Gola Mire, caught by Nazis in the Polish resistance’s printing office, was also brought into the cell, setting off a period of “spiritual elevation” and “sisterhood.” Gola constantly wrote Yiddish and Hebrew poetry, often dedicating her work to her husband and dead child. Beaten brutally in frequent interrogations, her body was gray, her fingernails ripped off, her hair torn out, her eyes temporarily blinded. But upon returning to the cell, she’d pick up her pencil, then recite her poems to her cellmates.
Gusta, too, wrote her memoirs between beatings. She placed herself in a corner, surrounded by a group of Jewish women, hiding her activity from the other prisoners, some of whom were not entirely trustworthy criminals. On triangular pieces of toilet paper sewn together with thread from the girls’ skirts, with pencils donated by Polish women who had secretly received them in food packages, and with fingers crushed in torture, Gusta composed the story of the Kraków resistance. Everyone was given a fake name for security, and she wrote about herself—“Justyna,” her underground code name—in the third person.
Much of the material came from the perspectives of others, especially Shimshon’s and her cellmates’， all of whom contributed. For security, Gusta included only past events that were already known to the Gestapo. She wrote until she became too tired and pained, then passed on the pencil, dictating as cell mates took turns transcribing, all the while maintaining her unique literary and introspective tone, providing psychological portraits of the fighters, hiders, and even enemies. To cover up her voice, women would sing; others would watch for the guard. Gusta checked every page, revising at least ten times, insisting on accuracy. Enchanted by the fantasy that their story might one day be told, the women wrote four copies of the diary simultaneously. Three copies were hidden in the prison—in the stove, in door upholstery, and under the floorboards—and one was smuggled out by Jewish auto mechanics who worked for the Gestapo （and who also brought Gusta pencils and additional toilet paper）。 After the war, text scraps that had been hidden under the cell floor were found.
On April 29, 1943, Gusta and her comrades, who had been planning an escape, knew that they would be on the next transport to death and, like Renia, decided it was now or never. While they were being led outside to the transport truck, right on the crowded city street, Gusta, Gola, their comrade Genia Meltzer, and a few others suddenly halted and refused to move. The Gestapo guards were confused. One took out his gun. Genia sprinted behind him and pushed his arm up into the air.
In that moment, the girls fled, making their way around a horse and buggy. The Gestapo shot at them in the crowded streets as they searched for cover.
Only Gusta and Genia survived. Genia hid behind a door; Gusta was wounded in the leg.
Unbeknownst to the women, Shimshon had also broken out of jail that day. He and Gusta met up in a small town outside Kraków where several Akiva members were hiding. They resumed forest fighting, organizing fighting groups, and writing and distributing underground bulletins. A few months later, around the time of Renia’s imprisonment, Shimshon was captured again while arranging for them to be smuggled to Hungary; he told the Gestapo to go get his wife. The Nazis arrived at Gusta’s hiding place with a note from him, and she gave herself up right away. Three times unlucky. Both were killed.
*
In a flash, the girls helped Renia put on a new dress, shawl, and shoes.
Sarah and Renia faced one direction, Halina the other.
If they were destined to fail, Renia did not want Halina to fail with them.
Then they ran, fast as ever, out of breath, panting.
The sisters came to a hill—Renia could not climb it. There was no way, no way.
But another miracle: an Italian prisoner passed them. “Here.” He held out his hand and helped Renia ascend.
She barely made it over the barbed wire fence surrounding the square. The girls landed in the street, open air. This was the most dangerous part of the escape and the most crucial moment of her life. They didn’t know the way; they went straight. Renia’s dress was caked in mud from climbing, but she continued to run, drawing on an impossible energy. Faster, faster. Renia turned back to make sure that no one was after them. The wind cooled her sweaty body and face. She felt her mother and father’s presence, as if they were right there, protecting her.