Frank nodded at me, and we entered the building. Inside, dozens of people were at work, methodically unloading crates of books, stocking shelves and typing labels. Frank led me on a tour of the new facility. We passed Feldgendarmes standing guard in every room as Polish workers moved about with armfuls of books and documents. I recognized several of the Poles as librarians from the university.
After a while, Frank stopped at the top of a sweeping marble stairway overlooking the main floor of the library. We were alone. He said that what he told me in the auto has been commanded by the Fuhrer—the Fuhrer who has been influenced by Heinrich Himmler and the SS. He said this with contempt in his tone of voice. He said that it shall be the law of Poland, and, as the Governor General of Poland, he is obligated to enforce the law.
Abruptly, his demeanor changed; his eyes brightened and he smiled, waving his hand toward the vast space below. He said he had ordered the transfer of the entire collection of the old libraries of the university into this new building for safe-keeping. This is being done, he said, to keep them out of the hands of Himmler and the rest of the SS barbarians who can barely read, let alone appreciate science, literature and art. He told me this is why he has spared me. He knew I had been instrumental in the planning of this new library, and the transfer of thousands of books and documents would require the assistance of former Polish librarians, working under the supervision of trusted professionals. He looked me in the eye emphasizing the word trusted.
I stared at him, dumbfounded, not knowing how to respond. It had been nine months since my arrest, since I was last in Poland. But at Sachsenhausen we heard stories whispered in the bread lines and latrines, told by the most recent arrivals from Poland, stories of murder and brutality, the stripping away of Polish culture, of Polish life, all on the orders of Hans Frank. And now, Hans Frank had brought me back to Krakow—as a “trusted professional”—to supervise librarians? I could only stare at him and nod. It was as if I’d slipped into a bizarre dream.
Frank led me down a hallway and into an elegant office. A short, thin man with gray hair stepped around from behind a massive mahogany desk. He was impeccably dressed in a gray, silk suit. Frank introduced him as Gustav Kruger, the director general of the new Staatsbibliothek Krakau, as this library will now be known. Frank said that he will check on me from time to time, but I shall report directly to Herr Kruger. Then he turned and left the office.
Kruger offered me a chair, then handed me a small, greenish-grey, four-page booklet emblazoned with the eagle and swastika above the word Kennkarte. I opened it. Inside I found my passport picture, my name and date of birth, and my address, which was an apartment unfamiliar to me but located just a few streets away. It also listed my occupation as “librarian.” The Kennkarte, which identified me as nichtdeutschen, a non-German with no Jewish ancestry, also specified curfew hours and the number of food coupons to which I was entitled.
Kruger told me I am free to come and go within the city limits of Krakow. His tone was bland and bureaucratic; his eyes avoided mine. He went on to advise me that I am required to be present in the library from seven o’clock in the morning until six o’clock in the evening, Monday through Saturday. Then he leaned across the desk, looked directly at me and told me I will be watched. That it is the Governor’s explicit order. I am not to make any telephone calls, nor contact family or friends, and all of my correspondence will be read.
I hesitated for a moment, then took a chance and asked Herr Kruger if he knew what has become of my family. He shook his head.
11 August 1940
It is Sunday, my first day off from work. Yesterday, while helping to sort boxes of books at the library, I discovered this leather-bound notebook. Its pages were blank, and it was small enough to slip into the breast pocket of my suit coat. Removing books from the library is strictly prohibited. They enforce the rule by having Feldgendarmes stand guard at the main door of the library. But they are usually preoccupied with their cigarettes and jokes, and no one is ever searched. Thus it was a simple matter to bring this notebook to my apartment where I spent yesterday evening recording the events of the last month.
This morning I sat in my apartment for a long time, working up the courage to visit my home. I waited for this day for nine months, thinking every hour in the hellhole of Sachsenhausen about my Beata, and my nephew, Adam—praying for the day when we would be reunited. But this morning, when the day arrived and I had at last an opportunity, I remembered Herr Kruger’s warning, and I was paralyzed with fear.
As I walked down the street toward my home, I sensed someone following me. I slowed my pace, hoping he would pass me by. When he didn’t, I glanced back at him and he approached me. He was a tall man in a dark blue suit. I knew instantly he was Gestapo. He stood very close to me, and I pressed my hands to the sides of my trousers to hide the trembling. I will never forget what he said: “Your wife is no longer here. She has been sent to a work camp.”
I suddenly felt dizzy and backed up against a tree. I tried to ask where she had been sent, or what he knew about Adam, but nothing came out. The Gestapo man stepped even closer and said, “Do not make any further inquiries, Dr. Banach. No inquiries, about anyone.”
After he left, I sat on the grass under the tree and cried . . . like a baby. Then I wandered about aimlessly until it was dark. My sorrow turned to rage, rage to despair. Beata and Adam are gone. Where? Sachsenhausen? At the work camp I watched every day, praying I wouldn’t see them among the new arrivals. Could I have missed them?
The thought is too terrible to contemplate.
