Sarah and Solomon

by Roberta Kagan

  The following day, Ewa packed her bags and got ready to set out for France. Dyta and Ewa said a tearful goodbye at the farmhouse. They hugged tightly. “Go and get your children, then come back, and live here forever,” Dyta said. “Tytus and I are hoping for the best.”

  “I know. I can’t tell you how much you have meant to me over these years, Dyta. You’ve been a good friend. And I am so happy you and Tytus found each other. If I don’t return, please know I love you both.”

  They hugged again, and Dyta’s tears wet the collar of Ewa’s blouse. Then Tytus came from the barn. He was sitting on top of the wagon, which he’d hitched up to his old horse.

  Again, the two women hugged. Harder this time. Stronger this time. “If we don’t see each other again, I love you, Slywia.”

  “I love you too.”

  Ewa climbed up into the wagon. Tytus cracked the whip in the air above the horse once, and they began their journey into town.

  Chapter 70

  Ewa took the next train into France. She arrived at the church at dusk the following day. Memories of the last time she’d seen Gunther alive flooded her senses. She remembered the café, the bitter taste of the ersatz coffee, the softness of his lips the last time she’d kissed him. When she closed her eyes she could hear his voice, and her heart ached. Opening the large wooden door to the church, she recalled the day she’d left the children in this quiet house of God with the beautiful stained-glass windows and polished wooden floors. It had been five years. Who were Sarah and Solomon today? More importantly, were they still here? Where they still alive?

  The old priest came out of a confessional with his head bowed. He walked slightly bent over and with a limp, but when he looked up and his eyes met Ewa’s, a glow of light came over his face and he smiled.

  “Father Dupaul,” she said. Her eyes burned with tears. Ewa looked at the priest. He was not as she remembered him. He had been a full-bodied man, heavyset, and jovial. But the man who stood here before her was painfully thin. His face was wrinkled with deep lines of worry, but the light that she remembered shining from his eyes remained unchanged.

  “Yes, Mother, it’s me. The children and I have been waiting for you.” He nodded.

  “Sarah and Solomon are still here!” Ewa breathed a sigh of relief.

  “They are, and they are doing quite well. However, they have missed you.”

  “I am not their mother. I lied to you. I am sorry. I am not their real mother, but I was their guardian. Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course I forgive you. And you were not only their guardian, but you have been a guardian angel.” He smiled. “By the way, child, what is your name?”

  “Ewa.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Follow me; you can wait in my office. Meanwhile, I'll send Sister Mary Francis to fetch the children for you,” he said. “And by the way, do you and the children have a place to go?”

  “I’m not sure, Father. I do have a place. I just don’t know if it is the best place to take the children.”

  “I see. Well, you could stay here if you would like. Or . . . I have a friend in the Jewish Joint Committee who might be able to help you find a place to stay at one of the DP camps where you could register to see if you can find any of your friends or relatives.”

  “You know we are Jewish? Did the children tell you?”

  He let out a soft laugh and his blue eyes sparkled. “I always knew,” he said.

  “And you helped us anyway? I didn’t think priests cared about Jews.”

  “Every man, priest or otherwise, must decide what he believes. I knew that I could not be a man of God and stand by and watch any of God’s children be treated the way the Nazis were treating the Jews.”

  “What about the old myth that the Jews killed Jesus?”

  “Sarah and Solomon were just two young souls lost and alone. They weren’t responsible for killing Jesus . . .”

  Ewa heard footsteps coming down the corridor and her heart raced. Will they be happy to see me? Will they be angry at me for leaving them? Can they forgive me?

  “Ewa?” Sarah said as she ran into Ewa’s arms. Solomon stood back watching.

  “Look at you! You’ve grown up,” Ewa said as she looked at the pretty dark-haired girl with her shy smile.

  “I’m ten,” Sarah said. She hesitated then she added, “I missed you so much.”

  “Oh, I missed you both more than I can ever say.”

