The Boy on the Wooden Box Read Online Free PDF Page B

Kraków with our mother. One morning in a frenzy, Father and Hershel dressed quickly, gathered a little food, and, without extended good-byes, left. There were tears, but only from those of us who remained behind. I remember staring at the door as it closed, wondering when or if I would ever see my father and brother again.
    Five days after that first air-raid siren, we heard a rumor that there were guards on the bridges of the Vistula River. My spirits lifted. Surely they must be French or English soldiers coming to our rescue! They would stop the Germans, and my father and Hershel would be able to return. Without asking my mother’s permission, since she surely would not have given it, I sneaked out of our apartment to take a look for myself. I wanted to be the one to bring my family the good news that we were no longer in danger and would soon be reunited.
    In the foreboding silence, I followed my usual path tothe river. Where was everyone? Why weren’t people out cheering and celebrating the soldiers who had come to our defense? As I neared the Powstancow Bridge and the soldiers came into focus, I slowed my pace. My heart sank. From the symbols on their helmets, I knew the soldiers weren’t French or English. They were German. It was September 6, 1939. Less than a week after crossing the border into Poland, the Germans were in Kraków. Although we didn’t know it then, our years in hell had begun.

A BEDRAGGLED FIGURE SLOWLY MADE his way up the front steps of our building and appeared at our apartment door. I didn’t recognize him until he entered our apartment and collapsed into a chair. That was how much my father had changed in the course of the few weeks he had been gone. My mother, sister, brothers, and I embraced him, but our happiness lasted only a moment. It was followed by fear about what might have happened to Hershel. My father assured us that Hershel was safe, although I suspect he had doubts that he shared secretlywith my mother. Father recounted that he and Hershel had joined a crowded trail of refugees heading north and east. Determined to stay ahead of the German tanks and troops, they had walked with the others fleeing the invading soldiers, from dawn to night, sleeping a few hours in fields where they found their only food, ears of corn plucked right off the stalks and eaten raw. Whenever they approached a town, a rumor would sweep through their ranks that the Germans were already there. With alarming speed, the Germans had taken over all of western Poland and were pushing east.
    Hershel was young and strong and could travel faster than my father. At the same time, my father was rethinking his impulse to leave his wife and children. So they decided that Hershel would continue alone to Narewka, and my father would return to Kraków and take his chances with the occupying army. The travel was hazardous and slow, but he finally succeeded in reaching home. I was thrilled to have my father back with us.
    As the Nazis tightened their grip on Kraków, Jews werebarraged with all kinds of insulting caricatures. Demeaning posters appeared in both Polish and German, depicting us as grotesque, filthy creatures, with large, crooked noses. Nothing about these pictures made any sense to me. In my family we didn’t have many clothes, but my mother worked hard to keep them clean and we were never dirty. I found myself studying all our noses. None was particularly big. I couldn’t understand why the Germans would want to make us look like something we were not.
    Restrictions rapidly multiplied. It seemed like there was almost nothing Jews were still allowed to do. We were no longer permitted to sit on park benches. Then we were banned from the parks altogether. Ropes went up inside the streetcars, designating seating for gentiles—non-Jewish Poles—in the front of the cars and for Jews in the rear. At first I found the restriction irritating. It ruined my chance to play the game of evading the conductor with my