by Clara Kramer
A conspiracy of events had to occur to get us fed. There had to be electricity. The trainmen and the soldiers had to be out. And the Becks had to be able to find food for the 18 of us. So Beck instituted a ration system for all of us down here, even the Steckels. He said we’d each get one kilogram of potatoes and 300 grams of bread per day. And even though 300 grams of bread would barely keep us above starvation, bread was so scarce I doubted Beck would be able to find even that much.
There was always a trainman or soldier at home, so the pails became almost impossible to empty. The men were forced to dig a trench in the back of the bunker and cover it with a piece of wood. This was our new toilet. I knew the smell would give us away. It had to. Days, weeks, a month, who knew? The trench added one more level of inevitability to our capture, but we had no alternative. Since the middle of April, the bunker had become increasingly hot, dank and oppressively humid. We were now in our summer uniforms. Slips with the backs cut out for the women and cut off long johns or shorts for the men. It had become so hot that we spent all our time, hours and hours every day, except when we were eating and sleeping, fanning ourselves with pieces of cardboard until our hands and arms were cramped with pain. We’d start out fanning with the speed of hummingbird wings, but soon these pieces of cardboard, which couldn’t have weighed more than a few grams, felt like sheets of iron. When the trainmen had been out, the Becks could open the trapdoor to give us a small break from the heat. But now there wouldn’t even be those few brief moments of relief from the heat, which I had looked forward to, just as I looked forward to food and water. The heat was so oppressive it became hard to breathe.
The only momentary relief any of us had was the few hours in which we slept. But the soldiers robbed us of that also. We were so frightened that they might hear a snore, a cough, a sneeze while we slept that we were forced to change our sleeping arrangements. The Steckels, Gedalo, Kuba, Artek and Lola slept in the part of the bunker right underneath the room in which the soldiers slept. We hadn’t removed the posts that supported the floor and it wasn’t dug out as much as the main room. There was only enough room to lie down. Lola had started snoring and Kuba’s asthma had got much worse as soon as the weather warmed up. He said it was the mildew. Whatever the cause, Kuba was coughing. Loudly. We were terrified that his cough would waken the soldiers. We decided that everyone who slept in that part of the bunker would sleep during the day and stay up at night. Awake, at least we had some control over our actions. At night, a snore, a sneeze, a cough could mean the end of us.
Mr Patrontasch conferred with Papa and they leaned over to me. Papa asked me to switch places with Kuba. I didn’t snore, so it would be safer for us all if I slept where the soldiers were overhead. One of the few pleasures I had was to sleep with my arms around the little ones. But there was no question I would switch with Kuba. No one ever questioned anything that would help our survival. They needed someone slim and someone who didn’t snore. They asked. I said yes. It was that simple. But since I didn’t snore, I was at least permitted to sleep at night.
Within days of the soldiers’ arrival, we started to deteriorate. I couldn’t imagine that the few minutes the trapdoor had been opened a day had made such a difference. The prickly heat returned like a plague. Everyone was stricken by it. Mama had a bad case and so did I. But for some reason the prickly heat attacked the Patrontasch family with a viciousness that turned each of their backs into a carpet of raw, bright pink pustules. Not a centimetre of normal skin was visible. On all of us the back was most severely affected, and the pain meant we couldn’t sleep on them. There was no room to sleep on our stomachs because no matter how hard you try, you have to stick out your arms a little bit at least. And once you choose to sleep on a side, there is no moving, and the pain in shoulders, hips and knees became a dull and constant ache all night. And we didn’t dare scratch ourselves. If the pustules started to bleed, they would become dangerously infected because of the humidity and lack of sanitation.
But if the Becks left us, all the planning, all the sacrifices, everything we had endured would mean nothing. There was nothing left to us except to go on. Hunger, thirst and fear had become my life. It was so simple now. I was in a train station and everything depended upon which train came first. Freedom or death. The itching, the exhaustion, the pain in my arms from fanning were all irrelevant. They were just something to occupy myself and my mind while waiting to see which train I would board.
