Mila 18 - Leon Uris [183]
Warsinski opened a document. “ ‘From this day forward every member of the Jewish Militia has a personal daily duty to bring three people to the Umschlagplatz for deportation for honest labor. In the event a militiaman fails to meet his quota, he and his family will be deported immediately.’ ”
The respite in the Big Action, the show of “common justice” by executing the Big Seven, and the reopening of the schools, all became part of a master scheme to lure the people into relaxing their vigil long enough for the Germans to reorganize for the next onslaught.
A terrorized Jewish Militia under Warsinski’s obedient haranguing had long ago sold their souls; now they sank to a new depth of decadence. It became a common sight to see them dragging their own relatives to the Umschlagplatz for deportation when they were unable to fill their quotas.
Ghetto Kennkarten stamped for labor were long believed to be a magic key to life. In a stroke of the pen they were all declared invalid. All but a handful of people in the ghetto had lost their immunity to deportation.
Each day new “kettles” and “pots” were executed. Streets or blocks of houses were hermetically sealed off and methodically raked from cellar to attic for occupants.
The constant fountain of trickery spouted. The lure of food was used to gain new spies. Children were tortured before the eyes of their mothers to reveal the locations of secret bunkers.
An immunity to tragedy became normal. Yet the roundup of the orphans accomplished what the master planners knew it would. It seemed to crush whatever morale and will to exist remained.
Alexander Brandel, long the symbol of love and dignity, long the symbol of food and medicine, turned into a morose, depressed man overnight. Speechless day followed speechless day. He no longer functioned as the dynamic force for survival.
Rabbi Solomon sat in the dank cellar next to the sewer pipe under Mila 19 and wailed ancient Hebrew prayers day and night to the sound of rushing sewerage.
Deborah Bronski was the sole nurse remaining from the Niska Street orphanage to take care of the two dozen boys and girls Stephan had led over the roofs to Mila 19. Yet another room was dug out alongside the pipe and fitted with bunks and a classroom.
Deborah flicked on the light in her bedroom. She opened the dresser drawers one by one and filled a suitcase. An item or two came from the jewelry box. A few things of a personal nature. Everything else was to be left. She checked the children’s room for the mementos they wanted, then walked down the long hall.
There was a light from Paul’s study. She entered and could see the back of his head as he sat in his swivel chair in front of his desk.
“I am leaving you, Paul. I should have done so long ago. Stephan and Rachael will be with me.”
Paul was motionless.
“Good-by, Paul.”
As she turned to go, she saw that his hand hung limply over the arm of the chair, a crumpled sheet of paper in his fist. On the floor lay a bottle. She recognized it as his sleeping pills. The bottle was empty. It had been filled only a few days earlier. Deborah walked slowly to the front of the desk. Paul was rigid, his eyes closed. She set down the suitcase and felt his hand. It was icy. There was no pulse.
Paul Bronski was dead.
“May God forgive me,” she said, “but I wish I could say that I am sorry.”
She pried the paper loose from his hand. “My dear Deborah,” the note read, “I wish I knew what to say or what I have done to deserve this scorn from you. Boris Presser has an envelope explaining various affairs which I’m sure you’ll find in order ...” And there the scrawling stopped.
The top of the desk was tidy. Paul was meticulous in his habits. Everything would be in order. Even his death. He had closed out a business day by suicide simply because there was no alternative.
Deborah shook her head in a final bewilderment. She looked squarely into his sallow, lifeless face. “Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul. Even this had to be done so properly. Why didn’t you write a