In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer

by Irene Gut Opdyke

  There was food in plenty; Schulz kept the major's kitchen stocked with enough to feed a platoon, and once again, I could not help wondering if he had an inkling of what I was doing. I was also able to go to the Warenhaus whenever I needed to, for cigarettes, vodka, sugar, extra household goods, anything the major might conceivably need for entertaining in his new villa. Of course, the soldiers who ran the Warenhaus had no way of knowing that half of what I got there went directly into the basement, and I was certainly not going to tell them!

  The basement was cool even in the intense summer heat; there was a bathroom, and newspapers, which I brought down after the major was finished with them. All in all, the residents of the basement enjoyed quite a luxurious hiding place.

  And yet it almost fell apart when the major moved in at last.

  “The basement is finished, isn't it?” he asked me when he arrived.

  All the hairs on my arms prickled with alarm. “Do you have some plans for it, Major?” I asked, keeping my voice from showing my fear.

  He unbuttoned the top button of his tunic. “I'm sure it will do very well for my orderly.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face, and Major Rügemer looked at me in surprise. “What is it?”

  I did not have to fake the tears that sprang to my eyes. “Please don't move him in here,” I pleaded. My mind raced with explanations. “I never told you this, but at the beginning of the war, I was captured by Russian soldiers and— and I was—” My throat closed up.

  The major frowned at me. “You were what?”

  “They attacked me, sir, in the way that men attack women.” I saw his face flush, and I hurried on, more confident. “I cannot bear to have a young man living here. It brings back terrible memories for me. Please take pity on me.”

  Major Rügemer dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose hard, shaking his head in anger. “War brings out the worst, the very worst in some people! Funny,” he went on, “I always wondered why you didn't have a boyfriend, a pretty girl like you. I've never seen you flirt with the officers the way some other girls might do.”

  “I can do all the work myself, Herr Major,” I pressed. “You will not feel any lack.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “Of course, Irene. I wouldn't dream of making you unhappy.”

  I smiled up at him. Sometimes it made me cringe inside, to get what I wanted by playing up my femininity. Yet I knew it was the one power I had, and I would have been a fool not to use it. For my pretty face, for the affection he felt for me, the major would let me have my way.

  We quickly fell into a routine. Once he had moved in, Major Rügemer left for the factory every morning at eight-thirty. I rose at seven-thirty to start his breakfast, which he ate in the dining room. Often, he asked me to sit and have a cup of coffee to keep him company, and we would chat about nothing—about the nest of blackbirds in the gazebo, or the way the middle C on the parlor piano stuck, or what kind of pickles went best with pork. Sometimes, if he was planning to entertain, we would discuss a menu for cocktails or dinner or after-dinner drinks. He stirred his coffee all the time in an absent way, and the spoon would clink-clink-clink against the cup as we talked.

  Once he left the house, I locked the front door and left the key in the lock; this would make it impossible for the major to unlock the door from the outside and come in unexpectedly. This was the time when my friends in the basement could begin their day, taking showers, brewing coffee, listening to BBC war news on the radio while I cleaned the house. They smoked cigarettes as they read the paper and compared the official reports from Berlin with what they heard on the BBC. I returned to the factory every evening to serve dinner, but I always went home before the major.

  And when he did return at night and rang the doorbell (I told him I kept the door locked out of nervousness), I opened the door and let him into a house that gave no hint that there were people living in the basement. It almost made me laugh, sometimes, to think of the absurdity and irony of it. Under any other circumstances, it would have been hilarious, because this was the stuff of farce: upstairs, a deaf and snuffling codger, oblivious to the goings-on at his very feet, and below, the hunted stowaways, dining richly off the major's larder. They were like mice in a cheese shop guarded by a sleeping cat. Under the circumstances, however, I never did get all the way to laughter; a grim smile from time to time was all. This was, after all, a capital crime.

  So our new life had begun. I got in touch with Helen when I could, and we both waited anxiously for the day when she could come to visit Henry. It came about a month after moving to the villa, when the major announced one evening that he would spend the next day in Lvov. I was thrilled: He would be gone from early morning until late at night. This was the chance I had been waiting for. It meant Helen could visit her husband. It also meant I could go to Janówka and check on my other friends.

  That night, I called the farm where Helen lived. Our conversation was in a code we had worked out long before.

  “Will you be able to deliver eggs in the morning?” I asked. “Half a dozen will be fine.”

  “Six?” Helen repeated. “Yes, I'll be there.”

  And at six the next morning, with the major already on his way to Lvov, Helen drove up in the farm wagon. She was dressed in a long peasant smock and kerchief. I unlocked the door to let her in, and we quickly exchanged clothes. After I tied the kerchief around my head, I let her through the basement door, closing it behind her. I was sorry to miss their reunion, but I had to be on my way. I smiled as the sound of Henry's shout of joy reached me through the door, and the smile remained on my face as I locked the front door behind me and climbed up onto the dorozka.