The soldiers and the trainmen had gone out to the German soldiers’ club in the city. The Russian air force was bombing Lvov again and since no one was home, Beck let us come up a few at a time to see the lights and the explosions. The night sky was lit up like nothing I had ever seen before. Not even the fireworks the Russians set off every May came close to the bombardment that turned night to day. And when the bombing finally stopped and the windowpane I looked through stopped shaking, the dark sky returned, but the horizon was a rim of fire. I was looking at the end of the world through slightly parted damask curtains. Beck had brought us upstairs to give us hope. He was thoughtful that way. He wore the smile of a false god as he told us it couldn’t be too much longer because the Russians had crossed the Dniester, the river of Galicia, which rose in the Carpathians south of Lvov.
Beck could lie to the Germans but he couldn’t lie to us. I was attuned to his eyes and voice in the way a baby was attuned to a mother’s face. I also knew that, with us, a lie was a piece of foul meat in Beck’s mouth that he would be compelled to spit out no matter how much he wanted to keep it down. Back down in the bunker, by candlelight because the bombing had knocked out the electricity again, he told us that he had again run out of money and there would not even be the food ration he promised. He told us the Ukrainians had posted a new ultimatum. All the Poles had to leave Zolkiew by 1 May, which was just in a few days away, or be murdered.
As he talked he became more depressed than I had ever seen him. He told us, ‘The bastards are still catching Jews. Mrs Bernstein and her three children. An informer told the Gestapo they were hiding in the Malachinski’s barn.’ Mama fainted. She was close friends with Mrs Bernstein. To find out in the same breath that she was alive and in hiding as we were for the past 17 months and then murdered as the Russians were approaching was too much. Beck told us how much Ala had been pressing him to leave. Ala, like our darling Mania, wanted to live. She had done so much, and how much more could we ask of her? She was a child, barely three years older than I was, and I didn’t want her to die for me. I couldn’t imagine the torment in Beck’s heart as every day he had to choose between us, strangers, and his daughter who was the love of his life. It would take a miracle for Mr Beck not to go with his daughter even as he assured us he never would.
The next three days were hell. The eternal darkness in the bunker made every moment endless. With any light at all, even a candle, I could read, teach the children, sew, anything to keep my mind occupied. But now with no light except for the short time we lit the candles so we could eat and take care of our bodily functions, I had nothing to do, none of us did, except stare at the thin blade of light coming from the air opening and pray for a swift end to the war.
I spent all my time listening to the soldiers. Norbert’s voice lost its charm. I heard them talk about their wives and girlfriends and children. I heard Richard’s cynicism about the war. I heard Hans screaming, ‘I’m fighting here and the Allies are bombing the hell out of my family!’ His wife and children lived in Hamburg and he was furious at the reports of the Hamburg bombings he heard on the radio and in the news. Last year Hamburg had been firebombed by an allied armada of almost 800 planes. In the few weeks the soldiers had been here, Hamburg had been bombed three times. I hated Hans. Not only for his anti-Semitism but also because he was lazy. When he wasn’t working, he spent most of his time in bed. When there was even one German in the house, we couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t cook, couldn’t use the pail. And that German was usually Hans.
We were sitting in the dark listening to the card game go on for hours upstairs. It was a full house. Hans the policeman was drunk and happy. He had found a comrade in Hans the soldier as they swapped exploits and bragged about the number of Jews they had killed. Hans the policeman entertained the group by his most recent triumph: the Bernsteins. Mama had to listen as Hans, as loud and boisterous as a best man giving a toast at a wedding, recounted the Bernsteins begging him to spare their lives. They were refugees who lived not far from Aunt Rosa in western Poland and had come to Zolkiew in 1939. Mrs Bernstein was a relative of the Britwitzes, who had lived next door to the Melmans in one of the houses that burned down in the fire. Mrs Bernstein was born in Zolkiew and she knew Mama when they were both girls. Here the Russians were breathing down Hans’s own neck and would, God willing, be here in a matter of weeks or months, and still he took joy in finding and slaughtering Jews.
