From the Rubble

Rachel, my little sister,

I do not know if this letter will reach you. I am writing it anyway because someone must remember what happened here. If I die, and you live, then you must be the one who tells them.

We are in a bunker beneath 18 Miła Street. There are forty of us in a space meant for ten. The Germans are burning the ghetto building by building. The heat above us is immense — I can feel it through the ceiling, through the stone. All night we hear the roar of flames and the crash of walls collapsing. And the screams, Rachel. The screams I will carry with me wherever I go, even if I go nowhere at all.

I am not brave, Rachel. I am just too angry to die quietly.

We are fighting for three things, and three things only. I want you to remember them. We are fighting so that the world will know that Jews did not go like lambs to the slaughter. We are fighting because there is nothing left to lose. And we are fighting because this — this burning, this screaming, this impossible darkness — this is what they wanted to reduce us to. And I refuse. We all refuse.

Mama and Papa are gone. You know this. I saw them taken in the summer, during the Grossaktion, packed into the cattle cars. I did not cry then. I have not cried since. There is no room for tears in the ghetto, only for actions.

But I have let myself cry today. Just once. I thought of you reading this, somewhere in the countryside, in a house with a garden and a roof that does not leak smoke. I thought of you alive, Rachel. And that is enough.

Remember your name. Remember it is Jewish. Remember that you come from a people who built libraries and sang songs and loved fiercely. Do not let them take that from you. Live. Live and tell them what happened here. Tell them our names. Tell them we existed. Tell them we fought.

I must stop now. They are shelling the building above. The dust is falling like snow. If you are reading this, know that I loved you more than anything in this world, and that my last thought was of your face.

Your brother, Dawid

איך בין נישט קיין גיבור, רחל. איך בין נאָר צו בייז צו שטאַרבן שטיל. מיר קעמפֿן פֿאַר דרײַ זאַכן: דרײַ סעקונדעס פֿון געשיכטע. אַז די וועלט זאָל וויסן אַז ייִדן זײַנען נישט געגאַנגען ווי לעמער.