In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer

by Irene Gut Opdyke

  “The Russians are coming this way. I know you've heard the mortars. We've all heard them,” I said. “It's time to move out. This is what I propose: I'll get the sleigh and take the men to the forest. As Hermann and Miriam can tell you, the dugout isn't very large. You'll have to make it much larger before it can accommodate so many people. We'll take shovels and picks, and as much building material as we can scavenge. As soon as you've made the dugout large enough, I'll take the women. Do you think this is a good plan?” I finished, sending a pleading look toward Lazar.

  We all looked at Lazar. They always turned to him for leadership and advice, and we all breathed a sigh of relief when he nodded. “It makes sense. The sooner the better, too. When can you get the sleigh?”

  “I'll call right now,” I said, heading for the staircase. “I'd like to go when it starts growing dark. Be ready this afternoon. Henry, you have the same build as the major. I want you to wear his extra coat and hat and drive with me.”

  That evening, the eastern sky glowed like a sunrise, and flashes of mortar fire sparked along the horizon. I could feel the faintest of vibrations reach me through the snow-caked ground as I alit from the sleigh in the side driveway and ran up to the door of the villa.

  Henry Weinbaum stood in the foyer, examining his reflection in the mirror.

  I saluted him. “Herr Major.”

  “Fräulein.” He clicked his heels together and bowed. In the major's uniform, he looked every bit the officer.

  Together, we loaded shovels and other gardening tools and scrap lumber from the shed onto the floor of the sleigh, and draped heavy carriage blankets over them. Then, one at a time, we brought Lazar, Thomas, and Hermann up from the basement and covered them with blankets, too. Henry took the reins, and the horse lunged forward, kicking up great clods of snow.

  With the Russians so close, the German army was in a state of alarm. We passed two patrols on our way to Janówka, but the silhouette of Henry's uniform showed clearly against the snowy landscape, and we were never stopped, even though it was after curfew. One soldier even saluted as we drove past! Obviously, they never suspected this “officer” was smuggling Jews into the forest. Finally, with the sounds of explosions growing more frequent on the battle lines, we entered the forest. Hermann peeked out from under the blanket as we drew into the deeper gloom of the trees, and we stopped on his signal; the three men in the back slid out from under cover, dragging the tools and lumber with them.

  For a moment, we watched them as they tramped in among the trees, carrying their unwieldy burdens under their arms. We soon lost sight of them. We turned the sleigh and returned to Ternopol. On the second trip, Wilner, Steiner, Rosen, and Weiss hid under the pile of blankets, and once again, Henry and I drove the ten kilometers or so to Janówka. The men carried the blankets with them to use for shelter, and then Henry shrugged out of the major's overcoat and laid the hat on the seat.

  “God go with you,” Henry said. He began following the others into the forest, and then stopped and looked back, lifting his hand in a wave.

  I waved back, and then he was gone. I made my way back to Ternopol alone, keeping a lookout for the roaming patrols. Once again, God was watching out for me, and I returned to the villa in safety.

  A week later, with the major busy with the factory (and assuming that his house was now empty), I went back to the forest to check on the dugout. The men had been working hard, hacking and gouging at the frozen ground and chopping away at tree roots. Since I last saw it, the foxhole had been augmented with a ramshackle tin-bucket oven, whose leaky stovepipe filled the place with smoke. The shelter was almost ready, but despite the oven's warmth, the camp was wet and uncomfortable. I could not imagine bringing Ida there. She needed a better place to have her baby than a hole in the ground.

  I stopped at the Pasiewskis‘.

  “Help me, Zygmunt,” I pleaded. “I have a pregnant woman I have to get out of the house. She can't stay in the forest in her condition.”

  We heard a distant boom of mortars. Zygmunt hitched his chair closer and spoke in a low voice, so that the children playing by the big stove would not hear. “I have a place here in the cottage, between the walls. There is room for her and for another woman to help her, if she wants.”

  My heart lifted. I put my hand on his arm. “Thank you. When can I bring them?”

  “Anytime. And what of yourself?” he went on. He nodded toward the east. “Won't the Germans be retreating?”