Beck had to pretend to hear it all for the first time and we heard his hearty congratulations. His sincerity at Hans’s good fortune was convincing. The soldier Hans was not to be outdone and recounted the murders of each of the 75 Jews he had personally killed. He had been keeping count. The extermination of a people had been reduced to entertainment over schnapps, sausage and Julia’s pirogies. I was next to Zosia, holding her. She didn’t cry any more as she listened to Hans’s brutal laughter and backslapping joy at his accomplishment. All she knew of life was this persecution, of people trying to kill her, of vilifying her for being something she was far too young to even understand. Her Jewishness meant nothing to her. I wanted to write. I wanted to get every word down, but there was no light so I had to listen without my blue nub of a pencil in my hand. I listened in darkness and my face had the freedom to express its grief, if only silently, and its rage, if only mute. Beck had to sit across from both murderers, deal the cards, pour the drinks, serve the food and listen, laughing, looking both men in the eye while we remained hidden. For 17 months all we had to do was hide, yet day after day, moment by moment, the Becks, and especially Mr Beck, had to lead a double life, like the most brilliant spy in the most brilliant spy novel. How he withstood the pressure was beyond me. My courage was nothing compared to his.
As soon as the soldiers and the trainmen left for work the next day, Beck came down to the bunker. He had a bottle of vodka with him and poured drinks for the men. Beck didn’t say anything for a long time. ‘I’m sorry’, he said. ‘I’m sorry. Please. I hope you don’t think I meant what I said last night. I hope you know I don’t feel like that.’ He was apologizing to us. He wanted us to know the words he spoke upstairs weren’t his true self, which he only dared show us. I had so many questions to ask Beck. How was he able to keep up the front that he was a loyal Volksdeutscher? Where did he find the courage? How could he be so calm and natural with our enemies? I could tell he was very fond of Krueger and Schmidt. But the others? The two Hanses? Was Beck afraid? How could he control his fear? Did he have that much faith in God? Did he trust his own luck that much? But most of all, why? Why had he risked his life for us? He talked about honour sometimes. He ranted that the Ukrainians and the Germans had no right to kill Jews. But somewhere I felt there was another reason, hidden perhaps. And I hoped that some day we might have a chance to talk about it, if I ever got up enough courage to ask.
There was so much going on now I couldn’t keep up with recording it all in my diary. Beck had given me the present of a new copybook and as I wrote the fresh pages were quickly covered in the sweat dripping off my face. My entries were smudged by the wet pages and it was almost impossible to write legibly. Compared to what was happening around us, a smudged page didn’t seem much, but the copybook was now my most precious possession. And if we perished and if the diary was found, I didn’t want one moment of the Becks’ courage to go unknown.
I realized now we were in the same situation as the day of the fire. Even if there was another place to hide, we’d never make it. There had been a mob in the streets that was also filled with German soldiers, police and Blue Coats. If we had tried to flee we would have been caught in minutes. Now there were very few civilians. Soldiers were living in every house on the street. There were over 20 living in Papa’s factory. And many more were camped near the cemetery, which since the fire was in direct view of the house. We were on the main road to Lvov so military patrols and traffic were constant. There were no Poles left, so there would be no place to hide and no one to hide us if we did try to leave the bunker.
Beck told us that the Ukrainian police were collecting arms, arresting and shooting anybody they wanted and stealing Polish homes and possessions at will. And since Ala’s transfer to Krakow was certain again, Beck said he was going to the forest to join the partisans. Beck was a patriot and wanted to pick up a gun and fight his country’s enemies. I understood that. I felt the same way. If he said come to the partisans with me, I would have gone. I also knew Beck was hoping one of us would say, ‘Go. We’ll be fine.’ But no one said a word. Klara finally said, ‘Go. Go ahead. But before you do, please take your rifle and shoot us. Kill us. Please.’ We had all condemned Klara for her relationship with Beck, but it was only their love affair that allowed her to speak so bluntly to Beck. And it was keeping him here with us and protected. I didn’t know if he was in love with her. I didn’t know if he would abandon us, but he would never abandon her. There had to be a war raging inside him. He was loyal to us, his family and his country. But he couldn’t protect us all and fight as well.