  “What took you so long to come back?” Solomon asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice. He’d grown into a tall, big boned, and muscular boy who had just turned fifteen, with dark, wavy hair and deep-set dark eyes.

  “I came as soon as I could.” Ewa felt a pang of guilt run through her. I could have come earlier. I should have found a way after the war. But it took me some time to find the courage.

  “Five years? That was as soon as you could?”

  “Solomon, please know that I have been through a lot too. I know this must have been hard on you . . .”

  “No, not at all. Father Dupaul was wonderful. He took care of us. He even hid us when the Nazis came searching the church for little Jewish orphans. They almost killed him. But he stood up to them. He’s a wonderful man. No, it wasn’t bad staying here at the orphanage. But we didn’t know what happened to you. We thought you died.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I was in a work camp, a prisoner of the Nazis. I was raising rabbits.”

  “Rabbits?” Sarah asked, her face lighting up.

  “Yes,” Ewa nodded. “Strange, I know, but yes. I was actually very fortunate to have that job. It’s a long, drawn-out story. Someday I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Where’s Gunther? Is he outside?” Solomon asked, not looking into her eyes. He wrapped his arms around his chest, refusing to give in to his need to hug her and weep in her arms.

  “He’s dead,” she said somberly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you sure?” Solomon asked.

  She nodded.

  Solomon swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed. But he didn’t speak.

  “Oh, Ewa . . .” Sarah said, “that's horrible.”

  Ewa looked at the children. After a few awkward moments of silence, she turned to Father Dupaul and said, “I would like to meet with your friend from the Jewish Joint Committee.” She’d decided it was best not to take the children back to the farm.

  “Very well. But it’s late. You can spend the night here at the church, and in the morning I’ll contact him. His name is Abel Fine.”

  Chapter 71

  It took Abel Fine three days to return Father Dupaul’s call. But when he did, he agreed to help Ewa and the children in any way he could.

  “You are welcome to stay here at the church as long as you like, but Mr. Fine suggested that the three of you go to a DP camp that has been established in the American Zone in Germany. Abel is there. He is helping people restart their lives, and he says he will help you search for friends and family who might have survived,” the old priest said.

  “What is a DP camp?” Ewa asked.

  “Displaced Persons. The Nazis left many, many people without anywhere to go: homeless, orphaned, and alone. These camps have been set up to help those in need find a way back to living as normal a life as possible.”

  “Oh, Father Dupaul.” Ewa sighed. “This is so kind of you . . . but how will we get there?”

  “I can help you. You see, my child, it’s not kindness. It is my responsibility as a human being.”

  Chapter 72

  Abel Fine was an older man. He was short with dark, coarse hair, a muddy complexion, a large brown wart on his chin, and a warm smile. His eyes were filled with compassion as he helped Ewa search the Red Cross registers for familiar names. They found none. After they finished, Abel added Ewa, Solomon, and Sarah to the unorganized lists of survivors. Then he helped the three of them find a room in the DP camp. They were escorted to a small hut which had been divided into ten small rooms each housing at least two people. Th
ere were very few complete families at the camp. Most people were strangers who had come together after the war and after the loss of all of their loved ones.

  Ewa heard that there were former Nazis and Jew haters hiding among the survivors in the DP camp, but she didn’t meet any of them. Food was still scarce, but it far more plentiful than it had been in the Nazi camps. And although the displaced persons had suffered greatly, there was the air of promise in the camp. Troops of actors offered performances. Musicians gave concerts. Comedians and mimes showcased their talents. Ewa and the children attended most of these events with excited anticipation. And as Ewa watched the Jewish performers, she couldn’t help but wonder why Germany would want to deny the world such wonderful talent.

  There were political parties in the DP camp too, mostly socialist and Zionist. Then one day Ewa was on her way back from dropping the children off at school when she passed the center of town. There on a makeshift stage with a crowd gathered around him, stood a young handsome man with curly, black hair. His passion was contagious as he spoke to the group about the formation of a Jewish state called Eretz Israel. Ewa was swept away.

