Most Jews’ fake IDs were complete fabrications. The forger received a photo and had to invent an identity. It was best if first and last names were related to that person’s actual class （they often used similar-sounding or similar-meaning names from the Jewish ones）; if their profession related to their appearance and, if possible, to their real profession; and if their place of birth was somewhere familiar to them—say, for Varsovians, ?ód? was a good choice. If someone had a pronounced Polish accent, the ID maker might indicate he or she was from Belorussia, in the East. The fabricated documents were least reliable, as a bad forgery would arouse suspicion that the holder was a Jew—worse than having no papers at all.
The best way to get fake ID was through friends （women tended to be better at asking for favors） or via the black market. But in the latter case, the quality was less reliable, and despite the expense, the creator could not always be trusted; for example, the young educated man whose new forged ID identified him as a middle-aged shoemaker. How could he act the part? The black market also left one open to blackmail, since you’d have to reveal your true identity to a total stranger. And, as Renia was learning, that was something to avoid at all costs.
*
Another day, another small village. A totally unknown place. Renia was offered a job as housekeeper in a mansion. She considered it momentarily, but how could she? She felt so weary, so weak. And so afraid of being found out. Her papers were good only for a small municipal area. Registering her identity here meant death.
Another long, hard walk, another train station. That night felt especially dark, the moon hiding, the stars as tired as she was.
Renia, in her fine Polish, bought a ticket to the town of Kazimierza Wielka, where she’d heard Jews still lived. She needed to find a base, to figure out if her family was still alive.
The train jerked into motion, and suddenly Renia’s blood ran cold.
A man was staring into her eyes. She knew right away he was from J?drzejów. He recognized her.
Much to her relief, he walked off, but for a while, people kept passing her seat. “Yes, that’s her,” she overheard in the darkness. “She has it easy. She doesn’t resemble a Jew.”
Renia froze. Everything went blurry. She was sure she was going to faint. Everywhere she looked, she saw her persecutors. She was surrounded, drowning.
Renia got up and moved to the end of the train, to a little platform that jutted outside. The cold air slapped her cheeks. Sparks from the smokestack snapped at her mercilessly. She took a breath. But just one. The car door opened, and the conductor appeared. “Good evening.”
She immediately knew he was trying to assess her accent, to see if she was a Jew.
“It’s so cold out, and the sparks are dangerous,” he said. “Why don’t you come inside?”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Renia replied, “but the cars are so crowded and stuffy. I’d rather get some air.”
He looked at her ticket, checked her destination, and then ducked back inside. There was no doubt. At the next station, he was going to hand her in to the gendarmes, the German military police, probably for a reward of a few z?otys
The train slowed down as it began to ascend a hill. There was no time to think, to feel. Now or never.
Renia threw her tiny suitcase off, then jumped right after it.
For a few minutes, she lay on the ground unconscious, but a wallop of cold jolted her awake. She checked in with her body, making sure all her limbs were accounted for. Her legs hurt, but who cared? She had saved her life, and that was most important.
Using all her energy, she propelled forward into the thick, dark strangeness. The dew on the grass caressed her feet, relieving her pain slightly.
A light in the distance; a small house. The dog barked, the landlord arrived. “What do you want?”