Having been permitted to stay in the comfort of our own home, we did not have to worry, for the time being at least, about shelter. Papa’s next concern was his business. He was part owner of a factory that processed furs. Often he spoke of wanting to go to the factory to see what had happened to it, yet he knew as we all did that this would be too dangerous. We heard tales of people who went to their stores or factories only to find SS troops or the Gestapo there. They never returned. Bielitz was primarily a textile center, with an international reputation for the fine fabrics it produced. The standard of living was higher than almost anywhere else in Poland because of the large number of skilled mill workers. There were warehouses all over town filled with fabrics. In the wake of the Wehrmacht, German officials appeared and requisitioned them all.
We lived in the outskirts of Bielitz in a large, comfortable house that was over a hundred years old. Although the upstairs had been remodeled when my grandparents were married, there were still uncovered beams in the kitchen ceiling, a wide hearth, cracked stone front steps, old-fashioned windows with latches, and, in place of central heating, large tile ovens in the rooms. I loved my home because it had so many mysterious nooks, a cold earthen floor in the cellar (which I pretended was a dungeon), a rambling attic through which the wind howled, and best of all, a large garden and orchard. Part of it ran along the side of the house and joined a courtyard where there were several shacks in which we stored wood and kept chickens. Behind the house was the real garden, running along a slope, for all of Bielitz was scattered over the foothills of the Beskide mountains. Our garden had well over a hundred fruit trees, some of them very old, countless berry bushes, and a garden house surrounded by lilacs. At the edge of the garden ran a tiny brook. This was the home I had known and loved all my life.
It was not long after the whole population had been forced to register with the police that Jews received notices to turn in all gold, automobiles, bicycles, radios, even fountain pens. At first it did not seem to matter, because we were still at home, but life soon became more and more difficult. One always had to keep vigil at the window, and when a car stopped in front of the house, or the dreaded green uniform approached the front door, Papa and Arthur would hide in a closet.
At first they refused to be intimidated. Papa protested over and over again, “I didn’t do anything to anybody. I am not afraid.”
But Mama would just look at him, and that was enough. He would hide until we would sound the all-clear. Many times we heard of instances when German soldiers came to a house for information, and if a man happened to open the door, took him along; frequently that was the last the family ever saw of him. We seldom sat down to a meal without interruptions of some kind. We became tense. We learned to distinguish the noise of the hateful boots at great distances.
About the beginning of October there was a timid knock at the door. It was not the ominous thump of the Gestapo, but a hesitant, tired signal. It is strange how many feelings a knock can express, if you listen carefully. It was my father’s sister Anna with her daughter Miriam, who was my age.
Aunt Anna embraced my father, and cried, “My brother, my brother, how I thank God that He kept you for me. I am alone.”
Between sobs she told us her tragic story. Two days before the Germans entered Bielitz, she, her husband, and two children had boarded the train in an attempt to reach Warsaw. Day and night the trains had been attacked. She told us how the engine had run out of water, and how the passengers had formed a human chain to pass along cups, bottles, and pails, filled with water for it while the dead and dying lay all about them. There were nights when they had crouched beneath their seats, bombs and bullets flying over their heads. During one such attack Aunt Anna had fainted and her husband went to get some water to revive her. While he was gone a bomb fell. When she regained consciousness someone told Aunt Anna he had been torn to shreds. He never came back. Finally the locomotive was hit, and the train went no farther. Aunt Anna and her children got off and wandered on foot toward the East. It was a hot, oppressive night, she recalled. The moon was bright, and they saw what seemed like thousands upon thousands of shooting stars. They and others who were with them took it as a good omen, and went on through a sandy little desert near Kielce. They moved steadily through the night toward a forest, counting on it to be their salvation after the heat, but there they met a closed line of German guns and troops. What they had mistaken for shooting stars had been German paratroopers. Now they had their first direct experience with the Nazi methods. First, the men were segregated from the women. Thus, just after having lost her husband, Aunt Anna saw her nineteen-year-old son taken away. The men were lined up, and every tenth one was shot. The rest were marched toward the forest. Aunt Anna ran toward the scene of the massacre to find her son. A few bursts from a machine gun quieted the moanings and cries of agony, and then the footsteps of the disappearing German column echoed away in the hot wind.
Soon there was nothing left, until the voice of fifteen-year-old Miriam beside her cried gently, “But Mama, I want to live.”
On foot, by horse and buggy, and by car, they came back to Bielitz. First Aunt Anna went to her home, but found a German family living there. She passed the houses of friends and relatives but found them empty. She had hardly dared to hope that we would still be at home. Finding my father gave her new hope. They had no clothing, except the garments they wore during their flight. They had no food, no money. Everything was lost. They stayed with us, of course.
