The food shortages during the Great War were on her mind as she prepared these provisions. She couldn’t recall when or how the abundance had ended; at the farm, her family had everything they needed, though shortages and rationing of bread grain affected her father’s bakery. Still, they had been lucky. Compared to Viennese children, so many of whom were malnourished—starving, even—during the war years, Josefina and Hans had been among the lucky with access to the resources to grow their own food. Now Josefina handled the food she was laying into the hampers: fruits and poultry from the farm and bread from her father’s bakery. She knew she could not succumb to nostalgia lest she never be able to leave.
Josefina called for Helenka, whose sturdy shoes were soon heard on the stairs.
“Yes, Frau Kohn?” Helenka had never married nor did she have children. Josefina admired her matter-of-fact yet affectionate way of caring for Peter and Suzanna. She was grateful she could count on Helenka to execute even the most complicated errand with a minimum of words exchanged between them.
“I’ll close up Herr Kohn’s suitcase. Please wrap all the silver in the cleanest, largest table linens, and put the lot of it in a rucksack.”
“Yes, of course.”
Josefina noticed an edge of worry in the way Helenka answered, but there was no time to discuss the gravity of their situation. She and her husband and their two children were leaving their home in Teschen, possibly for much longer than they could know. The Germans were threatening to advance toward them. The tales one heard about the Nazis were, Josefina guessed, just the beginning of a larger, more horrid story, which no one could yet fully imagine.
Josefina averted her gaze before she spoke again to Helenka. “And please, make me a small sewing kit—good, strong needles, four or five of the largest spools of thread … and small scissors,” she said. “Two pair. Put it in a smaller bag that I might easily carry on my person. Thank you, Helenka.”
The woman who had cared for Josefina’s family nodded and left the kitchen. Helenka’s nephew Kasimierz Mamczur carried the heavier provisions to the back of the house and out to the car, where he waited behind the wheel. They were lucky to have this vehicle. Unlike the many refugees Josefina had met who came on bicycle or on foot or atop carts, at least she and her family had a comfortable way to travel.
Gloves, Josefina thought as she set the last hamper into the car. Though summer was nearing its end, she sensed that gloves might be useful. She couldn’t know where they would wind up or how long they would stay, but she was sure that winter would come and go before they returned to Teschen. And besides, Josefina told herself, as a way to stem the rising panic that accompanies extreme uncertainty, if their plan worked and they did make it to England, gloves would certainly be useful there.
Before she indulged any thought of a new home abroad, Josefina was back inside the house and going upstairs. The children had been instructed to pack three changes of clothing, a coat, two sweaters, one pair of walking shoes, one pair of boots, enough undergarments to last a week, a small pillow, blanket, and a towel. They were allowed another small bag to hold any light valuables they owned, though their mother cautioned they were not to bring anything frivolous. And one book each. When she peeked into Peter’s room, his valise was closed, a small rucksack next to it. He was sitting on his bed, petting Helmut the dog.
“But why do we have to leave him, Mother?” he asked. Her son was several weeks’ shy of his seventeenth birthday. Old enough to want to enlist in the army with his uncle Arnold, young enough to be prevented by his parents. Still a boy, really, Josefina thought.
This was no time for sentimentality, she told herself. Everyone had to focus. But she also knew that she couldn’t frighten her children. She dreaded the time when she might need to use fear to incite action, but it was not today. Besides, she loved the dog as much as Peter did and hated the idea of leaving him behind.
“Helmut will be just fine with Helenka,” Josefina said in the most even tone she could manage. “You know how she spoils him. We can take only what each of us can carry.”
“But I don’t need all those clothes,” Peter said. “I could leave my valise here and hold him instead, Mother.”
“You must carry these belongings, Peter. And perhaps help your sister with her things. Sit with him for a minute then come and help me.”
