Chapter 10 - Dorotha
Dorotha
‘Libertatem per Lectio’
Friends. Fragile joy. I’m a librarian once more!
It’s a small underground library. Our ‘grand’ library is in a stationery cupboard.
Can you imagine such a thing? It makes me wonder what innovations you’ve all brought about in England.
Friends, I can’t explain what joy reading brings to ghetto prisoners. I am alive once more.
Yours in defiance,
Dorotha
Three months after the maelstrom of the Great Sperre, Dorotha had made good on her promise.
The stationery cupboard at the back of the Department of Vital Statistics was full to bursting with rescued books and Torah scrolls.
The Nazi regime had burnt books they found ‘undesirable’.
Now, Dorotha was the keeper of her own secret library, rammed full of undesirable books, and the thought could not be sweeter.
Dorotha doubted she would ever feel joy again. That emotion had been consigned to a room in the back of her mind and walled in brick by brick. But she could give joy, book by book.
It was late afternoon on a freezing Sunday in deep December. Fingers of frost etched lacy patterns on the inside of the window panes and naked hunger gripped. Dorotha had long ago decided to put food to the back of her mind and feast on books instead.
Sunday was the ghetto prisoners’ only day off, and was used to wash clothes, rest, and scrape together rations for the week ahead.
But Mrs Mordkowicz had promised Dorotha she would do her chores for her, urging Dorotha to go and tend to her library instead.
It was the safest time of the week, as Biebow and his staff stayed away from the ghetto on Sundays, luxuriating in their splendid stolen homes outside the walls of the ghetto.
Free from the incessant clack of typewriters and barked German orders, the office was quiet, leaving her in peace to curate and catalogue their 2,000 rescued volumes.
Dorotha ran her fingers over the book spines with so much care she might be a physician treating an elderly patient.
Just being around books, breathing in the smell of leather, paper and ink, restored a sliver of her humanity.
She felt a hand on her back and jumped.
‘Sorry to scare you,’ rang out a soft voice in the gloom.
‘Mr Weiss. What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about the library.’
‘I thought you said the less you knew the better?’
He looked over her shoulder, green eyes assessing her little library.
‘What can I say? My curiosity got the better of me. I have to say, Dorotha, you’ve surpassed my expectations. There are some intriguing books here.’
He reached out and picked up a dense title by Jakob Wassermann.
‘The intelligentsia will appreciate this.’
‘With respect, Mr Weiss, I don’t intend to cater just for the intelligentsia. The women whose fingers are bleeding from sewing for thirteen hours in a workshop need escape too.’
Her eyes sparkled as she gestured to the two bookcases full of adventure and detective novels.
‘I’ve a feeling this is what they’ll want. These were always popular with women in my old library, along with romance.’
He smiled. It was rare to see her boss smile, but when he did, she noticed a dimple on his chin that peeled away some of his seriousness.
‘You’re the librarian, Dorotha. But how do you intend to loan these books to patrons without alerting suspicion?’
Here, she faltered. ‘This needs careful thought. W-what if it can’t be done?’
Mr Weiss replaced the book on the shelf and accidentally brushed her cheek. An awkward silence bunched between them.
‘Reality is as small as this cupboard. But your imagination? That world is boundless, Dorotha. If anyone can find a way, it’s you.’
He turned to leave, then stopped, tapping the door-frame, unsure of himself.
‘Go on . . .’ Dorotha encouraged, knowing he had something he needed to say.
‘As you know, the rabbinate has been suspended, all schools and orphanages have been closed, and now they’ve closed down the printing press on Brzezińska. I heard orders that all occupants of the building have been relocated.’
He let the meaning hang heavily in the little library.
‘Number 10 Brzezińska is not so far from you. I’m sure if you were to detour there on your way home you might find more books for your library.’
She nodded.
‘Thank you.’
‘And one more thing before I go. I have a gift. Well, two gifts actually.’
He bent down and pulled out a tattered old carpet bag tucked behind a bookcase.
‘I’ve been waiting for the chance to share this with you. Inside is my father’s old briefcase. It’s yours. I thought, maybe, you might be able to use it to transport books.’
‘Oh, Mr Weiss . . .’ she breathed, her fingers drawn to the battered brown leather and brass catch, its shine long dulled.
‘He no longer needs it.’ Mr Weiss’s voice fell and Dorotha saw him swallow down a knot of emotion, his Adam’s apple rising sharply on his slender neck. He fished about in the bottom of the bag. ‘And these belonged to my younger sister, Mila. They look to be about your size.’