The next morning, another hesitant knock was heard at the door. It didn’t seem possible when Aunt Anna saw her son on the threshold! She could hardly believe it was true. Such happiness is rarely experienced in the ordinary span of life. Yet it was David, haggard and hungry, but alive. He told us his part of the story. When he was taken into the woods, his group stumbled onto a small company of Polish soldiers who had been hiding. During the confusion and shooting, he had climbed a tree which still had a lot of leaves, and hid there until the Germans led their prisoners deeper into the woods. A short while later uncounted shots took the lives of many. David waited in his secret roost until nightfall, and then started his journey back, walking mainly by night, resting or sleeping in wooded areas or stables by day, until he reached our home.
Days passed like a dream, like an illness with no end in sight. We lived looking forward from one day to the next, glad when a night had passed and the Gestapo hadn’t knocked at our door.
A great change came over Arthur. He grew restless and tense. Books, which normally occupied him day and night, lay untouched. He would not leave his room. He didn’t shave. He didn’t dress. He hardly touched his food, and I doubt if he slept.
One morning, when the war was almost six weeks old, Arthur announced at breakfast that he wanted to go to the center of town. We all knew that this was a dangerous venture. My parents realized that Arthur wanted to find out whether Gisa, his girl friend, had come back from the interior of Poland, whither she and her parents had fled the day of the invasion. They raised no objection to his going, told him to use his own judgment. He shaved and left, saying only, “I am going now.”
Papa and Mama watched from behind the curtains as he went down the street. They trembled and caught each other’s hands when they saw him pass a German soldier. They breathed easier when the soldier paid no attention to him. We waited anxiously, wondering how long it would take Arthur to come back, making allowance in case Gisa should have returned. I saw Papa swallow pills twice during that interminable wait. I watched Mama half-heartedly start several chores. We did not speak about Arthur or his mission but were painfully aware that each minute might spell tragedy for him.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, we saw him coming slowly toward the house. He went up to his room without speaking.
I went up to see him a few minutes later. Gisa’s picture was on his night-table. She was a lovely girl with big dark eyes and blond hair. She smiled in that picture, but as I stood looking at it her s
mile suddenly seemed sad.
I had learned not to ask questions, so I stood quietly until Arthur spoke as if to himself.
“The dog lies dead in front of her house.”
“Rolf?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I wonder,” he said after a while, “whether he died from hunger, or was killed, or whether he followed Gisa and her family, and lost them along the way and came back to die.”
Chapter 3
IN MID-OCTOBER A NOTICE CAME IN THE MAIL ORDERING MEN from sixteen to fifty to register. We were just sitting down to lunch when it came. Mama’s eyes widened as she let her glance travel from Papa to Arthur. Her lips tightened as if suppressing a cry. Papa began to pull at his mustache with his healthy hand. Arthur and David looked at each other, then lowered their eyes and pretended to be preoccupied with their food. Aunt Anna was putting salad on Miriam’s plate. Her hand quivered, the lettuce spilled. And I could think only one strange thought: that I had not realized how pleasant luncheon had been the day before.
Finally Arthur said quietly, “I have heard about it. I know what happens. Young men are taken deep into Poland to rebuild what was destroyed by the bombs.” There was a quiver in his voice.
Mama, Papa, and my Aunt Anna were pale as David added, “We will leave the day after tomorrow.”
So they had known, but had remained silent. I was surprised that Mama did not cry. She merely paced the floor, her lips pressed together. Papa’s arm hung heavy in its sling. Aunt Anna said nothing.
Later that afternoon I went up to Arthur’s room. He was looking through his books, from time to time glancing out into the garden, where the first autumn wind was whining through the trees. Leaves were piling up on the grass. The day seemed exceedingly short.
Neither of us talked much. Arthur tried several times to start a conversation but when we tried to joke our words seemed stilted, unreal. Finally, we fell silent.
I didn’t know my parents any more. I didn’t know my brother. I had never seen them silent. I would have preferred that everybody cried, that my parents cried, that the walls of the house cried, that it should rain and thunder. But this deadly silence was worst of all. The silence forced itself into my being, filled me with fright and wonder.
When Arthur and David went to register the following morning I accompanied them. Boys and men, many of whom we knew, stood in line, registered, got numbers.
One of the boys, a classmate of Arthur’s, told us that after registering, many boys from other towns were taken to camp and killed.
“Nonsense,” Arthur said to the boy, “what foolishness people try to invent.”
On the way home, we paused where the Temple used to stand. There was a mass of charred wood and bricks and scattered glass. Only one pillar stood whole and proud, strong in the autumn wind. We crawled over the debris, not caring if anyone saw us or not.
Arthur picked up a couple of pieces of glass and handed me one. He put a strong arm around me and said, “Look at that pillar. It is safe. We have to have faith. Never forget it, Gerda.”
I lost that little piece of glass somewhere in the woods of Czechoslovakia, many years later, but I never forgot my brother’s words.
Aunt Anna, David, and Miriam had left earlier to spend the night with a family in he apartment house where they had lived before the war. The family had been fortunate enough to remain in the building and had spoken to the people who now occupied Aunt Anna’s apartment, hoping that when they would see David leaving they might give him some of his belongings to take along. Aunt Anna thought she might try this, but promised to be back in the morning.
