It began with smuggling. I’d become creative about how I brought things in: weapons baked into loaves of bread; fake identification papers sewn into the linings of my coat; or, occasionally, the smuggled object might make my bust appear larger than it really was. Whatever I was secretly carrying, I always brought information to the residents of these sealed ghettos about what was happening elsewhere, and then learned everything I could to warn the next ghetto.
But that was only the beginning. My mission today was bolder than usual, and I was nervous.
“You must leave before the ghetto curfew at seventeen hundred hours,” the Nazi told me, then with a smile added, “Come out through this gate, pretty girl, no?”
I offered him a smile of my own, one that shot bile into my throat. I couldn’t come out this gate now. Not if he was specifically watching for me.
He let me pass, and then I was in.
I wondered if he’d sensed how hard my heart was beating back there, if he’d known my palms were dampened with sweat. I’d talked my way past the soldier by making him think I was Polish. Now came the harder part: convincing my own people that I was one of them. For if they did not trust me, coming here was a waste of time.
I turned down the nearest street, hoping to get out of sight if any guards looked back. It was time to be Jewish again. I put the necklace with the Catholic crucifix in my pocket and repeated my true name under my breath: Chaya Lindner.
I was named for my grandmother, as she was named for hers. Every time I passed myself off as a Christian girl named Helena, I wonde
red: Was I dishonoring my name, or preserving it?
Maybe it didn’t matter. I was committed to my fate. I’d be a courier for as long as a courier was needed. I’d be a fighter if that was needed.
If a martyr was needed, I’d be that too.
But for now, this ghetto needed to see a Jewish girl. If it was difficult to pass myself off as a Pole back at the ghetto gates, it was no easier now to make the people here trust me as a Jew. I was a stranger with a Polish look, and that made me suspicious.
I was supposed to make contact with a resistance member here, but until he found me, I began distributing the potatoes. Like everything else, I passed them out as quietly as possible. I didn’t want to be recognized, or remembered. Even among my own people, there were some who might point me out to a Nazi if they thought it’d buy their family another day to live.
So whenever possible, I distributed food to children, slipping a potato into their bag or coat pocket, then quickly moving on. I sometimes looked back to see their eyes light up when they felt it with their hands, but they were always smart enough not to bring the potato out in the open, and too excited to look around for me. Usually, I didn’t look back. It wasn’t worth the risk. I moved fast, eyes down, trying not to think about who got the potato and who I’d passed over. They didn’t deserve hunger more than the child whose bag happened to be open, but such was the randomness of life. I would never be able to bring in enough food for everyone.
At my best, I could not save them all.
That thought always destroyed me. Always.
Far too soon, the supply of potatoes was gone. So what if twenty families had a potato to eat today? Couldn’t I have snuck in even one more? I lowered my eyes and clutched my bag in my hands. I couldn’t give out the shawls—no matter how cold it was about to become, I needed them for the second part of my mission. But I had to find my contact soon.
The German invaders had taken everything from me: my home, my family, even much of my faith, which had once been the center of my life.
So I had no problem taking something back from them: my dignity, my fight. My will to live.
But if I’d learned anything from this war, it’s that we can never go back.
This book would be incomplete without a recognition of those who gave me a love of words. Thank you, Mrs. Flores, the first teacher to truly celebrate me as a reader. Thank you, Lorraine, for the challenging word finds and crossword games. Thank you, Mom, for always giving me access to books, no matter what, and to Dad, for the word definition games.
I also wish to honor the knygnesiai—the book carriers, who are among the true heroes of Lithuanian history. This work that began with a single priest eventually expanded to include nearly every citizen in the country, either involved in smuggling, transporting, hiding, teaching, or purchasing the illegal books. Over the forty years of the ban, nearly eight million books were published across 1,740 titles. More than three thousand people were arrested in connection with the ban, and approximately 10 percent of the books were seized by authorities. The Kražiai Massacre in November 1893 deepened the Lithuanian resentment against the Russian occupation, and efforts to resist their laws intensified.
Eventually, it became apparent to the Russian Empire that the press ban had been a failure, and in 1904, Tsar Nicolas II revoked the ban. On February 16, 1918, Lithuania officially received its independence. Another seventy-three years of difficulty with Russia followed until 1991, when Lithuania finally regained its independence, which exists today.