  “A Jewish state,” he said. “A land where our children will no longer have to live in fear because they are Jews.” Ewa listened. She was late getting home, but she couldn’t move. She had to hear more.

  “Come train with us; prepare yourselves to live on a kibbutz,” the handsome man said. Then he continued, “You have no money? I know. You have no home? I know. Your family is gone? Come with us. Come to Eretz Israel. You will not need money. In a kibbutz, everyone works together. Everyone lives together; everyone eats together. And you are a part of a family . . . a family of your own people. A family of people whose ancestors suffered as yours did. A people whose blood runs through your veins. Your people . . . the Jews.”

  “But there is no Eretz Israel. The land you are speaking of is Palestine. A boat was already sent there. It was filled with Jews. They sent it back,” some man called out from the crowd. “How do you know there will ever be an Eretz Israel, a homeland for the Jewish people?”

  “Mark my words; there will be! Join us and be ready.”

  Ewa’s heart swelled. And at that moment she became a Zionist. And from then on she began to prepare herself and the children to live on a kibbutz in Eretz Israel.

  Chapter 73

  1948

  On the sun-filled afternoon of May 14 in the year 1948, Israel was proclaimed the first Jewish state in two thousand years with David Ben-Gurion as her first prime minister.

  And so . . . they came! These were the survivors. They were alive in spite of the Nazis' relentless attempts to annihilate them. God had been with them as they sprung from the jaws of death. They were left penniless; their homes had been stolen. Their families had been murdered. By all rights they should have been paralyzed by depression. But instead they turned their faces to God, to the sun, and they came! Limping bags of bones they were, their bodies broken by starvation, some altered forever by sadistic experiments, and many crippled by disease. Most came alone. Some came with their new spouses who they’d met and married in the DP camps. Some carried newborn infants in their arms. Many were lost and bewildered, unsure of what they would find at the end of their voyage into the desert so far away from everything they knew. Still, regardless of their age, regardless of their condition, they boarded boats and sailed to the land of their forefathers: Israel! The homeland of the Jews!

  They came . . .

  Tzena, Tzena, Tzena, Tzena come into the fields and we’ll begin to work the land

  Tzena, Tzena join the celebration

  There'll be people there from every nation

  Dawn will find us laughing in the sunlight

  Dancing in the city square

  Tzena, Tzena building a new nation . . .

  By Issachar Miron and Yechiel Chagiz

  Chapter 74

  New York City, Manhattan, The Diamond District 1956

  Benjamin Rabinowitz turned the key in his mailbox. He’d just returned from work, tired. It had been a long day. Cutting diamonds and precious stones was tedious work. His eyes burned; he rubbed them hard and then pulled a stack of envelopes out of the mailbox which had been built into the wall in the front hallway of the building where he lived. He put the letters into his back pants pocket and began walking up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. He hated this job. But his Hasidic bosses and their friends from the Hasidic temple had been so kind to him when he needed legal help that he felt that he could not easily quit this job. It was hard on his body. But he owed them all so much. When he was arrested for killing a woman who had been a guard at the concentration camp where his wife died, the entire Hasidic community had come together and gathered enough money to get him a good lawyer.

  The lawyer showed the jury that the woman was a monster. She had pretended to be a Jewish concentration camp survivor when she came into the jewelry shop where Ben worked, to sell some diamonds. The woman claimed that the stones had been her mother's. At the time, Ben who was a concentration camp survivor, had been so lonely that he’d taken her out for dinner. They dated for a while, and Ben found himself falling for her. However, when he learned that she was a guard at a concentration camp, and she was responsible for his wife’s murder, he lost his mind. This woman, who he had taken into his heart and into his bed, was nothing but a Nazi. The lawyer explained to the jury that Ben had become blinded by insanity, by hate and anger, and because of the madness that had possessed him, he had killed her with his own two hands. During those moments, the lawyer said Ben was unrecognizable even to himself. And to make matters worse, his son, Moishe, who he had only recently reconnected with, had witnessed the entire horrible scene.