19 August 1940
This past week has been the most painful of my life. Every moment of every day I think about Beata and Adam. During all the dreadful months at Sachsenhausen my only solace was the belief that they were safe. Beata is an intelligent, beautiful person, and she has not been involved in any anti-German activities. Adam is an American citizen, and America is not at war with Germany. Time and time again, as I lay awake on the sleeping rack at Sachsenhausen, I was able to relieve my anxiety by imagining them going about their business in Krakow: walking along the river, shopping on the Rynek Glowny, sitting down to Sunday dinner.
But now, even that has been stripped away. At times my despair has been so great that I have contemplated the unthinkable. But I must continue on. Beata and Adam could survive; wherever they have been sent, there is a chance they could survive. And as long as there is that chance, I will survive as well.
Here in Krakow, the heel of the conqueror has crushed the life out of the city.
The university is locked up, as are all the schools, bookstores and museums, along with the White Eagle Pub where I debated the future of Poland with my colleagues and students. None of us got it right. They are all gone now. I have learned from the Polish workers at the new Staatsbibliothek Krakau that those who were not arrested with me in ’39 were rounded-up this past spring in an action personally ordered by Frank. More than thirty thousand Polish leaders, politicians, teachers and artists in all the major cities—the last of Poland’s intelligentsia—were arrested and thrown into prisons. It was called the AB Aktion, a shortened version of a typically cumbersome German term meaning “peace-bringing action.”
When I arrived at the library this morning a truck was parked at the dock, and workers were unloading another shipment of books. Who will be left in Poland able to read them?
3 September 1940
I have been employed at the new library for a month. The word “employed” is hardly applicable since all of the Poles, including me, work eleven hours a day for starvation wages. The money is actually irrelevant, since there is little in the shops to buy, and even if there were more, our ration cards limit us to the bare amount necessary to sustain life. My official responsibility is to assist in “Germanizing” Jagiellonian University’s magnificent collection. It is to be reorganized emphasizing German works and purging Polish works. The university is to re-open one day as the German University of Kr
akow.
My unofficial task, as Herr Kruger has informed me, is to keep the Polish staff in line as we complete this task. Purging the Polish works is heartbreaking for all of us, especially the Polish librarians who have dedicated their lives to the preservation of our literature, science and arts. I have begun to suspect that it is equally distasteful to Herr Kruger. A few days ago, he said that Governor Frank is depending on us to complete this task. There was a certain look in his eye, a look I have seen before whenever he has met with Frank, a look of sorrow which I’m not sure I can explain.
16 October 1940
Frank stopped in today, presumably to check on the progress of the library. Instead, he and I sat alone in the Reading Room while he expounded at great length about the Jewish ghetto being created in Warsaw. All of the city’s Jews, as well as thousands from surrounding towns, are to be relocated to a separate area within the city. Soon this will happen in Krakow, Frank said, since it is his desire that Krakow shall be the “cleanest” city in the General Government of Poland. When this “malignancy” has been eliminated, he said, conditions will improve for the Poles.
Then he leaned across the table and whispered, “When your wife returns, Dr. Banach, she will be proud of what we’ve accomplished.”
I was so stunned I could barely breathe. It felt like an eternity before I recovered. Then, embarrassed with how timid my voice sounded, I asked where Beata is. Frank stared at me without responding, then casually changed the subject and began asking questions about the various collections in the library: the legal journals, and the works of art, history and geography. It went on for another twenty minutes before he finally dismissed me.
The man is a monster.
I returned to my small shabby apartment, seized with fear for Beata’s safety, as well as Adam’s. As I write this, it is hard to keep my hand from trembling, knowing that my fate, my family’s fate—perhaps all of Poland’s—lies in the hands of Hans Frank. Before retiring for the night, I will find a better hiding place for this journal.
25 December 1940
It is my second Christmas without Beata and Adam. I miss them so much it is impossible to describe. I attended mass at the Mariacki Church but had to leave halfway through. The memories overwhelmed me. Frank sent over a small ham and a slice of chocolate cake. (What goes on in this man’s mind?)
I shared the ham with Jerzy Jastremski and his wife, Helena. He is one of the Poles working on the project whom I knew from our former life. He is a quiet, gentle man, a former librarian at the law school, and we have become friends. They invited me to their apartment for Christmas dinner and were delighted to see the ham. But I must admit, I saved the slice of cake for myself and ate it when I returned to my own apartment. I took my time. It was the first chocolate I’ve tasted since the invasion in ’39.
Toward evening, I was shocked when Herr Kruger appeared at my door with a bottle of schnapps. “For a Christmas drink,” he said, which I found remarkable. Though always respectful and polite, he rarely engages any of us during the workday except to give instructions or ask questions about books and documents. Tonight, he was at first ebullient and talkative, chattering about his wife and three daughters back in Hamburg, joking about what they must have spent on Christmas presents. He went on about how they may join him here in Krakow one day, if the situation improves. After a while, though, his mood changed: he became sullen and spoke very little. I think he was quite drunk.
