The Boy on the Wooden Box by Leon Leyson Read Free Book Online Page B

bed by the hair.
    “What’s your name?” they shouted. “Are you a Jew?”
    I replied that I was. They slapped me, furious that they had assumed I was a “normal” kid. Fortunately, they didn’t take the abuse beyond their slaps and abruptly left our apartment. I ran into my mother’s arms, shaking and crying, and this time I was the one who thought, If this is the worst that happens . . .
    In May 1940, the Nazis began to implement a policy to “cleanse” Kraków, the capital of the German-controlled territory called the Generalgouvernement, of its Jewish population. The Germans decreed that only 15,000 Jews would be allowed to remain in the city. Over the next months, tens of thousands of frightened Jews departedfor the outlying towns and villages from which many of them had so recently fled. Most went voluntarily, glad to be able to take a few of their possessions with them and relieved to escape the constant harangues and threats of the Nazis.
    My parents tried yet again to put a positive spin on this new turn of events. They told us the departing Jews were going to better lives away from the city, where they would be in less crowded conditions and not have to endure the relentless harassment from German soldiers patrolling the streets. They even said that those who had left “voluntarily” had received money for food and travel.
    I wanted to believe my parents, but my brothers and sister were not so easily convinced. If moving outside the city was so advantageous, my siblings asked, why were we always so determined to remain in Kraków? My parents had no answer to that. Later my brother David told me the frightening rumors: Those deported were not being sent to the countryside, but to their deaths. I was torn between believing these rumors must be false and knowing theNazis were capable of anything. I only had to recall the vicious attack on my father to be sure of that.
    So I felt a huge sense of relief when I learned my family would be able to stay in Kraków because of my father’s work and our residence permits. My father’s Bescheinigung from Emalia covered my mother, brothers Tsalig and David, and me. Pesza, who had been able to get a job at an electrical company, now had her own work permit. Still, we knew how fragile our security was in the face of constantly changing German rules and policies. Every time German soldiers banged on our door, we flashed the permits and held our collective breath for the brief but interminable inspections.
    My father’s job at Emalia helped us in other ways too. He received lunch at the factory. He never ate all of it, no matter how hungry he was, and brought home whatever he could. Some days that bit of smuggled food made the difference between hunger and starvation. When the weather turned cold, my father managed to tuck a few pieces of coal from the factory furnaces in his pockets, even thoughit was forbidden to take anything from the factory grounds. During the long winter nights, those few pieces of coal provided our only heat as we huddled around the stove. Every Friday, without fail, my mother would light the Shabbat candles just long enough to say the evening blessings. Because the candles were nearly impossible to find even on the black market, she blew them out immediately after the prayers. But it was enough. During those brief minutes, with the glow of the candles, I felt a connection not only to my family beside me but also to my family in Narewka, to my favorite grandfather, and to happier days. The ritual affirmed who we were despite the humiliating restrictions outside our door. We could wait this out and survive, we thought, as long as we had each other.
    The next months brought no good news for those of us under Nazi occupation. The Nazis, however, loved bombarding us with their successes. Their triumphs were constantly announced on the radio, in newspapers, and even on big screens they set up to play newsreels with scenes of their victories. I