  I chewed my lip. “I don't know—I haven't had time to think about it. But I have to go somewhere, in any case. The major has orders to kick me out.”

  “You'll stay here,” Zygmunt said.

  “But—”

  “You're family, remember?” he went on. “You must stay with us.”

  I tried to speak but I found there was a lump in my throat. In spite of all the dreadful things I had witnessed, I had still met good, brave people during this terrible war.

  “I'll be back in a day or so; we'll have to see what happens,” I said at last.

  March 6, 1944, had been designated as the day for German personnel to pull out of Ternopol, leaving a rear guard to fight the Red Army. The Russians had been advancing steadily, and the boom and thunder of constant bombardments kept us on edge day and night. On the fifth of the month, with the major frantically overseeing the dismantling of the factory, I prepared to evacuate the women from the house.

  “Helen is bringing the farm wagon,” I said. “We're going to look like all the other refugees running away from the Russians. Pack anything at all—silverware, blankets, kitchen equipment, anything you might need in the forest.”

  Clara, Ida, Fanka, and Miriam needed no further explanation. More systematic than looters, less careful than house movers, we stripped the villa of anything portable and useful. When Helen finally arrived with the dorozka, we began loading it with foodstuffs and household goods—bags of flour, linens and knives and featherbeds. The women wrapped themselves in shawls and scarves and, muffled head to foot like peasants, we joined the throng of wagons and trucks fleeing toward the west—toward Lvov, Drogobych, Przemyśl, anywhere away from the Russians.

  No one stopped us, because we looked like every other group of civilians evacuating the town. One old woman was prodding her skin-and-bones cow along with a sharp stick. A one-armed man carried a bulging sack over his shoulder. A priest herded a dozen orphans into the back of a truck. Horns honked, horses neighed, men and women shouted and cursed as the traffic slowed going over a bridge. How similar, and yet how different, it was from the evacuation from Radom in 1939! Now the frightened civilians were headed the other way, and they abandoned their town with the Germans. Soldiers were everywhere, of course, but they were too busy trying to manage the army's withdrawal to care about the local people. And the people—they wore expressions not of panic but of harried resentment. After so many years of war, they expected nothing less than chaos. They only wanted to get out of the way and preserve what little they had left. We stayed with the convoy of bitter refugees until the road to Janówka veered right.

  At last, we let Clara and Miriam out to join the others in the forest. Miriam recognized where we were and led Clara into the trees. We drove the last few kilometers to Zygmunt Pasiewski's. Fanka helped Ida inside while Helen and I began unloading the dorozka and stashing the food and equipment in the barn.

  “I'll come back to see you as soon as I can,” Helen said, kissing me good-bye. “Let me take the dorozka and the horse—we may need them. I'm not leaving Janówka as long as Henry is here.”

  She climbed up onto the seat. Without another word, she slapped the reins on the horse's rump, and she was gone.

  I knew I would never see Helen again. For a moment, I was alone in the clearing outside the Pasiewski cottage. Alone. In the distance, there was a dull thud of artillery, but here all was quiet. The cold air pressed around me, making the silence heavier. Overhead, crows were flying west. I followed them with my eyes until they p
assed beyond the trees.

  Then I went into the house, almost in a daze. I had no idea where the war would carry me now. But I knew this: The Germans were retreating. Their lock on this part of Poland was broken, and my friends were free. I had brought them out alive.

  “You are like Moses,” Zygmunt said to me.

  “No, no.” I stared at my hands. They were cold, and I rubbed them together slowly, as if I had never seen them before. Shouldn't I have been happy? But I was oddly dejected, because my great and righteous undertaking was finished. I knew Moses did not join the Israelites in Canaan. God brought Moses to Mount Pisgah, and let him look out at the Promised Land; but then, as God had ordained, Moses died. If I was like Moses, I would not live in free Poland.

  What did God ordain for me?

  Major Rügemer came for me a week later, with Rokita in the car.

  “Matka Boska!” Zygmunt swore, looking out the window at the sound of the engine. “There's an SS officer with your major.”

