Free In the Mouth of the Wolf by Rose Zar Page B

far from glad to see me.
    â€œI don’t think you should stay here. It’s very dangerous. I’m certain I’m being watched,” she kept saying over and over.
    I tried to reassure her by promising not to stay long. I asked if there were any way to get into the ghetto. I wanted to find my father. She knew of one way.
    On the corner of the Rynek Trybunalski was the front office of a semiofficial business known as “the Shop.” It dealt in men’s and women’s clothing, shoes, and furs. Well-to-do Germans and Poles who wanted the finest custom craftsmanshipwent there to arrange for fittings. The office workers and the highly skilled tailors, furriers, and cobblers were all Jews whom the Germans exempted from deportation simply because the enterprise was so lucrative—for the Germans. Mrs. Banasz advised me to go down to the Shop and pretend I was a young Polish woman who needed some alterations done. Once inside the store I would surely make the necessary contacts and find out what I needed to know.
    I had no trouble finding the place. The doorman in front asked what I wanted. I told him I came to have a dress made. Since all the secretaries were busy, he asked me to wait a few minutes. The young woman at the desk was finishing up an order when he finally let me in.
    â€œI’d like to see someone about having a dress made,” I said to her.
    She looked up and nearly toppled off her stool. She was one of my best friends—Renia Zaks. I nearly cried out when I saw her, too, but both of us knew better than to say a word or drop a single sign that we knew each other because there was another woman at the counter ahead of me.
    â€œJust a moment, please,” Renia said. She finished her business with the other woman and locked the door behind her when the other woman left. Then we threw ourselves into each other’s arms, crying, hugging, kissing, so glad that we were both still alive.
    â€œRuszka! Ruszka!” she sobbed. “Where have you been? What have you gone through? I never thought I’d see you again.”
    I told Renia I never thought I’d see her again either. I related a few of my experiences on the other side of the ghetto walls, then came right to the point. “I have to see my family, Renia. Can you get me into the ghetto?”
    â€œThey’re almost all gone, Ruszka,” she told me, shakingher head sadly. “The Germans took your mother and your sister off to Treblinka with all the other Jews. Your father is the only one left. If you want, I’ll try to arrange a meeting. But we have to be very, very careful. There are collaborators everywhere who wouldn’t hesitate to turn you over to the secret police.” She stopped a minute to think. “Come back in an hour,” she said. “I’ll see who’s on duty.” She didn’t have to explain her thoughts. I already knew. The Shop, and all the other factories and businesses where the Germans forced Jews to work for them, closed at six. Then two soldiers, one in front and one behind, marched the workers to the main entrance of the ghetto. Once the column passed through the ghetto gate, the Jewish police took over. The Germans were very precise about who went in and out. If two hundred people went out in the morning, two hundred had to come back at night. Not one hundred ninety-nine, not two hundred one. They were constantly calling roll, counting heads. But, as always, there was a way around if a person knew what to do. Many Jewish policemen were the dregs of the ghetto, collaborators. But there were also a few decent ones among them who took the accursed job simply to keep themselves and their families alive. Smuggling someone into the ghetto was a matter of waiting until a good policeman was on duty and letting him know that someone was coming in. Then, when the policeman made his count, he simply skipped one. It was easy to get away with as long as the final