My Mother's Ring: A Holocaust Historical Novel

by Dana Fitzwater Cornell

  After one particularly long lesson, Mendel climbed into bed and turned to me. A glow radiated from him when he told me that he had decided to become a teacher once the ghetto was closed. I congratulated him on this news, offering him words of encouragement, telling him that I thought he would make an excellent educator.

  As I fluffed my pillow, I couldn’t help but wonder if we would be around to see the day when the ghetto no longer existed.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Warsaw Ghetto was like a big city enclosed in a small area. Trolley cars and other vehicles continued to cross through the ghetto and non-Jews were even pushed right on through its gates in fancy two-seater strollers. The world continued to move on around us as we tried to make the best of what we had in our little space.

  With so many talented people inside the ghetto, cultural life prevailed. Theater and literary groups emerged, spearheaded by various Jewish organizations. We were able to see musicals and plays. Attending these events, we were exposed to brief bursts of enjoyment in our otherwise coarse lives. Orphanages for stranded children were created. Anti-establishment movements flourished, as well. We received our news from underground newspapers and by word of mouth. For a while, we were even able to send packages and letters outside of the ghetto.

  Youth movements brewed thoughts and stockpiled weapons for possible uprisings. I had no desire to associate with or even to learn about these groups. Mendel, on the other hand, dabbled in these organizations for awhile, taking part in exchanging household items for ammunition in the cracks that activists secretly carved in the ghetto walls; but he slipped out of them when my mother admonished him for his “risky involvement.”

  I found out later that these groups led an armed revolt against the Germans in the spring of 1943 when the ghetto was about to be liquidated. Although the ghetto inhabitants ultimately lost the battle, they held out for nearly a month before being captured, killed, or deported. A few of them somehow managed to survive by hiding. A year later, Polish resistance organizations consisting of both male and female fighters and the Polish Home Army carried out another attack against the Germans, rebelling against the occupation of Warsaw. The two-month assault resulted in thousands of casualties, heavy on the Polish side, including many civilians that were caught in the crossfire and executed in retaliation.

  Meanwhile, as the conditions inside the walls of the ghetto declined as they became more crowded with a steady influx of transports, father felt increasing pressure to provide for our family. At its height, more than four hundred thousand people swelled inside its walls, spilling out into the streets, significantly straining the slim supply of available resources. Reports circulated of enclosed areas in other parts of Poland, such as in Lubin and Lodz. Knowing that we were not alone in our misery did nothing to comfort us. In fact, it made us realize that if we somehow escaped, there would be nowhere to go. While we did hear spotty, hush-hush morsels of information about Jews throughout Poland narrowly avoiding capture by slipping into forests, we viewed such talk as unreliable gossip. In our current circumstances it seemed improbable that people could find safety anywhere, especially in the open air amongst trees. We should have fled the country when we had the chance years beforehand. Perhaps we should have gone into hiding when so many others were encouraging us to do so. Had we made the wrong decision?

  The reality was that our caloric consumption had plummeted to starvation levels. Only a few hundred calories, sometimes as little as fewer than two hundred, were all my family could scrape together for each person each day including the food provided by the soup kitchens, which we had come to rely on. Even though local farmers waited at the front gates of the ghetto every morning, eager to exchange their crops and meats with the Jews, my family had nothing left to offer them, although we had made use of their willingness to trade during the first few months after our arrival.

  Death was at the forefront of our minds. We knew that the Nazis hoped none of us would make it out alive. Every day we had a little less energy to fight this uphill battle.

  The lack of bathing facilities and running water resulted in residues of sweat and dirt building up on our bodies. The ghetto was washed in a mix of unpleasant smells. But, there came a day when the smells seemed to disappear. That was perhaps even more alarming than the day when we first noticed the odors. It meant that we had become used to living in our substandard environment; it meant that we had become accustomed to ghetto life, and it made us worry about what other miseries we’d have to adjust to in the future.

  Groups of forlorn children started walking around barefoot in the street, begging for anything and everything, with disheveled clothing that was tattered and too small for their growing frames. Every time I walked past a barefoot child I thought of my father’s warning about how shoes were the lifeblood of survival. If so true, then I pitied the unfortunate people who didn’t have long to live. I felt confident that as long as I held onto my shoes I would remain breathing. A small part of me did have feelings of guilt for having such finely made shoes, but on the other hand, I saw people walking around who were far better off than I was. I didn’t expect those who had more of an advantage to assist me or to feel bad about their advantageous situation in the ghetto, so I reasoned that I shouldn’t either. And so I didn’t.

