Highlander - Donna Lettow [15]
Slowly, arms spread to show he had no weapon, that he was no threat to her, MacLeod came around the wall. She hurriedly stuffed the food back into the bag, as if afraid he’d take it away from her. “Will you help me find Rebbe Mendelsohn?” MacLeod asked again and held his last treasure out to her—a sturdy woolen coat, lined with fleece. He’d purposely gotten one too large for her, so she could still ply her craft in it. But at least she’d be warm.
She snatched it from his hand and stepped away from him. She considered him solemnly for a long moment, child’s eyes, shadowed with hunger and fatigue, searching him. MacLeod met her eyes with sincerity, and realized hers were a child’s eyes no longer. He’d seen those eyes before, in many lands, in many wars—eyes that had seen too little happiness and far too much death.
“Two hours before sunrise,” she finally said in Polish. “Meet me here. I will take you.” Before she had even finished speaking, she scooped up the bag of food and, with bag in one hand and new coat in the other, hurried away from him.
“Wait!” he called after her. “Vi haist it?”
“Rivka,” she called back from the shadows, and disappeared.
She’d kept her promise, returning in the dead of night to lead him silently to a breach in the Wall, hidden away behind a tailor’s shop on Krochmalna Street. Though Rivka could pass easily through the small opening, it was a tight fit for an adult, but with effort MacLeod managed to make it through to the Jewish sector.
More relaxed in the relative safety of the Ghetto, Rivka took his hand and led him through the dark, abandoned streets to the rabbi’s home. There she promised to wait outside and lead them back to the Aryan side again.
“Best lookout in the Ghetto,” she told him proudly.
MacLeod had smiled at her warmly. “I have no doubt,” he said, playfully tugging at one of her plaited pigtails. He was rewarded with the first smile he’d seen from her.
Now, as he watched her on the corner, there was no trace of that smile. He watched her hunker down in her ragged cloth coat as the wind blew against her. A light snow was just beginning to fall. He wondered why she hadn’t worn her new coat, then realized with sadness she had probably sold it for more food.
MacLeod heard Rabbi Mendelsohn coming up the basement stairs and turned from the window. The rabbi was carrying a large metal strongbox. “No, no, Rebbe, you don’t understand,” MacLeod explained patiently. “We have to travel light. You’ll have to leave that here.”
“No, Mr. MacLeod, it is you who does not understand.” He pushed the box toward MacLeod, who took it reluctantly. “These are my writings, my journals. I keep a history for Oneg Shabbat. It is all there—the expulsions, the camps, the hunger, the disease—everything that has happened since the Germans.” The old man was adamant. “What happens to me does not matter. But these must survive. These must go to Shimon. These must bear witness to the world when we no longer can.” He pleaded, “That is the only voice we have left. You cannot allow it to be destroyed, Mr. MacLeod, or everything we are, everything we were will vanish into nothing, like the smoke from Treblinka. And then the Germans will have won.” He grabbed MacLeod’s arm with surprising strength. “Promise me.”
MacLeod could feel his voice catch in his throat. “I promise.”
“Gut,” said the rabbi, suddenly all business. “Now my coat, and we’ll be on our way to Shimon.” He fetched his coat and shrugged it on, the dingy white armband with its blue Star of David prominent on one sleeve. Settling his hat on his head and picking up the scroll of the Torah, he said “After you, Mr. MacLeod,” gesturing toward the door.
Suddenly, two sharp whistles pierced the predawn quiet. MacLeod quickly pushed the rabbi behind him and looked out the small window embedded in the door. Rivka was gone. And coming around the corner where she once stood was a small convoy of German vehicles.
Damn.
“Vos?” the