A Polish adage, which Helenka was always repeating to the children, “Better to carry than to ask,” came to Josefina just then. She understood it in a way she hadn’t considered before. Soon, she and her family might become homeless, just like the refugees they had been helping. All of those displaced persons had come through Teschen, laden with bags packed full of shoe polish, bedclothes, bandages, cookware, soap. What would happen to all that stuff? Would it be useful? Or would it become the kind of burden one discarded? Was it, she wondered, better to carry, rather than to depend on the kindness of others and ask friends or strangers for such ordinary things?
Looking into Suzi’s room, Josefina was pleased to find that her daughter, a pretty girl of thirteen, had finished packing her suitcase. With her long legs and softly quizzical smile, Suzi reminded her mother of a deer. A yearling doe, very much like one in particular that Josefina encountered while skiing in the woods some years ago. That animal had stood still and unfazed as Josefina approached and touched, with an unmittened hand, the doe’s warm muzzle.
Now here was Suzi, her thick, dark hair gathered into two neat braids, arranging on a soft cloth her few pieces of jewelry: a gold Star of David pendant from Josefina’s mother, a gold bracelet from Aunt Laura, and a ring with a tiny ruby from Papa Hermann. How beloved was Suzi as a granddaughter. The giving of those gifts were stories Josefina liked to contemplate on those long nights when she couldn’t sleep. Later, when she purposefully did not talk about what had happened to her family during the war, she would wish she had recorded these moments so that at least the memories, if not the objects, could have been preserved.
“Put them somewhere safe,” Josefina said to her daughter. And though she wanted then to tell Suzi to keep those meager jewels well hidden but readily accessible, she didn’t want to alarm her. “When you’re done, come with your brother and help me.”
With that, Josefina was down the hallway and into her bedroom. Julius’s valise lay open on the bed, his folded shirts and trousers tidily arranged. From the back of a drawer in the bureau, she retrieved the gloves that had been packed away since the first signs of spring. Josefina selected two pair—one leather, one wool—for each family member. She removed two vests from her husband’s bag and laid in all the gloves, the largest on one side, the smallest opposite. She closed the suitcase, called for the children to bring their belongings and join her in the parlor, and went downstairs, one bag in each hand.
SOUNDS FROM OUTSIDE drifted into the house at 10 Mennicza Street, where the Kohn family had lived the last six years. Horse-drawn carts, bicycles, and automobiles shared the streets. Through the open windows came the odors of machines and animals. Mixed in were the savory scents of sausages, roasted meats, cheeses, and baked goods carried by the passengers.
People called out to others from their various transports, and you could hear them name their destinations: “An aunt in Kraków.” “Warsaw, where my brother lives.” “My cousin’s house in Lublin.” “Lwów—my mother-in-law is from there.” “Friends in Jarosław.”
We should have left last summer, Josefina thought, but just as quickly, she reminded herself that though she had disagreed with Julius about staying, she had secretly appreciated her husband’s reluctance to abandon their home, the thriving tannery, and the town where they had been children, courted and married, and raised their family. She had wanted them to be safe, yes, but she relished the comfort of home, the final vestige of the familiar in a world becoming unrecognizable. “There is no room for regret,” she said aloud, though so softly only she heard the words.
Once the car was packed, they waited for Julius. In the parlor
, they drank tea. Helenka sat next to Suzi, her arm around the girl’s shoulder. Peter held Helmut the dog in his arms. Suzi was now taller than Helenka, who had cared for both children since they were babies. Josefina would miss the older woman. She had grown accustomed to her superstitions and Catholic prayers and was grateful for the cookery and subtle affection she had bestowed on her family. She wished, too, that Helenka could accompany them, but Josefina knew Helenka would be safer if she stayed apart from a Jewish family.
“When we get to Warsaw, Helenka, we’ll send you the finest chocolate,” Suzi said.
“Sweet child,” said Helenka. She pretended to tuck her hair behind her ear as she wiped aside an escaping tear. Josefina loved her then for such emotion and equally for the gesture that checked it.
“Suzi, there’ll be no time for shopping, you know,” Peter said. “We’re trying to outrun the Nazis.” Helmut jumped to the floor and waddled over to Josefina.
“There, there, little brown dog,” she said, bending down to scratch him under the muzzle. “Helenka will spoil you and you’ll be so very fat.”