  I had brought food with me, and a small store of medical supplies. The horse's hooves clop-clopped on the pavement, and I kept the kerchief low over my forehead. There were few people out that early in the morning: an old woman sweeping the street with a worn-out, stubbly broom; a man pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with scrap lumber; another man carrying a ladder. Soon I was out in the country, surrounded by green fields and flowers, with swallows darting over the horse's nodding head in search of flies. I took a roundabout route toward Janówka, but it seemed to be no time before the spire of Father Joseph's little church came into view. I promised myself the reward of visiting with the priest on the way home if I had time, and then clucked the horse on, toward the forest.

  As always, the stillness of the trees seemed to fall upon me like a mist. Pine needles muffled the horse's hoofbeats as I drove along the shaded road. I looked right and left as we went forward. To one side, a giant tree long since toppled by wind stretched away into the dimness, its dry roots clawing the air. On the other side, a patch of yellow flowers glowed in a spotlight of sun slanting through the trunks.

  The horse started as two bearded men emerged from a thicket of blackberries. They approached the wagon, and my heart lifted when I recognized them: Abram Klinger and Hermann Morris.

  “Irene!” they called out.

  I scrambled down from the dorozka to embrace them. “How on earth did you know I'd be coming today?” I asked, stepping back to look them over. They looked rough and dangerous: forest men.

  “There are always people watching this road,” Abram told me. “It was our good luck to see you.”

  “Sometimes it is someone else's bad luck if we see them” Hermann added.

  Abram took the horse's bridle and led the wagon off the road, in among the trees. While the horse nosed about among the dry leaves for something green and sweet, we unloaded the dorozka. Abram and Hermann examined my delivery with the eyes of men accustomed to making do.

  “Eggs; we'll be glad of those,” Abram said, touching one lightly with a dirty finger. He turned over a paper packet of white powder. “Is this aspirin?”

  “Yes. I thought you might have use for it,” I explained.

  Hermann nodded. “Oh, yes. Without doubt. Miriam has a bit of a cold, and this might help.”

 
“Are you all well?” I asked, looking anxiously from one to the other.

  “Apart from Miriam, quite well, all things considered,” Abram replied. “Summer is good to us. There are berries and mushrooms, and we set snares for rabbits. Sometimes we get fish from the streams.”

  I had a flash of memories from my days living in the woods with the Polish army, and I shuddered. They might make light of their predicament; I knew how hard their lives had become. And although the land was rich with food now, fall would arrive all too soon, with winter shivering at its heels.

  We exchanged news. They were amazed to hear that I was hiding their friends in the cellar of Major Rügemer's house. I tried to play up the farcical elements of the situation, and they allowed themselves a few laughs at the major's expense. They urged me to come deeper into the forest to see their camp, but I was worried about the time.

  “Give my love to your wives,” I told them, backing the horse and dorozka out onto the road. “I remember you all in my prayers. I'll come as often as I can.”

  They kissed me again, and told me they would watch out for me every day. I climbed onto the wagon and gathered up the reins, and when I looked again, my friends had disappeared among the trees once more.

  The ride home was uneventful. I stopped at the church in the village, but Father Joseph was away, giving last rites to a peasant who had contracted blood poisoning from an accident with his ax. I returned to Ternopol in the hazy light of afternoon, and drew up to the villa.

  I sat looking at the door for a few moments, deep in my thoughts. Helen was with her husband; the Hallers and the Bauers had each other; even the Morrises, living as desperate refugees in the forest, had the comfort of family and friends.

  And I had never felt so alone. A wave of pity swept over me, and my heart ached for my parents and my sisters. I had sent letters, but I had no idea if they made it to my family; I got none in return—none ever reached me. I tried to conjure up a picture of my childhood friends, of my family engaged in some pantomime game, or giggling as we stumbled over the lyrics to a half-forgotten song. But I only saw myself, as if from above, sitting alone on the seat of the dorozka, and it seemed to me as if the wagon behind stretched on forever, crowded with people, frightened people who depended on me to bring them safely home. I could not drop the reins. And there was no one who could take them from me, not even for a moment.

  The Forester's Cottage

  And so the summer progressed. Our routine hardly varied, although from time to time the major had guests for dinner—my friends spent many uncomfortable evenings hiding in the bunker under the gazebo. One night, Major Rügemer threw a large party, and I had a scare when Rokita took a girl out to the gazebo: Ida had a cough, and I was afraid the SS man might hear her. I hastily arranged a plate of hors d'oeuvres and carried them out across the garden, calling out loudly enough for my friends to hear: “Sturmbannführer Rokita? Would you like anything?” He came cursing out of the dark gazebo with his shirt untucked, and angrily sent me away. I hid a smile as I walked back to the house. The day after the party, my friends enjoyed all the leftovers and laughed loudly as they recounted the amorous scufflings they had heard over their heads.

