Every morsel of information was gold.
Still no Ina.
Renia returned to the inn and spent most of their money on their rooms.
The next morning, she took an ailing Rivka to the address. Marek’s mother, Rosalie, was there, as was his sister-in-law—now a widow after her husband had been killed in partisan battle. Marek’s sister, Havka, had been the Freedom courier who carried dynamite in her underwear; Renia had heard that she was in Auschwitz. Marek’s mother also helped the ZOB—a true fighter family. To Renia’s dismay, however, she knew nothing about Marek’s whereabouts; the last she’d heard, he was in B?dzin with Renia. “I’m so sorry,” Rosalie said, shaking her head, “but I can’t keep Rivka in my home.” Sergeants and collaborators had been knocking on her door daily. In fact, she was planning on moving apartments as soon as possible.
But she had an idea. They brought Rivka to a Polish neighbor.
Renia bid the girl farewell, hoping she would be safe hidden there; another Jew stashed in the bowels of the city.
Now, alone, Renia walked through Warsaw, business as usual, crowded squares, shops open, despite the former ghetto’s devastation. Despite it all. She had just enough cash for one more night in the inn. The next morning, Marek’s mother put Renia in touch with Kazik, the ZOB fighter who’d led the sewage escape.
Renia went to meet him on a street corner, but before she could utter a sentence, they heard a gunshot. A policeman was after Kazik, and he fled, disappearing into traffic. Renia quickly headed off in the opposite direction, never running, never looking back.
Fortunately, Kazik arranged a rendezvous with Antek—the Antek whom Renia knew from letters and stories, the busy commandant of the Jews in the Aryan quarter who took meetings with the Polish underground, ran financial affairs, sent people to the partisans, smuggled weapons, and was connected with document forgers. A whole staff helped him, she’d heard.
Renia and Antek were supposed to meet on yet another street corner, this time in front a vocational school, or technikum. Renia wore a dress and new shoes that had been arranged for her. A bright red flower was fastened in her braided hair so that he would recognize her. Renia walked to the assigned spot, praying that all would go well, that she would find him there, that she would get what she needed and rush back to B?dzin, to her friends, her sister Sarah. From afar, Renia spotted a man. He held a newspaper, folded under his arm—his sign.
She could not believe it. “He was a true Antek,” she wrote, referring to his Polish moniker. She tried not to stare too obviously at this tall, blond young man, “with a fine moustache like that of a rich lord.” He was dressed head to toe in a green outfit.
She passed by, making sure to slow down and show her flower.
But he didn’t budge.
What now?
She took a risk, turned around and paced back down the street.
Still nothing.
Why wasn’t he approaching? Was it the wrong man? A plant? Or did he know they were being watched? Being framed?
Her gut told her to take a chance. “Hello,” Renia offered in Polish. “Are you Antek?”
“Are you Wanda?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You claim you’re Jewish?” he whispered, looking surprised. Then he genuflected. Her performance had been too good.
“You claim you’re Jewish?” Renia answered back in relief.
Antek walked next to Renia with assured steps, strong and propulsive on the Aryan concrete that somehow held them up, together. She could not believe that this “seeming nobleman with a confident gait” was really a Jew. She described him as being cunning and sure like a squirrel, alert as a rabbit, taking in everything around him. His eyes, she felt, looked at you, and he knew who you were.