s already dead and buried. But what about little Ruthie? What if Mother is dead? Who would be Ruthie’s protector then? No, that settles it! I have to see, have to find out. I have to know she’s all right.

I walk a few blocks but run into street construction, backing up traffic and people. Ah, my sweet sewers—sometimes the most direct route anywhere in Warsaw. Sometimes the safest. I know the sewers in this district better than anyone. I slip down a manhole off an alley, wait on the ladder for my eyes to adjust, and assess the sound, the flow of the water, the smell of the industry, life or death—whatever is sloshing through below me.

At first sniff, I feel right at home. Safe. Memories gush back like they’re floating atop the foamy sewer water. I was ten when Lizard dared me down into the sewers. Said no girl had ever done it. No girl had the guts. Well, I never met a dare I didn’t like. Come to think of it, sewers were the reason I first hacked off my long hair. It smelled to high heaven after I emerged. I can still hear my parents’ rage over that! Proper Jewish girls have long hair. Too bad. Long hair can be dangerous. Someone can use it as a handle to yank you around, pull you off balance. Long hair can get a girl killed.

Something else about the sewers: enemies have to want you pretty damn bad to follow you down here. Sniper and his gang taught me that. Once you get used to the smell and stop thinking about what you’re slogging through, once you learn to stop gagging, quit breathing through your mouth, and go slow so you don’t trip, it’s not such a bad way to get around.

I go a few blocks, using my flashlight to get my bearings and looking for any news signs or warnings other sewer pilgrims might have scribbled on the walls: POLICE PATROLS, TOO WELL-TRAVELED, or BEWARE: FUNERAL PARLOR ABOVE! I hear plop! plop! and I feel a couple of rats race across my boots. Damn rats always catch me off guard. Then the rats plop! plop! again, back into the water, and I relax. The rats always leave, get on with their work. Unless you’re dead. Then you are their work.

I look down the passageway, then at the ladder up. I know just where I am: two blocks from home on Pawia Street.

Hey, you! Boy! Get out of there! a man shouts at me just as I shove the manhole cover up and out. Before I can sink back down, someone has me by the collar and he hauls me up onto the street. He whirls me around so the sun’s in my eyes and I have to squint.

It’s illegal to go in the sewers! Don’t you know it’s dangerous and— My eyes focus and we seem to recognize each other in the same instant. Officer Winicki’s face softens. Is it? Well. Look at you. Abra Goldstein. Or is it still Arab? Alive after all?

Officer Gustaw Winicki, our neighborhood foot patrolman, has hauled me home time after time. Always lecturing and hinting, but almost as though he cared about what became of me. Sorry to let you down. Again.

Of course I’m alive. I’m here, aren’t I? Just going home, Officer Winicki. No crime in that.

No, no crime. But you can’t go home, Abra.

I can if I want to, I say, sounding about six years old.

He pulls me back and says, No, you can’t.

Why not? What happened? Did something …

No, nothing happened.

Then why? I demand.

Because … because you’re dead to them. He’s looking past me.

What do you mean?

Dead and buried. His voice is now low and soft.

How can I be buried? I’m right here.

Come with me. He ticks his head, and I follow him.

We walk silently the half block to the cemetery down the street from our home—past the posh Jewish section and ending in poor man’s land. He points down to a gravestone. I kneel down to read it.

What the …? In Hebrew, it reads:

ABRA GOLDSTEIN

GONE AND FORGOTTEN

He buried me? I ask, still trying to comprehend. "He buried me?"

He buried your memory.

So, who’s in there?

No one. It was a symbolic burial.

I brush away some dead leaves and pick up a twig sticking out of the ground. Who gave the eulogy?

This marker just showed up here, about a year after you were sent away.

It hits me. I remember the exact date: the phone call to my father, kicked out of school, hauled before the authorities in Vienna, the three months in jail—one month for each Reichsmark I’d stolen.

There was no funeral, no celebration, no prayers, no … what do you Jews call that prayer for the dead?

Kaddish, I whisper, unable to take my eyes off my name engraved on the gravestone.

We heard about your jail time in Vienna. Then, rumors, of course, about … His words trail off. There was even a report you really were … dead.

I stand up and tamp down some lose dirt with my boot. Abra’s dead. Says right there, gone and forgotten.

I look at Officer Winicki, who is offering me his kindest smile.

I return his smile. And gravestones never lie. But I’m not Abra. I’m Arab. I toss the twig back down on my tombstone, and it pings off to land in the dirt. So think of me as the girl who wouldn’t die, I whisper, feeling my fingernails dig into my palms as I form fists. Well, at least that answers one of my questions. My father’s alive and kicking.

Yes. He’s doing quite well. But your mother …

What about her?

She’s bedridden. Has been for these two years.

And my sister, Ruth?

Her limp keeps her from playing with the other children. You know how protective your father is. But there’s a governess, and a nurse. Your parents have all they need.

And now they’re rid of what they don’t need. I can’t believe he did this. I have to turn my back on Officer Winicki and take a breath. No one sees me cry.

I probably shouldn’t tell you this. But, a few times, your mother tried to have me smuggle a letter to you. When your father caught on, he threatened to kick me out of my apartment. Well, decent rent is hard to find in this district.

Thanks for trying, I say, running my sleeve under my nose, then facing him again.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. I tried every time. I was there when he washed his hands of you for the last time, remember? Even tore up your birth certificate. Didn’t think he’d go that far, but you know your father, Abra. After that jewelry store robbery with that petty thief schmuck … what was his name?

Sniper.

Sniper. That’s him. Winicki shakes his head. Worthless street-hound. You know how he’ll end up someday.

There. I point down to my own gravestone.

Time will heal it all, Abra. Just give it some time. Get yourself a job, clean yourself up, find a good man. Show them you turned out respectable. Prove them wrong. But now? Not now. Your mother is so sick. When you go back, go back a woman. Not … this. He indicates my clothes—the only clothes a girl can wear and survive the streets I run in, the crowds I run with, unless she’s whoring and needs to advertise. But he wouldn’t understand that. Come on. I need to get back on patrol. He digs into his pocket and pulls out some coins. Here, get yourself a—

No, thanks. I have money. I’ve done a lot of things, but I’ve never taken charity and I’ve never begged. Must be a bit of Goldstein arrogance in me after all.

Do you need anything? A place to stay?

No, I have a place.

Okay, then. Just give it time.

Look, don’t tell them you saw me.

He smiles kindly. You have my word, Abra. He backs away and I give him a slight nod goodbye.

Alone now