“I know all about the stupid Nazis,” Suzi said. “I was just trying to comfort Helenka, who is upset that we’re leaving.”
Peter and Suzi had been bickering these past few days. And though Josefina understood how the recent tensions were making everyone cranky, these small outbursts were tiresome. She was about to say Children! when at once, a silence fell. Outside, the motors and wheels, hooves and feet all came to a standstill. As if, Josefina thought, someone was trying to sort out, in the confusion of rushed departures into uncertain futures, the real reason for all this movement.
Even little Helmut, whom Josefina had picked up, sat still in his mistress’s lap. And then the reason for the abrupt hush became apparent. A distant rumbling came toward them from Rynek Square. The dog growled.
“Shh,” Josefina said.
As the sound neared, one could discern the menacing chants of the Hitler Youth. Their members had been parading around town singing nationalistic German songs. Now they were yelling anti-Semitic slogans and banging batons and sticks against doors and on the sides of passing carts and automobiles. Occasionally the sound of a human cry or the whimpering of an animal surfaced above the din.
“Helenka,” Josefina said, “take Peter and Suzi to the cellar.” She handed the dog to Peter. “Do as you’re told,” she reminded her children.
“But Mother—” Peter said.
“Go,” she said. “Now.”
Josefina heard the advancing mob. Soon they’d be passing her front door, on whose lintel the faint outline of a mezuzah could still be seen if one looked closely. Julius had removed the mezuzah after the Kristallnacht pogroms of November 1938.
“Better not to call attention to ourselves,” he had said to Josefina.
“Juden raus,” the Hitler Youth members yelled, “Jews out.” Then, they chanted: “Jews are our misfortune” and “Death to the subhuman Jews, the Untermenschen Juden.” Josefina looked out the window and saw them. She had known these hooligans when they were small children. Her father had given them treats when they came to the bakery with their mothers and sisters and aunts and grandmothers. Some of their family members worked at the tannery. The closer they came, the angrier she felt. Let them say their hateful things to my face, she thought as she opened the door.
But they had stopped in front of a house several doors down. They forced open the door and were dragging out an old man—one of the Jewish refugees she and Julius had met, who was too infirm to travel further. A member of the Hitler Youth spat on the man. Another pulled off his coat. Another yanked free the tails of his shirt and then pulled at the fringes beneath. When Josefina saw a boy—one of Peter’s classmates—raise a club above the old man’s head, she stepped outside.
“Stop!” she yelled in German. “Hans Mentelek,” she said, “what exactly do you think you are doing?”
The boy lowered his arm, turned, and glared at her. He spat slowly, holding her gaze in his, malice contorting his mouth.
“Teaching a dirty old Jew a lesson,” he said. He turned back toward the old man, whom he struck. The man fell and the mob set upon him, kicking and wielding sticks and other crude weapons.
Both Peter and Suzi, despite Helenka’s admonishments to remain with her, had come upstairs when they heard their mother’s raised voice and the commotion that followed. As Peter drew his mother inside, Suzi peeked outside and saw, for an instant, the vicious crowd. She heard the cries of the man, an elderly Jew, a man who was so like her own grandfather.
Helenka pulled her into the house, closed the door and locked it. “Child,” she said to Suzi, who had started to cry, “you must be strong now.”
“We are going to pick up your father,” Josefina said. She was shaken, but her tone remained decided.
They left the house, and as they closed the door, the last things Josefina saw of her home were the half-full teacups on the parlor table.
FROM THE PASSENGER SEAT OF THE CAR, Josefina fixed her gaze on the hands of their driver, Kasimierz Mamczur, and how effortlessly they seemed to hold the steering wheel. Once inside the automobile, Helenka had rolled up the windows. No one spoke. Suzi sniffled quietly. Helmut panted, and Peter absentmindedly stroked the dog’s ears. Josefina ignored the sticky perspiration that glued her blouse to her skin. Kasimierz maneuvered the vehicle slowly down Browarna Street, then Przykopa Street, where the Kohn tannery was located. The noise of the crowd faded.