  I dropped the bread I was cutting and joined Zygmunt at the window. The major was striding toward the cottage through the patches of mud and snow in the yard, tugging at the visor of his hat.

  I threw a shawl around my shoulders and met him outside. From Ternopol came the sound of explosions. The bombardment had been growing louder all day.

  “Herr Major!”

  “Get your things, Irene. We're leaving.”

  “Are the Russians advancing?” I asked. I could see Rokita in the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Behind me, the cottage door opened and Zygmunt came out, a strong and reassuring presence.

  Major Rügemer nodded curtly at him. “Our Panzer units will soon mount a counteroffensive,” he said to me. “For now, we are moving to Kielce. Hurry up, Irene. You're coming with me.”

  I turned away quickly to hide the tears that were flooding my eyes. If I refused to go—but Kielce was close to Radom, close to Kraków. Closer to my family. I fumbled open the door and went inside to pack.

  Zygmunt followed me and shut the door, leaving the major outside. “Irenka, listen to me,” he said quickly. “When you get to Kielce, run away from him. Ask someone for directions to Owocowa Street. Find the home of my brother-in-law, Marek Ridel, and ask for Mercedes-Benz.”

  “What?” Baffled, I wiped away my tears with the palm of my hand.

  “You can join the partisans—they need people like you.”

  My hand froze on my face. “The partisans?”

  I could remain an outlaw. In an instant, I saw that this was what I had been waiting for. I had been living as a resistance fighter for so long, I could no longer imagine anything else. I would continue to fight. That was my life. That was the life I wanted to lead, struggling against the enemies of Poland. “Revenge is mine,” said God—but I had many scores to settle with the Germans and the Soviets.

  “Mercedes-Benz,” I repeated. “Marek Ridel, Owocowa Street. Bless you, Zygmunt. Take care of my friends. Do widzenia.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was hidden under a blanket in the back of the major's car, racing westward, away from the advancing Red Army and their crashing artillery.

  For two days, our convoy of cars and trucks bumped and skidded west across the Ukraine. Major Rügemer and Rokita insisted I stay hidden, to avoid questions or confrontations by patrols; it was probably illegal for them to take a Polish civilian with them, and I marveled that the major would risk so much for me, or that Rokita would go along. Huddled under a blanket that smelled of camphor and sweat, I repeatedly banged my head or bit my tongue as we jolted over the rough, war-scarred roads. For all I knew, we could have been driving back and forth along one stretch of road: I saw nothing of our journey. On the floor under the blanket, the road noise and the roar of the engine made it impossible for me to hear what few words passed between the major and Rokita, but it did not matter to me what their conversation was. I had my own plans to make.

  I rehearsed lines that might prove useful for escaping from them in Kielce. I had deceived and outwitted them for so long, I was sure I could find a way to elude them now. For the first time in years, I had no one's safety but mine to consider, and my thoughts flew ahead toward the Kielce partisans on eagles’ wings.

  In the late afternoon of the second day, Rokita left us to rejoin his SS unit, and the major took over the driving. My stomach was growling like a badger by the time the car stopped and the major told me I could come out.

  I pushed the blanket back and sat up, smoothing my hair as it flew up around my head from static electricity. It was dark. I peered out the window as Major Rügemer opened his door. We were outside a hotel. “Is this Kielce?”

  “Yes. Come, Irene. I'll get you a room.”

  Battered and sore from my ride on the floor, I pulled myself out of the car and stretched. Two dim lights glowed at the hotel entrance. I stumbled inside. The major was speaking with the clerk, who eyed me suspiciously as he slid a brass key over the front desk. Major Rügemer took the key and led the way upstairs. The narrow staircase smelled of beer and cigar smoke and urine.

  “I have to report to my superiors, but I'll come back for you tomorrow,” the major said as he opened the door. “Try to get some rest.”

  I edged past him into the room. He was leaving me there. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

  “Is this all right with you?” he asked.