12 March 1941
This winter has been a long, cruel one. We hear that people in the villages are starving. There has been no further mention about Beata from Frank or anyone else. I am ashamed at my own helplessness, and at times I become so infuriated I want to kill someone. It is all I can do to keep myself under control. Frank is so unpredictable that I fear for my life whenever he’s around, even though he treats me with respect. I never know what’s going on behind his dark, penetrating eyes.
The Krakow ghetto is a reality. Over the last several months, I have watched its construction from a distance. Brick walls now seal off more than twenty thousand Jewish souls in a section of the city where only a few thousand people previously lived. We hear reports of four and five families crammed into every apartment with hundreds of others living on the streets. In each building around the periphery of the ghetto, the windows and doors have been bricked over, preventing those trapped inside from even a glimpse of the rest of the city. Eventually I stopped watching. It is more than I can bear.
Having experienced Sachsenhausen, and now witnessing the treatment of Krakow’s Jews, I realize with great sorrow that the Nazis have dragged Germany into a chasm of depravity I never believed possible of the civilized and culturally advanced country I knew. That the country which gave us Bach and Brahms, Goethe, Nietzsche and Albert Einstein also gave us Adolf Hitler tears away the very fabric of my belief in mankind.
Frank visited the library today for a meeting with Herr Kruger. As he was leaving, he stopped at the table where I was working. He has done this frequently during his visits, stopping by to chat, as though we were still professional colleagues discussing legal principles. Today he expounded on how he has tried to guarantee a “right of reprieve” for all those arrested during the AB Aktion—arrested on his orders—but how his efforts have been in vain because of Himmler and the SS. Then he rambled on for more than ten minutes about how the Jews of Krakow would be kept safe in the ghetto from the ravages of the SS. I listened silently, my stomach churning. Why does he tell me these things? Does he think I actually believe this nonsense, that this barbarism is not his doing, that it is all Himmler’s? What can I say in response to this madness?
As Frank was leaving I noticed Herr Kruger standing nearby, watching. There was that hint of sadness I’ve seen before in his expression.
22 June 1941
Now it is summer, but that brings no relief to us. We work long hours at the library as we did all winter. But then yesterday work came to a halt. Germany attacked Russia! Everyone whispered about this incredible event. What it means for Poland is impossible to predict, except that we will have many more months of war on our soil.
Will Russia now become allied with Britain and America? Has Hitler gone completely mad? Certainly he cannot expect to defeat Russia while fighting Britain and America at the same time. The Americans have yet to enter the war, but it is only a matter of time. With America’s industrial might combined with the horde of millions that Stalin will throw into the breach, how can there be any outcome other than the defeat of Germany? But then the Russians will stomp into Poland. And who will be left to drive them out?
8 July 1941
Books are being smuggled out of the library. I have struggled with the potential danger of recording this activity in this journal, but then it is probably no more damning than most everything else I have written. And if this journal ever reaches the civilized world, it is important to record for history that some of us are attempting to preserve what we can of Polish culture.
The schools in Poland have been closed for almost two years, but teaching continues. It continues in the cellars and attics of people’s homes, in the backrooms of shops and warehouses, wherever people can gather with their children out of sight of the Gestapo. Months ago, those of us working in the library learned of these activities and focused our efforts on smuggling out Polish books, passing them on to operatives in the Resistance to aid in the continuing education of our young people. The candle of learning must not be extinguished, no matter the danger.
The task is complicated because of the extreme danger if we should be caught. It would be a death sentence for all of us, of that I am certain. It is complicated and hazardous, and today it almost ended in disaster, but for a very strange occurrence which I cannot fully explain.
Herr Kruger approached me late in the afternoon holding a sheet of paper that he said was a message from a local Gestapo agent. The agent reported that a box of Polish books had been discovered hidden in the back of a grocer�
�s cart not far from the library. The Gestapo agent interrogated the grocer about the source of the books, but the man insisted they were from his family’s private collection and that he was delivering them to his daughter. The books were confiscated and the grocer shot for subversion.
I held my breath as Kruger said this, swallowing hard for fear I would get sick. The Gestapo agent wondered if the books had been smuggled out of the library, Kruger said, but he had assured him they had not come from the Staatsbibliothek Krakau. Then he turned away without further comment.
18 October 1941
Autumn has come, and we face another brutal winter under German occupation. Reports trickling out from the Krakow ghetto describe deteriorating conditions beyond anything we could have imagined. Within the last month, another six thousand Jews from surrounding villages have been herded behind the brick walls. Desperate people are chopping up furniture for fuel and bartering what few possessions they have left for bread and potatoes. Every day horse-drawn carts laden with corpses exit the ghetto through the heavily guarded entrances.
Frank spoke to the workers in the library today, telling us how pleased he was at our progress and how the Staatsbibliothek Krakau will soon become the most renowned institution in the Third Reich. He praised Herr Kruger for his leadership, then dismissed us to resume our work.
Later, on his way out of the building, Frank asked me to walk with him to the door. He said that he was pleased to hear from Herr Kruger about my excellent work at the library. Then he added that he was certain Beata will be pleased when she returns to see what has been accomplished. The comment drove a stake of fear into my heart. I was so stricken that I stood mute as he turned away and walked to his waiting automobile.
The Katyn Order Page 39