So we went home that sad day, October 18, 1939. We went to Arthur’s room. I sat down in a chair near the window and watched him. He sat at his desk, cleaning out drawer after drawer. Some papers he read and put back carefully.
I was proud of my brother, although at times I resented girls who sought my friendship because they wanted to meet him. I often saw their envious glances when I was with him and was used to the question afterward: “Who was that dark, handsome boy with you?” I was always glad and proud to say, “My brother.” For Arthur had something open and likable about him, and he had a frank, flashing smile that no one could resist. He made friends easily, old people and young alike. His wit and intelligence matched his appearance. Whatever he did, he did extremely well. He had been cited for outstanding work in chemistry and was aiming for a doctor’s degree in that subject. He wrote for a prominent publication, The Literary Guide. Just for the fun of it, he once started painting. One of his first pictures won a prize. I admired him. I often envied him. I remember him best sitting at his desk that last afternoon, looking through the mementos of his youth.
Finally Mama called us for dinner. It was as it had been all those years, those wonderful years of our childhood, when we played in our warm room, the autumn wind howling in the garden, the fire crackling in the dining room, all of us going there to share our delicious warm meal. But this was to be the last supper we would ever have together.
Arthur carried the burden of conversation that night. Lingering over our tea, I could see my parents’ desperate wish to prolong this evening as much as possible.
Finally Papa said, “You had better get to bed early tonight.”
That was the closest reference to the parting in the morning.
I couldn’t sleep that night. The wind was still whining in the branches of the trees. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked pitifully. I tiptoed to Arthur’s room. He was sound asleep. I remember sitting carefully at the foot of his bed, looking into the darkness, and there I fell asleep. The next thing I remember was Arthur’s voice, “Please, Papa, let her sleep. She is still a child.”
I wasn’t sleeping, I heard it all. I got up and ran down to the kitchen. It was still dark outside.
Mama was busying herself with breakfast. She told me to put on my coat and gave me some money to try to get some rolls for Arthur. I was to find Zeloski. Zeloski had been our gardener and general handyman. Now he worked for a bakery and delivered rolls and bread in a huge basket.
It was pitch black outside, and a fine cold rain was falling. There was a light in Arthur’s window. He apparently hadn’t finished his last-minute packing. And there was a light downstairs in the kitchen. The rest of the house was dark, and so were all the houses on the street, except for a few lights in kitchen windows.
Then I spotted Zeloski coming down the street. I ran to him. He was hard of hearing. I pulled his sleeve.
“Zeloski,” I said, “I want some rolls for Arthur. He is going away, you know.”
“He is going away?” he asked, stupefied. Zeloski had always adored Arthur. Whatever Arthur did was right in Zeloski’s eyes. Whenever Arthur and his friends trampled on flowers and broke bushes while playing Indian, Zeloski always found a way to shift the blame from Arthur, even if it meant putting it on me.
He gave me some rolls, and I gave him the money.
“Too bad,” he said, “the boy was so bright.”
Shaking his old head, he started shuffling on his way.
“What do you mean ‘He was’?” I shouted at him.
“You won’t see him again,” he said.
I started shaking his arm.
“Zeloski, are you crazy? You are an old fool.”
Some of the rolls spilled from his basket. He shook his head sadly.
“I hate you!” I screamed at him, and kicked some of his rolls toward the gutter. Then I ran toward the house.
Papa, Mama, and Arthur were sitting at the table. I put the rolls in the bread basket. Mama poured Arthur’s cocoa. I sat down at my place. I don’t recall what they were talking about, but when Papa looked around, I felt that he was taking in the picture of all of us at the table. He wanted to say something but his voice broke. With an abrupt movement, such as I had not seen since he had become ill, he got up and ran out. Mama indicated with her eyes that I should follow him, and she continued talking to Arthur, who appea
red to ignore the incident.
The scene in the hall upstairs was heartbreaking. Papa stood close to the door of Arthur’s room looking in where his clothing was carelessly thrown around. He leaned against the wall, his healthy arm held over his eyes. Thus bent, he hardly seemed the six-foot man who had used to walk so erect. How gray his brown hair had turned. Then I saw big tears running down his cheeks.
It was the first time in my life that I had seen my father cry. He was crying without a sound. Until then, my big strong father had been the ultimate power, granting or denying everything in my life. Now he was as helpless as I.
An overwhelming feeling of pity and pain swept over me. I embraced Papa. The touch of my arms made him shiver, and a suppressed and terrible sobbing cry rose from his throat, a cry which I will never forget, which had no resemblance to the human voice; it sounded rather like the cry of an animal when it has been stabbed and is dying. I was to hear that cry later, many times, when people were being killed.
“Oh, Papa, Papa!”
He motioned me away.
I went back down to the kitchen. Mama was buttering a roll for Arthur, and they were talking. After a while Papa came in, and Arthur looked at the clock. It was getting close to six. Oh my God, how fast the time had gone! There would be another ten minutes before he would have to go. Then we would have to say good-by; there was nothing now to prevent it from happening. The minutes stretched to eternity. I had a desire to get it over with as soon as possible.
All But My Life Page 2
