They arrived at the border. “Document inspection!”
Renia had to brace herself, to stop herself from shaking, shivering, up and down her body. Could Rivka do it? Could she keep up the lies, the story, not tremble for an instant?
“Gut!”
Breathe.
There was no chance, however, for even a full exhalation, no moment of relief. The train car was packed, with hardly an inch of free space; there was no air. Rivka, already ill, felt sick rammed up against others. She looked like she was going to faint, which would cause a commotion. Renia glanced around furtively and spotted an empty seat in the middle wagon, a military carriage. Rivka felt better sitting down, but Renia, inside, felt absolutely sick. She had to smile and hold her head high, calm every single nerve, harness steel resolve, and pretend to be the opposite of every single thing she was feeling, while listening to soldiers talk about killing Jews with sick “bestial joy.”
“I was there,” said one. “I saw them take the Jews of Zaglembie to their deaths.”
The others laughed. “Nonsense! They’re not actually killing the Jews.”
Renia gleaned that they were traveling from the front, where people still did not know of the murder machine that was churning in Poland.
“A happy image!” she overheard the first one continue. “A feast for the eyes to see the Jews heading to their deaths like true sheep.”
Renia did not think about her murdered family, did not think about her dead friends, her little baby brother. Did not think.
Renia smiled. Watched Rivka. Smiled more.
A whole day’s journey. Trees, towns, stops, whistles. At last, exhausted from the trip, from the performance with no intermission, the girls arrived in Warsaw. They walked alone through quiet evening streets, determined to meet Ina at the agreed-upon time and location. There was no room for a mistake, not an inch. Renia noticed that down the street, two corners up ahead, police were checking all passersbys’ documents. She calculated quickly that though their fake passes had been adequate for the journey, the Warsaw gendarmes would recognize that the stamps were forgeries. Gesturing to Rivka, Renia began to walk quickly, turning corners, sliding into the crowd. The girls never looked back—not once—just forward, forward, part of the throng.
At last, they reached the meeting spot. Breathe.
But Ina was not there.
How long could they just stand there? How long should they wait?
It looked suspicious. Sometimes meeting spots were adjacent to storefronts; one could pretend to window-shop, skimming books on offer, fiction, romance, spy novels. But here, nothing.
Had Ina been arrested on the way?
Where was she? Nearby? Who could see them?
Renia had no other addresses. No operative ever carried too much information at once, in case she was caught, tortured.
She had enough money for only one more day.
And no backup plan.
A minute was a lifetime. Thoughts crashed through Renia’s mind as she tried to figure out the next steps. She had to take Rivka somewhere, had to find someone from the underground, someone she knew. But where? What to do if they didn’t connect with anyone? Take Rivka back to B?dzin? She was too sick.
Renia decided to drop off Rivka at the inn where she had planned to stay. She’d venture out herself, try to find answers.
Then she had an idea. The sister of an acquaintance from B?dzin lived in the Aryan quarter. Renia thought of Marek Folman—maybe he’d made it back here after the tragic partisan fiasco?
“Would you happen to know Marek’s address?” Renia asked as soon as she arrived.
The woman perused her little notebook for a long time as Renia waited, knots inside, and then finally: the address of Marek’s mother.