  In spite of the comings and goings of SS and Wehrmacht officers at the major's villa, I was confident. Perhaps too confident. I was appalled one day in late August when I heard a loud knocking on the front door. I looked around the kitchen, hastily scanning the place for evidence that any more than two people lived in the house. Fanka had been frosting a cake, but she dropped the icing bag and scooted down the stairs in a flash. The knocking grew louder.

  I turned on the water, wet my hair, and hastily wrapped it in a towel. Then I stuck the cake and the icing in a cabinet, checking around the kitchen to see that there were no telltale signs of extra people. When I finally went to the door, I looked out to see the eagle and death's-head insignia of an SS cap through the glass. I stepped quickly on the signal button and took my time unlocking the door.

  “What's wrong with you? Are you deaf?” the officer demanded furiously. Another uniformed SS officer stood behind him.

  “I'm sorry, I was washing my hair and did not hear you,” I replied, still stepping on the button. “What is it?” I asked.

  The men barged in and stood looking imperiously around the hallway. “Whose house is this?” the first officer asked.

  “Major Rügemer's. I am his housekeeper,” I replied as calmly as I could. I squeezed my knees together to keep them from trembling.

  The officers exchanged a startled look, and strode out of the house as suddenly as they had entered. One got in a car and drove away, but the other remained outside. I locked the door and ran down to the cellar. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air, and newspapers were scattered on the floor. I cleaned up as well as I could, and spritzed perfume around to mask the smell of tobacco. When I was satisfied that no trace remained of my friends’ occupation, I hastened upstairs again.

  Not long afterward, car doors slammed in the street, and I peeked through the window to see Major Rügemer himself striding up to the front door, a look of fury on his face. The SS officers were right behind him. I let them in and stood aside, making my face a blank.

  “The idea,” the major fumed. “Jews hiding in my house! It's preposterous!”

  The officers looked chagrined. “As I said, we must have been given the wrong information, Herr Major. Please forget this misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, no!” Major Rügemer flung his arms wide. “Go ahead. Search the house. This is my housekeeper, a trusted servant. She will show you anything you want to see.”

  Reluctantly, the officers looked into the parlor and kitchen. “What's in here?” one asked in an uneasy voice. He was pointing at the cellar door.

  I tried to play upon their discomfort. In fact, they were both so flustered I doubt they really looked at anything. “There are servants’ quarters downstairs,” I said haughtily. “Would you like to see?”

  “I suppose we had better…”

  I had to fight back a wave of nausea as I unlocked the door and hit the light switch. “We don't really use it much,” I said in a loud voice. Their footsteps thumped on the steps behind me as we descended. “Just for storage, really.”

  They stood at the base of the stairs and glanced around. “Well, there's nothing to see,” one said, and turned back.

  I heard the major's voice as we entered the hall again. He was shouting on the phone to Rokita. The two officers, looking even more nervous, offered Rügemer a quick salute and hurried out of the house.

  When I had shut the door behind them, I felt myself go limp. A light switch dug into my spine as I sagged against the wall. Someone had informed the SS that there were Jews in the house. Someone knew, or suspected. I felt sick and dizzy. I could only pray that the major's presence was my security. The SS would think twice before following up a tip about this house again.

  Unless the tip had been anonymous, someone was about to feel the wrath of the SS. I could not know who might have informed on me, but he or she was probably regretting it in a horrible way. I tried not to feel sorry for whoever it was; after all, that person had been trying to send my friends to certain death. But I could not help feeling a pang of guilt. I was responsible. I was responsible for so much.

  Had I been careless? Sometimes, Ida and Clara and Fanka helped me with the housework, especially if the major had been entertaining the night before. We were always careful to keep the curtains drawn shut, but someone must have seen something. I tried to pray. What I prayed for was my mother.

  But Mamusia was far away. I feared I would never have her to help me again.

  Helen had told me, in one of our brief meetings, that there was a forester in the Janówka woods who might be sympathetic to our cause. He was rumored to be a former member of the Polish army and part of the resistance. If this was true, he would be a good person for me to know. I must be prepared with a backup plan in case of an emergency. At the earlies
t opportunity, I sought the man out.

  I found the cottage several kilometers from the main road. I had taken the bicycle, and when I saw the wooden house between the trees, I dismounted and rolled the bike the last few yards. A tall, lanky man was on the roof, repairing the chimney.

  “Dzien dobryl“ I called out.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Dzien dobry,” he replied, gazing down at me.

  “I'm looking for mushrooms. I work in town, but I have the day off and I thought I might take a walk in the woods.”

  He nodded, and held out one hand as if to welcome me into the forest. “Do you know which ones to pick?”

  I smiled as I leaned my bicycle against a tree. “I used to pick mushrooms all the time when I was young.”

  “When you were young?” He let out a short laugh. “Was that last week?”

  “It feels like a century ago,” I replied, laughing too.

  The forester climbed down the ladder propped against the house and came toward me. He had sandy blond hair, a drooping mustache that he chewed on while he spoke, and the kind of mournful eyes Janina would have called hound-dog eyes.

  “You are right,” he said. “These last years have been very long ones.”