He agreed to stay. We were safe for now. Beck reassured us that he would go only if Von Pappen made him. He also told Mr Patrontasch that the Russians had taken Sevastopol, Odessa and had recaptured the rest of the Crimea. Now the Russians could turn their forces north and west. I had new hope. The Russians moving their main force towards Vinnytsia, and the bombing of Lvov, had to be a prelude to a major offensive in Galicia.
The next time the Becks and the soldiers went out, Mr Patrontasch took the buckets upstairs to empty them. When he came back down, I knew something was wrong. When he told us, every hope I had for survival vanished. Mr Patrontasch saw that the Becks had packed up all their belongings and lined them up in the hall. The man I had come to trust as much as my own father and in whom I vested all my hopes for survival had looked us straight in the eyes and lied to us. There was only one possible conclusion. They were going to leave and not tell us.
Chapter 15
I’M LOSING HOPE
10 May to 6 June 1944
Wednesday, 10 May. Trouble again. Lang who was always saying he is staying, decided to leave…Mr Beck says he is not leaving unless they force him, but we don’t know if one day he will just leave without telling us. Pappen is coming back any day. What are we going to do if Mr Beck says Pappen gave an order to go?
It was decided that Mr Patrontasch would talk to Beck, as he always did.
‘We were worried that you had changed your plans.’
Mr Patrontasch had a certain way with Beck. He was able to understate the most frightening things. Now he told Beck simply that we worried he might have changed his plans. Beck knew exactly what he meant and how terrified we all were.
He put our fears to rest immediately. ‘If I told you I wasn’t leaving, then I’m not leaving. We moved up some things from the cellar in case there’s a fire, that’s all. If they’re bombing Lvov, they’ll be here before we know it. No sense losing everything we own in a fire.’
Photographic Insert
Mania and I in our sailor suit school uniform, aged 5 and 6
With my father and Mania, 1938
My babcia and dzadzio
The photos my friends and I took when we didn’t know if we would survive the war, 1942. I am with Genya Astman (left).
Mania
From left to right: My mother Salka, (in front) Julia Beck, Fanka Melman, and (behind) an unknown friend
Lola Elefant
Klara Patrontasch and her brother Artek in the 1930s
Mr Valentine Beck, afte
r the war
Ala Beck
Myself with Mr Beck and Mr Melman, 1946
The Melman’s house
Mr Patrontasch’s carefully crafted hatch in the floor, still there today
The bunker as it looked on our last trip
In Montreal with Ala and Lola, early 1970s
At home with Sol, Zygush and Zosia in 2007
Mr Patrontasch replied, ‘Thank you for telling us. We knew there would be a reasonable explanation. You understand—’
Beck interrupted him: ‘Don’t give it another thought.’ Then he went upstairs.
But his words did little to alleviate our fear. I trusted the Becks, but Mr Melman couldn’t be convinced. I didn’t know if Mr Melman’s fears were real or influenced by the depression and despair that poured off us like sweat. We were all starting to disintegrate physically and mentally. Grey hair was trivial compared to Mr Melman’s skin coming off like potato peel, the sores on Mama’s breasts, teeth falling out, bleeding gums, rheumatism and the prickly heat that afflicted us like one of the ten plagues.
Almost every night we had guests until two or three in the morning and almost every afternoon we had a full house for lunch to listen to the radio. Beck had become very popular and all his Polish friends were asking his advice. As usual, the conversation turned to the killing of Jews. Hans the policeman said that he wished he were in Hungary because they were killing Jews there like they used to kill them here. He discussed murder as if it was a hobby, like skiing and searching for where the snow was the freshest. Soldier Hans conversed in some detail about his preferences for killing Jews and the various pleasures of the garrotte, gun and knife. Dieter chimed in that he could not kill an unarmed Jew, but would of course if they had a gun. Ala and Julia were serving food that the policemen brought home for them to prepare. Norbert said, ‘Sometimes I think a bullet is too damn good for a Jew. Much better just to hack them to pieces.’ I don’t know how Julia and Ala didn’t drop the trays of food. I was stunned to hear these words spring from Norbert’s lips. I had earlier loved listening to him sing, but now his voice only brought forth images of a man hacking a Jew to death.
