He was fleeing!
Commotion among the soldiers. Shooting, running. The commander was incensed. “Chase him and bring him back dead or alive.”
Minutes went by. Chajka’s heart pounded. The soldiers returned. It was too dark to see their faces, but she heard one say, “Already done! I got him!”
Chajka told herself it might not be true; he might just be bragging. Deep in her heart, however, she knew, Zvi was dead. They’d lost the best one of all: a companion, a true leader. Her dear, dear friend.
His sister and brother sat next to her. “What were they saying?”
“I don’t know,” Chajka lied. She sat, her insides hollow. “If you knocked on me,” she wrote, “there might be an echo.”
In the dark, Chajka’s thoughts turned to the soldiers’ lives, to a potential escape, to curiosity about what went on at Auschwitz. She promised herself that she would never go, she would run, jump, shoot herself first. In the toilet, later, she considered crawling to the laundry, sneaking out. But the guard was too close. She didn’t have the courage. She thought of Zvi. Tomorrow might be too late.
Morning, and the torment resumed. No food. They begged for water. The Jews who passed could have slipped them a few drops, but instead they kept their distance and averted their eyes. This is the nation she wanted to die for? Then again, she understood. The Nazis had made them this way.
At last, the German guard took pity on them, and ordered them to get up. He gave them water and a bit of food for the Atid children.
In the afternoon, Nazis came over. They took a group of four men. Chajka reasoned they would be executing them four at a time.
But no. The men returned carrying something.
Zvi’s body.
To show what they are capable of.
His sister was moaning. Chajka wanted her to stop; for her to look proudly into their faces.
But something howled inside her. “All the skin on my head has gone numb. . . . I think that my hair’s about to turn gray.” The boys carrying him looked like their legs would give out. Zvi’s face looked horrible, “his body so mutilated and as full of holes as a sieve.” Their beloved, righteous friend. Hershel sobbed.
The boys were sent to dig pits—their own graves, they assumed. Ten times a day, they thought the Germans were coming to kill them. “The waiting was worse than death,” Chajka wrote. In the evening, an order came. Chajka was to go into the barrack. She would mix with the other Jews. And then tomorrow she’d be transported to Auschwitz.
She was gripped with fear. Would she go back on her promise and go to Auschwitz? Why had she waited? At least outside there was a chance of escape. Could she blend in with the crowd and run off? Hershel consoled her: the transport wouldn’t happen so soon.
In the morning, Jews grabbed their towels and washed their faces, as if this were a normal day. Chajka was incensed. For God’s sake, revolt! Jump out of a window . . . Why was everyone so calm? Rumor was, the train would come at ten o’clock.
Or was she just criticizing herself? She should have run.
Among the deportees, Chajka noted a young, resourceful boy, Berek. Chajka trusted him—he had honest eyes. He usually went out on work detail and was going out that day too. He wanted to help and offered to escort the girls to the kitchen. Chajka’s wounded face made her too recognizable to go. The boys left for work, and Chajka pushed Hershel to go with them. But he stayed.
Almost ten. Berek was standing with horses next to the barrack.
She had to go.
Waiting, waiting, waiting for the right moment. Suddenly a flurry of people. Berek winked at her.
Flight.
She did it; she walked over to him.