  On a humid, cloudless spring night, I was taking my time walking back home after work, kicking stray rocks along a well traversed path. My thoughts were circling around the whereabouts of my childhood friends when I came across an impoverished child, probably no older than six years old, wearing nothing to cover his feet and ripped, soiled clothing, walking in the direction of one of the walled ends of the ghetto. Deciding I was in no hurry to go home since I had my work papers in my pocket, which I could use as protection if questioned, I followed him. I didn’t want to scare the poor child away or to reveal his cover to the guards, so I kept my distance as he walked closer to the wall. I had heard about small children squeezing through the cracks in the brick walls in order to smuggle food back and forth between the enclosed world and the free world, but I had never before witnessed it. I watched as he tiptoed up to the wall when the guards were engaged in a rowdy, alcohol-induced debate, looked both ways, and then removed a pre-loosened portion of bricks less than a meter above the ground. He pushed his body through the opening and landed on the other side of the wall, replacing the bricks as he walked away. With that, I turned and shifted my focus towards home, shaking my head at the strange world I was a part of. I had no doubt that his parents had sent him on a mission to find food. To send a young child on such a dangerous errand was representative of the appalling circumstances we all faced. Had Blima been a little older, I wonder if mother would have sent her through the walls.

  At this point, father turned his forever business-driven mind to the population of shoe wearers located outside of the ghetto. He had already made business arrangements with the non-Jewish workers who entered the ghetto daily, working as laborers and clerks dealing with the administrative duties; but when those connections ran out, he needed to find new customers. Instead of riding the trolley car reserved for Jews, which was adorned with a yellow Star of David, father would somehow catch the tram that the Poles took. The tram crossed through and out of the ghetto, but did not make stops inside the walls of the ghetto, probably so non-Jews would not be exposed to our unhealthy living conditions and diseases. He would carefully remove his armband and sneak onto the trolley with the other riders. Poles willingly bought from skilled Jewish craftsmen even though these associations were frowned upon because they missed the talented handiwork that the Jews provided. Once the ghetto was created, the surrounding population worked to establish a network of trade with those craftsmen confined inside its walls. These networks were mutually beneficial to both groups.

  But, the penalty for being caught removing an armband, riding on a trolley outside of the ghetto, exchanging goods with non-Jews, and being outside of the ghetto without consent, was death. In fact, even
the non-Jews were punished if caught during these types of business transactions. Everyone was well aware of the consequences, but they became so desperate that they had to take the risk. Some people were able to justifiably abuse the system for longer than others, especially those who were able to bribe the guards. As prices inside the ghetto became inflated and the supply of food decreased, my father began seeking customers farther away from the ghetto. Mother could do nothing to deter him. The animal-like instinct for survival burns inside each of us and some of us are willing to take more risks than others. In his compromised mental state, father believed that our family would only survive if he pushed the limits of his illegal bartering. That would prove to be his downfall.

  In January of 1942 father never came home. It had snowed the previous afternoon and a dusting covered the streets. He must have been so focused on making a trade that he failed to recognize the trail of footprints he was leaving behind. It was by following his tracks that I believe my father was hunted down. Killed for trying to sell his shoes for food; it’s incomprehensible. A neighbor who worked as a messenger for the post office, a legal position the Nazis established, knocked on our apartment door that next morning and told mother the news. She was inconsolable. She clasped her hands over her face and broke down in tears as she made her way into the bedroom. After I no longer heard her sobs, I walked up to her with a glass of weak tea and a tiny piece of bread I had bartered, attempting to offer her a commiserative ear. She leaned her head on my shoulder, giving me an appreciative smile, and closed her eyes while pressing her fingers up and down over the small bump of her ring.

  Naturally, we were all devastated upon learning about my father’s death. It’s much different when a tragedy hits so close to home that it involves someone in your own household. We had seen the daily collection of the deceased each morning. Those who had died overnight were removed from homes in cloth stretchers and piled onto awaiting wooden pushcarts to be buried in mass graves. We had seen countless bodies in the streets with loved ones clinging on to them as they expired. We had seen SS guards ruthlessly beat and shoot innocent people for no reason right before our eyes. This was the first time, however, that one of our family members whom we had loved so dearly would be carted away from us in a collection wagon. Yet it would not be the last time.

  CHAPTER 17

  So there we were in the middle of the winter without my father. We, like everyone else, couldn’t even provide him with a proper burial. We briefly mourned for him but we selfishly returned our attention to ourselves. We felt how awful the situation had become. In the days following his death, we traded his beloved cigarettes for food. Unfortunately, we were only able to obtain one loaf of bread and a few handfuls of potato peels before the supply ran out. The last of his possessions to go was his fancy, silver cigarette case, for which we acquired a cupful of dirty flour.

  The Judenrat implemented regulations regarding the rationing and organizing of food, but the amounts to be disseminated were not enough. The hundreds of food distribution sites as well as the dozens of bakeries were unable to provide enough ingredients for the increasing demand. Hunger—constant hunger—was an all-consuming feeling. The starvation went hand in hand with the malnutrition; everyone was lacking in the uptake of essential vitamins and minerals. Rumors circulated that the reason for such a shortage of food in the ghetto was because the Polish farmers were forced to export their grains, fruits, and vegetables to Germany for the enrichment of German diets. Not only were we suffering in Poland, but as we were starving the Germans were feasting. We were dying so that the people in Germany could indulge.

