All But My Life

by Gerda Weissmann Klein

  With zest I threw myself into my studies. Twice a week I went to Ulla’s, carrying a shopping bag with a few potatoes covering my English grammar.

  One hot day in July I was on my way to Ulla’s, wearing a white dress, too short, too childish for my age, and pinned to it the star of David with the word JEW. My hair had grown long, and I wore it in braids. As I passed the municipal swimming pool I could hear the gay music of the small orchestra inside. Surrounded by exquisitely kept lawns and flower beds, it was the most modern and beautiful pool in Poland. How many happy days we had all spent there.

  Through the gates I heard the playful voices of the bathers. I saw colorful beach balls thrown high in the air. I heard the delicious gurgle of fresh water. Feeling hot and sticky, I was full of envy and resentment at being denied all this. My long-sleeved dress and the potatoes seemed unusually burdensome.

  Suddenly I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and heard, “What do you want here?” barked at me.

  It was a policeman.

  “Nothing,” I murmured, “nothing,” and I began to move along.

  His eyes fell on my shopping bag.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Just potatoes,” I replied.

  He turned the bag upside down. The potatoes rolled into the gutter and out fell the book with its incriminating title.

  “Ah, that’s it!” he exclaimed with obvious relish. “Come to the police station. Learning English will be the last pleasure of your life!”

  I followed him meekly. What else could I do? I reproached myself bitterly, and felt a paralyzing fear, for I knew it was not uncommon to be condemned to death for violations of rules no worse than the one I had broken. My parents would probably be held responsible for what I had done.

  In a few hours they would become worried waiting for me. Papa would pace the floor and Mama would finally run over to Ulla’s, only to learn that I had not been there. Then she would rush home, hoping that I had arrived in the meantime. Then she would hurry over to see Escia and ask if I had been there, and she would continue her vigil until nightfall. I couldn’t think beyond that.

  I wanted to plead with the policeman to let me go, but I couldn’t talk. There were tears in my eyes.

  The music and the laughter of the bathers faded into the distance. The sun seemed to have ceased to shine. All of a sudden I felt cold, and I started to tremble.

  When we got to the station house, the policeman took me into a room where an older man with a shiny bald head sat at a wide desk. The bald man had been writing, but he stopped and looked up when the policeman pointed to me, and with obvious pride described his discovery of my crime. When he finished the officer behind the desk barked at me, “Do you realize what you have done?”

  I simply nodded.

  He picked up my book and glanced through it. The passing minutes seemed an eternity.

  The policeman sat down and smoked a cigarette, quite satisfied with himself.

  The officer laid down my book. Then he looked at the policeman and said, “This is a terrible crime. It is almost espionage to learn English while we are at war with England. The punishment will be meted out accordingly.”

  There was a lump in my throat. I wanted to say so many things, to plead, but I was unable to speak.

  “I have to give it a few minutes’ thought,” he announced. Then, turning to the policeman, he thanked him for his good work and sent him back to his patrol.

  As soon as the policeman left, the bald officer turned to me. His voice softened to a more human tone.

  “Now run home as fast as you can,” he said, “and forget your English.”

  For a moment I couldn’t believe my good fortune and I stood as though nailed to the floor.

  “What are you waiting for?” he snapped.

  I wanted to thank him, but words would not come. At that moment I did on impulse what I had been taught to do as a child, when meeting a distinguished person. I curtsied. I curtsied low and ran out.

  I ran home as fast as I could. I experienced inexpressible joy on seeing my parents again, seeing again the basement room that we called home. But I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened. The next day I announced that I was fed up with English lessons and that I would start them again “after the war.”

  They didn’t question me, for which I was grateful. They made no comment. Perhaps they were relieved at my decision, knowing the risk I had been running.

  I have often thought about that officer, and wondered why he let me go. Was he really kind? Did he have a daughter my own age? I wish I knew. I met many hundreds of Germans in the years that followed, but only two, and he was the first, who behaved as though they were human!

  After the all too brief weeks with Ulla I again fell into a state of apathy. I could not read, slept little, and cried a lot.

  It was the beginning of September, 1941, almost two years to the day since the German motorcycles had sped through the streets of our town, when Ilse stormed excitedly into the house to tell me of a boys’ camp that had been formed by the SS. Ilse always had the news first, since she lived near the Kultusgemeinde, the Jewish Community Center, where all the news circulated. Ilse and her mother had visited the camp the previous day and she told me that there were thirty Jewish boys in it. “It really is not bad at all,” Ilse informed me. “You know, you think of a camp in terms of all the stories you hear.”

  Ilse asked me to visit the camp with her the following day. I declined.

  That evening Papa said to me, “I am surprised at you. Why don’t you want to go? Do you realize Arthur might be in a camp like that and how glad he would be if someone would visit him?”

  That did it.

  Together with her mother, Ilse and I went late the next afternoon to the camp. It was only a short distance from Bielitz and could easily be reached from our house by a shortcut which led over meadows and several small brooks.

  The camp–a converted factory–was a big square four-story building with a yard in the center. An old German guard stood at the entrance and when we told him what we wanted he let us in.

  Mrs. Kleinzähler, Ilse’s mother, knew one of the boys and started talking to him. I felt quite lost. I walked over to a window, pretending to look out, but I was curious to see the boys. I had seen few Jewish boys since the transport had left.

