But survivors had to go on, to keep on surviving.
*
At last, in Warsaw, sheltered by Antek’s contacts, Renia was distraught. As she would describe, “One merely had to glance at me to see what had happened and what information I’d brought with me from B?dzin.” No one could calm her down. Even Renia felt that at any moment she might lose her mind.
Day in, day out, she awaited any news, any letter from B?dzin.
What happened to her friends, her loves, her sister?
And now that there would be no Zaglembie uprising, what would happen to her? Renia needed to know where things stood so she could plan her own next steps.
It took three weeks, but, at last, a postcard arrived from Ilza Hansdorf. “Come to B?dzin immediately.” Renia guzzled each word. “I’ll explain everything once you get here.”
Within hours, Renia contacted Antek and was packing for her trip. The underground provided her with a wildly expensive false travel permit, as well as two extras in case anyone else was still alive in B?dzin. Renia was also given several thousand marks for unexpected needs: schmaltzovniks, police bribes, shelter, food, equipment, who knew?
Back on the train. She arrived at the address from Ilza’s postcard: the home of a Polish mechanic who worked for the kibbutz’s laundry. He’d stayed in touch with the Freedom members throughout the war, always trying to help. They all knew his address.
Renia could hear Frau Novak, the head of the household, fumble with a key. She could barely contain herself.
The door opened. Silence. Two lone figures sat at a table, emaciated and haggard. But they were happy to see Renia.
The couple was Meir Schulman and his wife, Nacha. Meir was not a member of the movement but a dedicated friend. He’d been a kibbutz neighbor. He was a very capable person—a perfectionist, according to Renia. Knowledgeable about technology, he’d helped build the bunkers and install secret radios. He cleaned and fixed their broken and worn weapons. When they’d received instructions from Warsaw for making explosives, it was Meir who’d brought them the necessary materials. He fabricated fake rubber stamps and attempted to print counterfeit money.
Now, here he sat with, she hoped, the answer to her burning questions: Where was everyone? What had happened during the deportation? What had happened to the fighters? To Sarah?
*
Chajka had her own version of the story.
A few weeks earlier, at three o’clock on a Sunday morning: shots.
Even Chajka was surprised. She couldn’t believe the Nazis would ruin their holiday. Everyone woke up. Zvi Brandes opened the bunker slat and withdrew a handful of weapons. “Why so few?” Chajka asked.
It turned out they hadn’t been prepared. Most of the weapons were in a different location; the Freedom shelter at Hershel’s had none. Chajka became furious. “Have we been cultivating the thought of hagana in our heads only to be empty-handed now? . . . We won’t let them deport us. We’ll do something stupid—maybe only one shot will be fired, but something will happen, something must happen.” One of the Warsaw ghetto fighters who was with them grabbed a weapon, angry that it was so dirty. He began cleaning it.
They all went downstairs. They snatched two loaves of bread and a pot of water. Then, through the oven, twenty of them entered The Young Guard bunker.
It was small, unfinished. The squeeze was unbearable.
They locked the oven door behind them. A thin stream of air entered from a hole in the appliance. There was no bucket. Chajka was indignant with humiliation. To be forced to urinate where they slept seemed worse than the most brutal tortures.
Their hideout was located under the intersection of two streets. Nazis repeatedly entered the building, searching above. They hacked at the floor with pickaxes, they tried to open the oven. They began to tear apart the ground right over their heads. Zvi looked for his gun and ordered the Warsaw fighter to get ready. “Run away,” he told everyone. “If you succeed, good; if not, too bad.”