  Over time, I noticed a physical change in young women, most likely attributed to vitamin deficiencies, compounded by emotional stress. Adolescent girls began to grow patches of facial hair. It wasn’t the typical hormone-induced hair patterns I was used to seeing, either. When I ran into one of my former female schoolmates, I was slightly taken aback by her complexion but steered our conversation away from the ghetto to days gone by when we were happy. She kept trying to scurry away from me as I spoke, no doubt because she was self-conscious, but I kept trying to engage her. Connecting with her brought me outside of the lowly existence of the ghetto; it was thrilling for me. But, she didn’t view the encounter in the same way. She was short with me and kept her hands cupped over her jaw as I spoke. I wanted to tell her that she looked beautiful and had nothing to be embarrassed about, and I should have, but I didn’t have the right words to comfort her. In another life I might have courted her, but dating was so low on my list of priorities that it didn’t even make it on my radar. Who had the time to date at a time like that? I certainly didn’t. It would have detracted from my family and I wasn’t willing to compromise my family for the sake of my own pleasure. And to be honest, I hadn’t even dated prior to the war. A piece of me feared that I might never be given the chance to sweep a woman off her feet. Before I had the chance to ask her where she was living, she was gone. Like just any other person I passed on the street, she broke up the monotony of my life for an instant and then never crossed paths with me again.

  I also overheard rumors that menstruation was ceasing and miscarriages were increasing. I often asked myself if the toll on women was greater than the toll on men. Whenever I thought about this, though, I chastised myself. There was no comparison, everyone felt the effects. Men, women, children—we were all suffering, we were all in pain, no one was immune, we all felt the horrors in different ways.

  The ghetto hospitals and health centers became overrun with the infirm. Disease spread rapidly since everyone was smashed together in apartments and it was problematic to keep our bodies and our homes clean despite the five public bathhouses offered to us. This led to the initiation of quarantine centers, but they were of little use to such a large problem. Lice and rats spread bacteria, resulting in many people becoming infected with typhoid fever, dysentery, meningitis, scabies, and tuberculosis, among other ailments. The infestation of lice resulted in my family having to disrobe when we entered our apartment. We tried various tactics to keep the lice from attaching to us, such as tying our pant legs with strings, thinking that this would keep them from climbing up our legs. Our efforts didn’t do much to curb the bugs from getting on us, but it made us feel as though we were at least trying to avoid them.

  Courageous souls risked their lives to smuggle much needed medicines into the ghetto, but the supply was insufficient. Each morning, collection carts and open-roofed trucks were full with those who had passed away over night. There were so many deaths inside the ghetto that corpses lined the streets. Mothers, possessed by a hazy twilight, continued to embrace the limp bodies of their children. Walking back and forth to the soup kitchens, I saw these scenes frequently. I did my best to avert my eyes, but it was no use. Your eyes couldn’t focus anywhere without seeing despair.

  I found that it was much easier to cope by telling myself that the mounds of bodies in the carts and trucks were life-sized dolls, not formerly living, breathing humans. I told Blima and Mendel to do the same, although Blima was at an age where asking questions regarding “why” consumed the majority of her vocabulary. Mendel took it upon himself to distract her when she asked questions about unpleasant topics.

  Rivka, the tender infant we graciously promised to care for who couldn’t even sit up on her own yet, became a victim of the ghetto. Dysentery engulfed her body without warning, sending her into violent fits of vomiting and diarrhea. We questioned if she would have been better off with her parents. Mother did her best to ward off the disease, but her condition rapidly declined. With nothing available to trade for medicines on the black market, we doubted Rivka would make it. Mother kept a constant vigil by her bassinet nonetheless. She wiped the tears first from Rivka’s eyes and then from her own. In the short time mother had cared for her, she had become her daughter. Within two weeks, she lost her battle with death. As she took her last breath, I felt a stillness I hadn’t before felt in the apartment. Time stood st
ill and not a word was spoken. Maybe we were thinking about which one of us would be next? Maybe we were strangled by unspoken fears?

  The next morning during the daily, unceremonious collection of bodies, mother swaddled Rivka in a pink cotton blanket, kissed her eyelids, and placed her on the top of the heap. The rest of us chose to watch from the apartment window, deeming it more appropriate to let mother handle the situation in her own way.

  CHAPTER 18

  Without a baby to care for or a husband to provide for her, my mother did what so many other women were forced to do. Though she hadn’t worked outside of the home since I was born, she went in search of employment. I begged her to stay home with Blima—she had enough on her plate already—instead of working, but she pushed my words aside. Mendel and I weren’t making enough to support the family, and for that we felt ashamed. We wanted to contribute more but our options were so limited and the competition was so fierce. The population of finely tuned skilled workers was abundant. We had nothing unique to offer anyone; we didn’t stand out. Selling armbands eventually cost my mother more in materials than we profited from selling them. The days I worked in the factory I brought in nearly nothing. The factory just inhibited my ability to focus on earning a real income. I threw around the idea of selling shoes, but I had made only a few ill-formed pairs myself—under the guidance and careful direction of my father—during my apprenticeship and had none of the necessary supplies. Mendel had no hands-on crafting experience whatsoever. Those who had spent their lives perfecting a trade had the advantage in the ghetto. Those who didn’t, like us, became scavengers.