  “Fine. Thank you,” I whispered. I turned to look at him. He was haggard. Anxiety had drawn deep lines from the corners of his mouth, and one of his eyelids was twitching from fatigue. In spite of everything, I felt grateful to him; he had helped me save many lives. I was already forgiving him for what he had put me through. I put a hand on his arm and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” I repeated.

  He smiled wanly. “Good night, then.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He paused for a moment at the door to look at me. Then he was gone.

  To Fight

  I slept heavily, exhausted by our flight from Ternopol, but as soon as I awoke the next day, I washed and dressed and left my room. I did not dare linger. Outside, patches of old snow lay heaped against the shady side of the buildings, speckled with soot and horse manure. I picked my way along the wet sidewalk, hugging my coat around me. When I caught sight of an old lady carrying a dented fuel can, I crossed the street to speak to her.

  “Owocowa Street?” I asked. “How do I get there?”

  She set the can down, squinting against the pale sunshine. “Follow this street until you reach the square. Then take a left until you come to Our Lady Church. Owocowa is in that neighborhood. Someone can point it out to you.”

  “Dzi^kuJQ.” Thanks.

  I kept my head down as I hurried toward the square. German military vehicles roared past, spraying mud and slush onto the sidewalks. I had no papers to show, and if I had been stopped, I would have had some tricky explaining to do. But after asking for directions one more time, I finally found myself on Owocowa Street. A boy throwing rocks into a puddle pointed out the Ridels’ house. I straightened my coat and dress, and then my shoulders, and took a deep breath. I knocked.

  A middle-aged woman with blond braids coiled on her head and Zygmunt's mournful eyes answered the door, opening it only a crack while she peered out at me. “Yes?”

  “Pani Ridela? I'm here about a Mercedes-Benz,” I said.

  She looked so startled that I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. Heat washed up my throat and cheeks. “I came from Janówka. Pasiewski sent me,” I stammered.

  At that, she flung open the door and pulled me inside. “Come in. Come in. I thought at first you were German. How is my brother Zygmunt?”

  “I left him two—no, three days ago,” I began, unwrapping the scarf around my neck. “He and his family were fine then. My name is Irena Gutowna.”

  Pani Ridela led me through the house and into the kitchen at the back, where a kettle boiled on the stove. “Tea?” she asked, picking up a chipped pottery teapot. “
We've already used these leaves several times, I'm afraid, but we can still brew a little color from them.”

  For years now, I had been accustomed to having all the food I wanted, with the German Warenhaus at my disposal. And the Pasiewskis lived fairly well, with the bountiful forest as their larder. I had nearly forgotten how town-dwelling Poles had been scraping by—a potato for dinner, no meat, tea the color of straw.

  While she poured water onto the tired leaves and swirled the pot, Pani Ridela talked about her brother, whom she had not seen in years. “I heard a rumor just this morning that the whole Ternopol area has been ‘liberated’ by the Soviets.”

  I sank back in my chair. “Thank goodness. That's a relief.”

  The woman shot a strange look at me. “Are you a Communist?”

  “Me? Not at all. I hate the Soviets,” I replied hotly. “But it means that—well, that some people I took care of are out of danger from the Germans.”

  Pani Ridela poured out the tea. “Jews?”

  I nodded wearily, happy for the chance to tell my story. Perhaps it was foolish of me to be so trusting, but she was connected to the partisans; I felt I could be honest. I gave her a summary of what I had done for the past two years, while we sipped our tea—hot water, in all honesty—and the neighborhood noises sounded beyond the walls: barking dogs, a child calling its mother, someone hammering on metal, car tires hissing through slush. These background noises played like the soundtrack to a movie while I spoke; in my mind they became the shouted orders of the Gestapo, the wails of frightened prisoners, the relentless clanging of machinery in the ammunition factory, the whisper of sleigh runners across frozen fields. While I spoke, Pani Ridela gazed into her teacup, as though she saw this movie projected onto the shining surface of the water.

  The kitchen door opened, and a middle-aged man with blond hair going white came in.

  “My husband, Marek Ridel,” Pani Ridela said. “This is Irena Gutowna. She came to talk about the Mercedes-Benz.”

  “Dzien dobry,” he said, nodding.