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wood, we had a lot of fun playing this game, particularly since our parents, while
     not approving of our wagon jumping, were always pleased to get the few pieces of wood we brought in.
    Another game I remember playing with my friends was hiding in the empty field behind our apartment complex. There, from time
     to time, we could watch the Polish peasant women urinate in a standing position, with their legs spread out but without lifting
     their long skirts. At some point we would whistle or bang on a can in the hope of startling them and making them change their
     stance — with the predictable results. We would then run away laughing, while the women would hurl terrible Polish curses
     at us.
    Once, two of my friends and I found a leather box of
tefillin
used by religious Jews in their prayers. Somebody had told us never to open such a box, that it was a sin to do so, and that
     God would strike down anyone who took out the little piece of parchment it contained, with its Hebrew inscription from the
     Torah. But we had also heard that if you found that piece of parchment and put it under your armpits, you would be able to
     fly. Well, we had quite a dilemma on our hands: we wanted to be able to fly but were afraid of God’s wrath. Eventually, and
     with trembling hands, we cut open the box, expecting lightning to strike us right then and there, but nothing happened. At
     this point, one of the older boys very cautiously placed the parchment under his arm and readied himself for takeoff. Again
     nothing happened. Then, one after the other, we each tried the same maneuver. The result was the same. Disappointed but still
     afraid of God’s punishment, we threw the box away and promised not to tell anyone what we had done.
    In Poland, the expression
Yekke,
a somewhat derogatory term of ridicule, was applied by Polish Jews to German Jews who spoke no Yiddish or Polish and who,
     because of their appearance or demeanor, were thought by many Polish Jews to look more like gentiles and to be naive in matters
     of business. To Polish Jews, my mother was a
Yekkete
(a female
Yekke
), and when she and I walked down certain streets, we were frequently called
Yekkes
by the children in those neighborhoods. Once, while walking alone on one of the streets where I had previously been with
     my mother, I was surrounded by a group of boys my age and somewhat older. They began to push me around, made fun of my clothes,
     and kept calling me “
Yekke putz, Yekke putz,
” the latter being a bad word I had been told never to use. I managed to run away but promised vengeance. My opportunity arrived
     soon, when a few days later I saw a boy walking with his mother on our street and recognized him as one of my tormentors.
     I raced up behind him, gave him a push with all my might, and ran away. He fell and cut his lip. When his mother saw the blood,
     she began to scream and wail, hurling vile Yiddish and Polish curses at me, my family, and my descendants. I could hear her
     from the far side of our courtyard where I was hiding. My mother was very mad at me when she heard what I had done, and told
     my father. I expected to receive a severe spanking, but after hearing the whole story, he said that it was good that I was
     learning to defend myself, and while he did not approve of my hitting the kid from the back, it was too late to do much about
     it.
    Soon life in the ghetto became increasingly more difficult and dangerous, and our games began to give way to fear that kept
     us off the streets. There was one German — I no longer know whether he was from the Gestapo or the
Schutzpolizei
— who would come into the ghetto and randomly kill people as he walked down the street. He would walk up behind them, shoot
     them in the back of the neck, and move on. News that he had entered the ghetto would spread like wildfire, and in no time
     at all the streets would be deserted. I once saw him from a distance and ran home as fast as I could. After that,