He quickly lifts his shaking hand to his hat. His grey hair falls in disarray. But he was not fast enough. A thin leather horsewhip lashes his face. A red welt. Another German runs up, snatches his cane, and hits the old man over the head with it.
A body lying on the street. The cane broken in two. A German calls a passer-by with a Red Cross armband, who walks over, kneels, and lifts the lying man’s head.
“Dieser Leute braucht schon keine Hilfe.”21 His hands are covered in blood.
And that German wore such light yellow gloves . . . Walls across streets.
[23] A wacha.22 A gendarme stands at the crossroads. It is snowing. A crowd of people on the sidewalk. Bare heads. Their terrified eyes stare at the gendarme, at the master of life and death. They are waiting for him to gesture and finally let them cross the street. He makes a strange, vague movement with his hand holding the horsewhip. In a wave the crowd rushes forward to reach the other side.
“Halt! Zurück!”23
The people bow resignedly and return. This spectacle is repeated three times before the gracious dictator finally lets them reach the opposite sidewalk. The first rows have reached the sidewalk and they are now running down the street, making room for the next people. The last ones are almost at the sidewalk, but they have been too slow.
A crack. A shot. Two bodies lying on the street. Two Jews fewer in the world.
The wall. The ghetto border.24 I can see both sides from the window. Low in the wall is a drain hole, large enough for a child to fit into. Two soldiers stand in the corner by the wall. A mother approaches with her child from the Jewish side, [24] from the ghetto. This child, aged six, is the provider for the whole family. This old man, aged six, smuggles food for his family through the gutter. Equipped with money and a sack, the child kneels and begins squeezing