When they arrived, Kasimierz went inside to find Julius. Josefina turned toward her daughter. “Suzi,” she said, wiping away the tears on the girl’s face with a gentle but firm hand, “you must stop crying and say a proper farewell to Helenka.”
“Let’s not let your father see you so sad,” Helenka said as she put her arms around the girl, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered good-bye. Before Helenka opened the car door, the two women looked at one another for the briefest moment. Josefina wished there was more time. She wanted to say how grateful she was for Helenka’s affection and generosity of spirit in caring for her family. She wanted to remind the older woman to be careful in this new world. Josefina wanted to hug her and not let go, but such things were not done. Instead, she told Helenka, in a voice that almost broke, that she was sure they’d see one another very soon.
Helenka got out of the automobile and took the dog in her arms. Kasimierz Mamczur and Julius stood outside, shaking hands. As soon as the Kohns were driving away, Helenka and her nephew started on their way home. Josefina looked behind once, and saw they were walking along the millrace—a woman, a young man, and a dog, just as normal a thing as possible on a late August afternoon. Except that the woman was holding the dog so it wouldn’t run after its mistress, and the route they were taking would bypass a brutal crowd.
AFTER JULIUS HAD DRIVEN OUT OF TOWN, Josefina told him about the incident on Mennicza Street. She reported in a matter-of-fact way, so as not to arouse the emotions of her two children. She watched his face tighten at the jawline as she narrated the scene. “Hans Mentelek,” Josefina said. “He used to buy sweet rolls at the bakery when he was a boy.” At this Julius nodded, and a sadness slackened the sides of his face. Josefina wondered if he might say something and just as quickly wished him not to. What good could talking achieve at this moment? Julius held out his hand to her. She grasped it gently, and they rode holding hands for the next hour or so.
The family traveled in silence. Suzi stared out the window at the acres and acres of flat farmland between Teschen and Warsaw. Peter sighted birds—a hawk, some storks, hooded crows—and kept a silent count. The hours passed. Julius, his bow tie loosened, drove without stopping.
Josefina shut her eyes. It has come to the ugliest point possible, she thought, what with children becoming vicious criminals. She could not undo from her mind the image of the boy Hans Mentelek, lifting his club above the old, defrocked man. Or how the blue of Hans’s eyes had darkened when he glared at her.
She could not shake the malice that set his mouth in a tight line. Nor was she able to erase the taunts of his compatriots. How can we ever go back? she asked herself, unable to know if her departure from Teschen would be a permanent exile, but keenly sensing that the lives of everyone she knew and loved were about to be forever transformed.
To flee a home one loves is tragic. Gone now that place whose hills and forests you have explored on skis and foot. Where the waters have sustained you. Vanished, a past of a quiet place inhabited by respectable citizens. Forgotten, the young people who liked music and dancing. Gone, the sense of being rooted to a history. Faded, the light illuminating the trees and the stately serenity of the Viennese architecture. Lost, the river, its banks, and its bridges. For Josefina, the departure was worsened by the expression of savage hatred that had caused their leave-taking. How might one not harbor resentment? Would she ever trust neighbors or kinsmen again? How might she teach her daughter to become a woman in such a precarious, coming-undone world? How would her son control his impulse to fight wrongdoers? Josefina considered these questions, which she could not answer, as Julius drove toward Warsaw, Poland’s beloved Paris of the East. Perhaps things would be better there, thought Josefina, though she counted on nothing.
“HOPEFULLY,” JULIUS SAID, once they entered Warsaw, “Greta and Ernst have arrived and secured our rooms.”
Josefina hadn’t considered any other possibility. What if her sister-in-law and her husband had come to any trouble on their way to the city? How would they all manage to stay together?
Julius took her hand. In that gesture, she knew he was aware of her, that he was her husband and was concerned about her. She wanted to believe that normalcy would prevail, and though she appreciated his efforts to convince her to maintain hope, she had seen for herself how the dimensions of uncertainty were growing.
Six Thousand Miles to Home Page 3