He placed a pair of good leather boots in her other hand, and Dorotha’s eyes grew wide.
‘I can’t take these.’
‘But you must,’ he insisted fiercely. ‘She’d have loved the idea of this library. She was a true bibliophile.’
‘Was?’ she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop herself.
He rubbed his hand up and down the nearest book, his voice thick with emotion.
‘She was shot protecting her charges at the orphanage in Marysin.’
‘Miss Weiss!’ she exclaimed. ‘She was your sister?’
He nodded, staring at the floor as a single tear tracked down his cheek.
‘She was a good woman,’ Dorotha said, touching his arm. ‘I’ll walk taller in her shoes.’
He smiled through his tears. ‘She’d like that.’
He was caught in a shaft of weak light, the bones of his cheeks protruding sharply, but his eyes shone with such kindness.
Knowing he was Miss Weiss’s brother subtly changed him in Dorotha’s eyes, as if he had been imbued with the same inherent selflessness that had prompted his sister to lay down her life for a cartload of children.
On impulse, she reached up and brushed the tear away with her thumb.
Ten minutes later, Dorotha left the Department of Vital Statistics and walked down the street, carrying her new leather briefcase and wearing her new boots. She walked that bit taller. That bit straighter.
In the distance, she spied the dark silhouette of the gallows in Bazarna Square, casting their ever-present shadow over the ghetto. But there was a new emotion tucked in there with the fear. Defiance. I will get out of this place.
Dorotha knew she should probably get straight back to her room. It was close to curfew, after all, and Ruth and her mother would worry, but the pull of undiscovered books was too powerful to ignore.
On arrival, though, she found the front door locked.
But these old wooden buildings, which should have been condemned years ago, usually had their secrets.
She slipped through the side alley, grateful for her new boots when she disturbed a nest of rats and they streamed over her feet.
In the small yard at the back, she found the back door locked, too.
She stepped away and looked up at the darkening winter sky, the colour of a bruise.
The blacked-out skies spat icy rain. The clock ticked. Curfew was fast approaching.
Go home, her logical brain told her.
Find the books, her librarian’s brain insisted.
Then she spotted a small window leading down to the basement, low enough that she could easily clamber in. Taking her briefcase, she slammed it into the window. The glass shattered and fell away. Reaching through, she unhooked the latch and opened it up, wriggling her way inside.
She dropped to the floor, feeling a fine spider’s web brushing against her cheek.
It was so dark she couldn’t see a hand in front of her face.
It was deathly quiet too. Nothing but the drip, drip of water in the ancient basement.
Then she felt it, the brush of cold flesh against her arm. Dorotha shuddered and stifled a scream.
‘Who’s there?’ she said shakily. ‘Show yourself.’
There was the scrape of a match, then a small halo of light from an oil lamp illuminated two faces. A woman of about thirty and a filthy-faced child.
‘What’re you doing here?’ growled the woman, holding up a broom as if to defend herself. ‘We have nothing. Be on your way.’
Dorotha held her hands up. ‘I mean you no harm. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.’
The woman’s eyes were so wide with fear that her pupils looked like tiny drops of spilled ink on a page.
‘My name’s Dorotha Berkowicz. I’m a librarian searching for books to loan out to prisoners. How long have you been hiding down here?’
‘Three months. Since the Great Sperre. My name is Ava. This is my daughter Gabriele.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait. How do I know you won’t betray me?’
‘Because I’ve nothing to gain by such a despicable act,’ Dorotha replied, calm despite her thundering heart. ‘I assure you, I mean no harm. You must be starving, Ava. How have you been feeding your daughter?’
The woman’s face was twitchy, her mouth set in a thin line of determination. ‘I go out at night and scavenge what I can. Potato peelings, or occasionally I get lucky and find an old cabbage.’
Dorotha swallowed down her horror at the woman’s predicament.
Remembering the half a loaf she had managed to buy earlier, she took it from her bag and handed it to her.
She had been saving it to share with Ruth and her mother, but these strangers’ needs were greater. The woman backed away suspiciously.
‘Ava,’ said Dorotha gently, pressing the bread into her hand. ‘You’re a courageous soul. Hiding down here to keep your daughter safe. That takes unimaginable bravery. Let me help you. Please.’
‘I don’t take charity,’ the woman replied.