of the early-morning noises that came through the paper-thin walls, sounds of people talking and pots banging and water running. My heart pounded. Everyone had disappeared. I froze, uncertain what to do.
Suddenly, I heard a creaking noise on the stairway above. “Hello?” I called, starting up the stairs. Through the railings, I could see a flash of blue clothing. “It’s Emma Gershmann,” I said, using my maiden name. “Who’s there?” It did not occur to me to be afraid. I heard one footstep, then another. A small boy, no older than twelve, came into view. I recognized him as one of the many Rosenkrantz children from the fourth floor. “You’re Jonas, aren’t you?” I asked. He nodded. “Where is everyone?”
He did not speak for several minutes. “I was playing in the courtyard when they came,” he began, his voice barely a whisper.
“Who came, Jonas?” I asked, dreading his answer.
“Men in uniforms,” he replied softly. “Lots of them.”
“Germans?” He nodded. Suddenly my knees felt weak. I leaned against the railing for support. “When?”
“Two days ago. They made everyone leave in a hurry. My family. Yours, too.”
My stomach twisted. “Where did they go?”
He shrugged. “They walked south toward the river. Everyone had suitcases.” The ghetto, I thought, sinking down to the bottom stair. Shortly after the start of the occupation, the Nazis had created a walled area in Podgorze, a district south of the river. They had ordered all of the Jews from the nearby villages to move there. It had never occurred to me that my family might have to relocate there, though; we already lived in the Jewish quarter. “I hid until they were gone,” Jonas added. I did not reply, but leapt up and raced back down the stairs to our apartment. At the entrance, I stopped. The mezuzah was gone, ripped from the wooden door frame. I touched the faint shadow that remained where the small metal box had hung for decades. My father must have broken it off as they left. He knew they weren’t coming back.
I had to find them. I grabbed my suitcase and closed the apartment door behind me, turning to Jonas, who had followed me down the steps. “Jonas, you can’t stay here, it isn’t safe,” I said. “Do you have anyone to go to?” He shook his head. I paused. I couldn’t take him with me. “Here,” I continued, reaching into my bag and passing him a handful of the coins that Jacob had left me. “Use this for food.”
He shoved the coins in his pocket. “Where are you going?”
I hesitated. “To find my parents.”
“Are you going to the ghetto?”
I looked at him in surprise. I had not realized that he understood where his family had been taken. “Yes.”
“You won’t be able to leave,” Jonas said with childlike logic. I hesitated. In my haste, it hadn’t occurred to me that going to the ghetto meant I would be imprisoned, too.
“I have to go. You be careful. Stay out of sight.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell your mother you’re okay if I see her.” Not waiting for him to reply, I turned and raced down the stairs.
Outside I paused, looking in both directions down the deserted street. The Nazis must have cleared the entire neighborhood, I realized. I stood motionless, trying to figure out what to do. Jonas was right, of course. If I went to the ghetto, I would not be able to leave again. But what other choice did I have? I could not stay in our apartment. Even standing here on the street was probably not safe. I wished desperately that Jacob was here; he would surely know what to do. Of course, if he was here, I would still be safe in our bedroom in the Baus’ apartment, instead of alone on the street corner with nowhere to go. I wondered how far away he was by now. Would he have left if he realized what would happen to me so soon after he was gone?
I will go to the ghetto, I decided. I had to know if my parents were there, if they were all right. Picking up my bags once more, I began walking swiftly through the empty streets of the Jewish quarter, making my way south toward the river. The scraping of the soles of my shoes and my suitcase against the pavement were the only sounds that broke the early morning silence. My skin grew moist under my clothes and my arms ached as I struggled to carry my overstuffed bags in the thick autumn morning.
Shortly, I reached the edge of the Wisla River, which separated our old world from our new one. I paused at the foot of the railway bridge, looking across to the far bank. Podgorze was a foreign neighborhood to me, commercial and crowded. Scanning the dirty, dilapidated buildings, I could just make out the top edge of the ghetto wall. A shiver ran through me. You will only be a few kilometers away, I told myself. The thought gave me no comfort. The ghetto was not Kazimierz, not our home. It might as well have been another planet.
For a moment, I considered turning around and running away. But where would I go? Taking a deep breath, I started walking across the bridge. My legs felt like lead. As I trudged silently across the railway bridge, I could hear the river rippling gently against the shore from which I had come. The smell of brackish water wafted up through the slats in the bridge. Don’t look back, I thought. But as I reached the far bank, a starling cried out behind me and I turned, almost against my will. On the far shore, high atop an embankment overlooking the river, sat Wawel Castle, its roofs and cathedral spires bathed in sunrise gold. Its grandeur seemed a betrayal. For my entire life, I had worked and played, walked and lived in its shadows. I had felt protected by this fortress, which for centuries had been the seat of the Polish monarchy. Now it seemed I was being cast out. I was walking into a prison, and the castle seemed oblivious to my plight. Kraków, the City of Kings, was no longer mine. I had become a foreigner in the place I had always called home.
CHAPTER 3
From the foot of the bridge, I walked a few hundred meters along the granite wall of the ghetto. The top edge of the wall had been sculpted into arcs, each about two feet wide. Like tombstones, I thought, my stomach twisting. When I reached the entrance, an iron gate, I paused, inhaling deeply before approaching the Nazi guard. “Name?” he asked, before I could speak.
“I—I …” I stammered.
The guard looked up from his clipboard. “Name!” he barked.
“Gershmann, Emma,” I managed to say.
The guard scanned his list. “Not here.”
“No, but I think my parents are, Chaim and Reisa Gershmann.”
He looked again, turned to another page. “Yes. Twenty-one Limanowa Street, apartment six.”
“Then I want to be with them.” A look of surprise flashed across his face and he opened his mouth. He’s going to tell me I cannot come inside, I thought. For a moment, I felt almost relieved. But then, seeming to think better of it, the guard wrote my name beside my parents’ on the list and moved aside to let me enter. I hesitated, looking down the street in both directions before stepping into the ghetto. The gate slammed shut behind me.
Inside, a wall of human stench assaulted me and I had to fight the urge not to gag. Trying to take only shallow breaths through my mouth, I asked directions from a man, who pointed me toward Limanowa Street. As I made my way through the ghetto, I tried not to look at the gaunt, bedraggled passersby who stared at me, a new arrival, with unabashed curiosity. I turned onto Limanowa Street, stopping before the address the guard had given me. The building looked as though it had already been condemned. I opened the front door and climbed the stairs. When I reached the top floor, I hesitated, wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt. Through the rotting wood door of one of the apartments I could hear my mother’s voice. Tears sprang to my eyes. Until now, I hadn’t wanted to believe they were really here. I took a deep breath and knocked. “Nu?” I heard my father call. His footsteps grew louder, then the door opened. At the sight of me, his eyes grew wide. “Emmala!” he cried, throwing his enormous arms around me and hugging me so hard I thought we would both fall over.
Behind him, my mother clutched her apron, her eyes dark. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. When my father finally released