She arrived at the square with Belitkova’s work group, meeting Russian, French, and Italian prisoners—so many people. They all got to work, carrying bricks onto a train car. Despite the relative ease of the task, Renia was still too weak to do it. Each brick she lifted fell to the ground, attracting stares. She was so impatient. When will Sarah arrive? Every second was an eternity.
Then, from a distance, Renia made out two well-dressed, elegant ladies—one of them with Sarah’s assured gait. She saw her sister examining the surrounds. She probably doesn’t even recognize me. Renia started to walk over. The women prisoners watched, puzzled: Who was this Warsaw girl, with no local relations, heading to talk to?
“They’re acquaintances of a cell mate,” Renia lied, attempting nonchalance, and made her way to the gate.
The chief guard walked right behind Renia. He didn’t know her and, thankfully, did not know of her political prisoner history. Renia approached the wall, and despite the guard on her heels, the sisters could not hold back their tears. It was really her. Sarah handed the guard pastries, while Renia talked to the other girl, Halina. Zivia had sent her from Warsaw, and Renia could tell why. “It doesn’t matter if you fail,” Halina said, her green eyes locked on to Renia’s face. “You must try to get out. Your life is in danger anyways.”
They arranged to meet at that same spot the following week. The girls would bring clothes for Renia to change into. She needed to prepare to escape.
Renia couldn’t stand at the wall for long without looking suspicious. She was shaken by emotion as she watched her sister and Halina walk off and disappear, feeling a resolve that hadn’t been stirred in a long time. She repeated Halina’s words in her mind: You must try.
*
But as soon as Renia returned from work, she collapsed. Her skull throbbed. She could not stand up. Her meeting with Sarah had triggered something in her head, she wrote later. Medicine didn’t help. Her fever spiked to 104 degrees for three days straight. In her haze, she began to babble, a real threat. What if she spoke Yiddish? What if she revealed her truth? A few cellmates pitied Renia and offered her their breakfast bread, but she couldn’t swallow a bite. She would miss her chance. She would die.
When finally, her fever miraculously subsided, Renia’s fellow prisoners held a special Sunday prayer to thank God for her recovery. Renia, truly grateful, got up to join them, kneeling and praying intently, as she’d learned to do.
But in the midst of recitation, a hot flash. Renia fainted. The door was locked, and the women could not get any water. They splashed her with the dirty liquid used to wash their bowls.
Renia revived but lay in bed for another two days. How could this happen?
She had to get up, she had to get well. She had to. You must try.
*
“November 12, 1943. A date etched in my memory,” Renia wrote in her memoirs. After a sleepless night, she was the first to jump out of bed. Today was it.
“No,” the cell monitor suddenly told her. “You can’t go to the fields today.”
What? “Why not? You let me go last week.” Belitkova had agreed once again to swap places, for a large sum.
“It’s too risky. What if the camp chief realizes you are from the political prisoner’s cell? We’ll all be in trouble.”
“Please,” Renia pleaded. That was all she had left. “Please, I beg you.”
The cell monitor grunted and let her out. The small miracles were endless.
Dressed in Belitkova’s clothes and covered in kerchiefs, Renia left. The supervisor didn’t recognize her. She was held upright by women on her right and left so that she didn’t collapse; it took so many women to help her live. At last, they arrived at the square. Fifteen women, five guards. Renia arranged the bricks and looked around, searching for Sarah and Halina. Nowhere.