Free The Boy on the Wooden Box by Leon Leyson Page A

mother’s instinct had been correct. The Aktion was not over. I wasn’t sure I cared anymore. I was at my end. Hunger, thirst, and fear had thoroughly depleted me. All I could do was think of that teapot of water my mother had left on the floor below. I tried to convince her that I could jump down, grab it, and bring it back up without being noticed, but she would have none of it. Shivering from cold and fear, the four of us remained in our cramped refuge until dusk. The hours seemed interminable.
    Finally we heard another voice in the courtyard. “Chanah Leyson,” a man called out. “I was sent by Moshe Leyson.” Startled, we stirred from our half-consciousstate. I searched my mother’s eyes. She was unsure what to do. “Is Chanah Leyson here?” he asked again. “I work at the factory with your husband, Moshe.” Reassured by twice hearing my father’s name, my mother nodded to me, and finally, after almost two full days, we dropped down from the rafters. Pain shot through my legs as I landed on the floor. I grabbed the teapot and swallowed a few gulps of water before passing it on to Yossel and Samuel. Stiff and sore, the four of us emerged from our sanctuary exhausted, thankful to still be alive.
    Her voice hoarse and weak, my mother called out to the man. “Here,” she cried. “I am Chanah Leyson.” She and the man spoke together quietly as my friends and I nervously surveyed the deserted courtyard. Were we really safe? Were we the only ones still alive?
    Without a word, Yossel and Samuel dashed inside our building to search for their mother. Their apartment was empty; their mother was nowhere to be found. She had been seized in the roundup. Yossel and Samuel would have to rely on their own resources. They were not theonly youngsters left to fend for themselves in the ghetto. Of course, adults helped them in many ways, but basically the boys knew that drawing as little attention to themselves as possible was their best chance of survival.
    In the late evening, my father, David, and Pesza returned to our apartment with scraps of bread in their pockets. I tore into the food even before I hugged them, but forced myself to stop so that we could all share the meager morsels. My father delivered the latest news. He, David, and Pesza had been ordered to report immediately to the Płaszów labor camp, about two and a half miles from the ghetto. For the first time since our family had been forced into the ghetto some eighteen months before, the five of us still together were to be separated.
    As the population of the ghetto continued to diminish, officials began to reorganize those of us remaining. In December, my mother and I were transferred from Ghetto B, the section where we had been living, to Ghetto A, the area now designated for workers. A barbed-wire fence went up, dividing the two sections of the ghetto. Then the relocationbegan. We were ordered to take only what we could carry and find a living space for ourselves in Ghetto A.
    Without a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed the precious parting gift that Mr. Luftig had given me, his thermos. I also carried a jacket and a blanket. It broke my heart to leave behind Mr. Luftig’s treasured pipes. Before we left our apartment, my mother had me help her drag out the pieces of our furniture we hadn’t used as fuel to the balcony and push them over the railing. The cabinet, table, and chairs splintered to pieces as they crashed to the concrete courtyard. My mother had decided she wasn’t going to leave anything valuable or useful to the enemy if she could help it. Once again I was impressed by my mother’s cleverness and courage. It felt so good to do something against the Germans, even if the only thing we could do was destroy our own possessions.
    My mother waited until the very last minute to cross over to Ghetto A, rushing back to our building one last time for a cooking pot, which she wrapped in a sheet. I could hardly believe that she would take such a risk