that case, the price is five hundred zloty.”
“Unheard of! In Lodz, we could hire a Daimler to drive us to Krzemieniec and back for that.”
“Then do it, Mister. I was offering you a bargain only because you’ve got such a pretty daughter. I thought she might want to sit in front with me, to keep me warm. Otherwise, my price would be a thou—”
“How dare you!” Papa bellowed in Yiddish, leaping at the driver’s throat. With his free hand, the driver drew back his whip and lashed out.
My father fell to the ground, blood streaming from his cheek. His face was a dangerous vermilion.
“His heart,” Mama hissed, kneeling to open his collar.
“Filthy Jew bastard,” the peasant snarled, lashing out again at the empty air. “You’re not fit to lick my horse’s asshole.” He turned to the people in line. “Next.”
A crowd gathered around Papa. Hands stretched out to help him up. The peasant, finding no takers, drove off cursing. “We are not all like that,” a woman in the line said. “You and your family will take the next vehicle, whatever it is.”
My father, still stunned, looked at her gratefully. My mother began to cry. And I—I thought my heart would never heal.
“Grand Hotel Dubow,” our driver called out. Papa climbed out of the back of the oxcart and, with stiff, dignified gestures, brushed the dirt off his suit and handed a wad of zloty notes to the driver. “For a new breeding bull,” he explained to the astonished boy. “To replace the one you told me was lost.”
Papa helped me and Mama down, removing bits of mud and straw from our hair and shoulders. All about us, an endless stream of travelers passed to and from the train station, evidently seeing nothing unusual in a middle-class family debarking from the rear of an oxcart.
At the reception desk my father introduced himself and asked for rooms.
“Any news?” asked the graying bell captain, clapping his hands to produce a crew of help in red uniforms.
Papa shook his head. “I’m afraid I know nothing. I had hoped that perhaps on the radio….”
The bell captain shrugged. “It must be the same everywhere. Yesterday, there was fighting in Pozna
Mama blanched. “Kraków?”
“Madame, the accursed Germans will never reach Kraków. I hear they’ve been beaten back at Katowice. They’re simply no match for the Polish Army. I shouldn’t worry. This so-called war may be over before lunch. Now, how may I be of service? Would the doctor care for a suite of rooms or regular connecting rooms? Normally, we’re too heavily booked for guests without reservations, but….”
I stared down Main Street. From all directions, people were spilling out onto the road. Dubow had become a town of windup toys gone berserk.
Papa reserved a suite, then reviewed his thinking for us as we sat on the horsehair settee. He thought it would be wise to stay here while the rest of Poland thrashed about. “In a few days the Polish Army might prevail,” he mused, “and the Nazi threat could be silenced forever. If not, we would of course be vulnerable in Dubow, so perhaps staying here is not a good idea. For one thing, unlike the artists’ colony of Krzemieniec, Dubow is not a town that welcomes Jews.” A frown crossed his face. “The bell captain would probably betray us instantly if it meant his own survival.”
He paced, examining our options.
“Ostrog is inhospitable, but just beyond it is the Soviet frontier. If the Nazis prevail, from there we could flee to Kiev. Or head south toward Bucharest. But getting to Ostrog would not be easy—”
Mama interrupted him. “I will not leave Poland until Jozef has joined us.”
Papa took her hand and looked into her eyes. “If bad comes to worse, then, we could make our way to Chelm or Lublin, where we have friends. That, of course, would be more difficult than going to Lemburg and taking an express train to Lodz. But surely the Germans will bomb the main railroad tracks, so that way almost surely means exhausting delays if not outright failure.” He resumed his pacing. “We could get to the capital from Lublin as well, using a roundabout route, that is, if the Nazis have not bombed the tracks there as well—but that’s far less likely—and in Warsaw, we could stop off to see your sister Esther, if she has not fled to Ostrog with David and the children….”
My father’s thinking grew more and more convoluted until at last my mother and I could only stare at him helplessly. “Lunch,” he said at last, as though he knew what to do, “but first a bath. You women will be able to think more clearly then. Meanwhile, I’ll try to call Jozef.”
He could not get through, and it was mother, frantic, who persuaded him to go to Lodz via Lublin and Warsaw. For if Jozef had left Kraków, he would surely make his way to our home. There we would welcome him with hugs and kisses, and all would be well.
CHAPTER 2
“Halt.”
A surge of humanity carried me across the Lodz station, where I struggled to catch a glimpse of my parents. It had taken us days to travel from Dubow to Lublin, with a stop in Warsaw, on our way home. Although the fighting continued we knew that Poland would finally fall and we had to make provision for the future. In the train, we’d agreed that we had a better chance of avoiding the station guard’s suspicion if we detrained separately, since we were smuggling goods my aunt Esther had given us in case the Lodz grocery shops were empty. Suddenly, though, I was not so sure.
“YOU!” the same voice thundered. I froze.
My breasts and hips were enhanced by packets of wheat, flour, oats, and ground millet. I literally waddled attempting to navigate through the crowd.
A young soldier stepped in front of me. “Name?” he thundered.
Beneath his clumsy German I detected a Polish accent; he was a Volksdeutscher, a German Pole proud to be more Aryan than his Nazi counterparts. His military cap was balanced jauntily on his straw-blond curls, and his glance was insolent. I turned away.
He snatched my coat collar and raised it, forcing me to look at him. “I said give me your name!”
“Let go of me,” I ordered him in Polish. How dare he take such liberties? I was a free citizen and he was a pimply faced parody of a soldier. I dropped my suitcase and stared at him defiantly.
“You little cunt,” he roared, tearing my coat open. “I’ll teach you to defy me.” He pushed me to the ground, straddled me, and pried my legs apart. I felt no fear; only anger. A crowd formed around us. Surely they would protect me. Yet they made no move, and their gasps and cries seemed to come from far away. The guard explored my thighs, my breasts. I screamed and flailed at him.
“What seems to be the problem, soldier?” an authoritarian voice snapped above us.
The Volksdeutscher leapt to attention, brushing dust off his sleeves. His cap was askew and his ruddy face shone with sweat.
“She’s a gypsy smuggler, lieutenant.”
The officer shook his head. He was no fool. All around him were overstuffed coats, weighted suitcases, baby strollers without babies. Smuggling in wartime might be a capital offense, but people had to keep from starving. “Is it true?” he asked me. “Are you a gypsy?”
I stood, straightened my clothes and looked at him squarely. He was about my height, barrel-chested with a bulldog face. “No, sir.”
“She’s lying,” the soldier insisted. “Just look at her. Bulges everywhere. She’s a gypsy smuggler and—”
“Shut up,” the officer snarled, slapping the boy’s face. The soldier recoiled. The crowd