  The trial was intense, but because the lawyer was excellent, the jury saw his position, and Ben was released by reason of temporary insanity.

  As soon as Ben was set free, he contacted the woman who had been raising his son since the end of the war. Her name was Gretchen Schmidt, and she and her husband, Eli, lived in Berlin. He offered to help them all come to live in America. It had taken two weeks to receive their response, and during that time he’d been anxious and worried that they would not bring Moishe back to America after Moishe had witnessed Ben killing that woman. But finally a letter arrived from Gretchen saying that she and her husband, Eli, would love to come to America. They felt it would be good for Moishe to have contact with his birth father. And so they’d come. When they first arrived, they moved in with Ben, but then Eli found a job as a rabbi in a nearby synagogue, and the three of them moved into an apartment that was within walking distance from Ben’s.

  Ben lay the envelopes on the kitchen counter and then poured himself a shot of bourbon. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. As a young man, he had been devastatingly handsome with hair the color of night and eyes as black and sparkling as onyx. He’d had his share of women, that was for certain. And although he and his beautiful blonde wife had never had a good marriage, together they created Moishe, a stunning boy with hair like golden silk. Now, glancing at his reflection, Ben could see how his time as a prisoner in Auschwitz had taken a toll on him. Although his hair was still thick, it was now white, and his eyes no longer sparkled. And all of the years he’d suffered from malnutrition had caused his bones to weaken and a slight hump to form in his back.

  Ben took a sip of the bourbon. I probably drink too much, he thought. But sometimes I can’t bear the loneliness. I come home to his empty apartment every day. Once or twice a week I have dinner with Moishe and his family. They are kind to me, and I am glad that Moishe has Gretchen and Eli, but sometimes I feel jealous. I see the way Moishe is with Eli, and I know that he thinks of Eli as his father, not me. And why would he think of me as a father? I have not been with him throughout his life. It may not have been of my own choosing, but the fact of the matter is, I was not there when he needed me. And now after what he saw me do, our relationship is clumsy and
strained. I don’t believe it is salvageable, although I will never stop trying. Ben pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table to sort through his bills. He began by making two piles, those requiring immediate payment and those that could wait for a week or two. As his fingers skimmed the pile of envelopes, his eyes fell upon a letter that had been addressed to him in a handwriting he did not recognize. He put the other letters aside and tore it open. Inside the envelope, written in careful script in Polish, he read:

  Dear Benjamin Rabinowitz,

  I don’t know if you will ever receive this letter. But I have been searching for you for many years. You see, I have never forgotten you. So when I received word from the Red Cross last month that this was your last known address I decided to write to you immediately.

  I truly hope you are well. And I also hope that you will remember me and my sister. I am Solomon Lipman, and my sister is Sarah Lipman. In case you forgot, we are Zelda and Asher’s children. I remember you from the Lodz ghetto. You were very kind to my sister, my mother, and to me. I am so very sorry that I must be the bearer of bad news. It is with great sadness that I report that both of our parents are dead. I have received confirmation of this, but I know it to be a fact. I remember how you cared for my mother, and I know this news will be painful for you. Once again, I am sorry. It was also very hard on Sarah and me when we found out.

  However, I still smile when I remember how kind you were to me when I was just a child. I often recall an afternoon in the kitchen in the apartment you shared with my family and me in the ghetto. On that particular day, my father was beating me. I felt so helpless because I was young and small and terrified of my father. But you came into the kitchen, and you distracted him and saved me from a terrible whipping. Do you remember this? So, because of your kindness, I have never forgotten you, Ben Rabinowitz. You helped mold me into the man I am today. And I want to thank you.