  Their room was big, one side of it occupied by a row of bunks. There were family photographs tacked to the wall over the bunks. An oblong table stood in the center of the room and a few of the boys were eating.

  I felt so self-conscious, I did not know what to do with myself. Ilse stood in a far corner with her mother and I did not have the courage to cross the room. I felt that everyone would watch me.

  Suddenly a tall man of perhaps thirty with a Red Cross band around his arm, either a doctor or male nurse, approached me, introduced himself, and asked whether I was from Bielitz. He told me that he had lived here for several years. We discovered that we had quite a number of friends in common.

  As we talked I became uncomfortably conscious of a man watching me from a nearby bunk and intermittently writing. He would write a couple of lines, then look at me, write, then look again.

  He was slim, wore a navy-blue shirt and gray slacks. He had a tan, lean face, a prominent nose, a cynical mouth, and a determined chin. When he looked up, his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses were steel gray, searching, and seemingly cold. His hair was dark and wavy. What struck me most forcibly were his fingers. They were long and nervous. I felt uneasy under his searching eyes.

  The man to whom I was talking told me that antique furniture, paintings, and other valuables from the homes of Jews who had been liquidated were stored in the factory. Here they were repaired and refinished, if necessary, and then sent to furnish the apartments of German officers.

  “We have quite a collection of paintings,” he said. “Would you care to see them?”

  “I would love to,” I replied.

  We went up two
flights. He opened a heavy door and we entered the storeroom. In the fading afternoon light I saw beautiful paintings, vases, inlaid tables, marble-topped consoles, Chinese curios, pianos, tapestries, treasures from many homes. They were covered with dust.

  I fancied that I had seen some of the things before–in the houses of friends.

  As I was admiring an inlaid table my companion was called away. I wandered alone among the furniture until I came to a corner of the room, where, behind a piano, I saw a life-size portrait of a beautiful girl holding a torch. Her hair was hanging about her shoulders, her eyes shone with a strange power of hope and conviction. She was so incredibly beautiful that I gasped. I had never seen hope, power, and determination thus expressed. The faint light coming through the dusty windows illuminated the canvas to perfection.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” said a voice behind me.

  “I wonder who put her there,” I said without turning around. I was carried away by my emotions.

  “I did.” The voice was nearer now.

  I turned around, and there he stood, the stranger with the penetrating gray eyes. I was annoyed that he was there, and yet pleased that he understood what I meant.

  “What would you call her?” he asked.

  “Hope,” I said without hesitation.

  “Or Wisdom,” he added. “Come, I will show you something.”

  He led me to the other end of the storeroom. In a corner stood an easel, a canvas on it with a half-finished painting.

  “Do you paint?” I guessed.

  “A little,” he answered. “Stand there, as you did in front of the picture,” he ordered.

  I started to laugh.

  He took my hand and pressed it firmly.

  “You are going to sit for me,” he commanded with a determination that I disliked.

  “No,” I said, just as determined, and started down the stairs. Ilse and her mother were ready to leave. We said our good-bys, and I turned to the imperious artist.

  “I hope you can keep the picture in its hiding place for a long time.”

  “Our picture,” he replied.

  I felt like fighting with him, but restrained myself.

  “I will take you home,” he said, turning to Mrs. Kleinzähler and Ilse. As we left the building he turned to me and said, “By the way, we were not properly introduced.”

  His name was Abek Feigenblatt. I wanted to know more about him, yet I was afraid to ask. I was curiously disturbed, annoyed and yet pleased. He must be around thirty, I thought, practically an old man. Just then he asked how old I was.

  “Sixteen,” I said, but corrected myself. “Almost seventeen.”

  He smiled. “Well, I will see you soon,” he said.

  “Perhaps.” I was not too encouraging.

  “I know I will,” was his confident reply as he waved good-by.

  Nervous, excited, and feeling foolish, I turned and entered our house.

  Chapter 8

  THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY PAPA DECIDED THAT HE WOULD GO WITH me to the cemetery. It was the only place where Jews could freely enjoy nature. Until that Sunday Papa and Mama had shown no desire to visit it, even though their parents were buried there. But Papa had been confined to the house so much he longed to see green trees and breathe fresh air.

  We visited the old section of the cemetery that I liked best. It had not been tended for years and a thick, untrimmed hedge ran all around it. Many of the stones, we noted, were sinking deep into the earth. Papa read the barely legible Hebrew inscriptions, and translated them for me.

  Suddenly we heard somebody approaching. Looking up, I saw Abek. After I had introduced him to Papa he said that he had met Escia strolling along one of the paths and she had told him that Papa and I were nearby.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said simply. I felt Papa’s swift questioning glance, but he did not say anything.

  When Abek learned that we had been reading the inscriptions on the stones he addressed Papa in fluent Hebrew. This seemed the right moment for me to get away.

  “I am sure that you and Papa will get along fine without me. I want to see Ilse anyway,” I said, and ran as fast as I could.

  After an hour or so, I saw Papa and Abek coming down the path leading to Escia’s home, talking with great animation. Papa was glad to find someone he could talk to about the study of Hebrew.

  “Just imagine,” he told me, “Abek has a book that I have wanted to read for a long time. Now I can finally get it.”

  “I am very glad,” I said unenthusiastically, “but I think we ought to go home. Mama will be waiting.”

  Papa looked at me curiously. I usually urged him to stay out longer. He spent too much of his time in the damp cellar room.

  “Let us go home then,” he agreed.

  “I’ll see you very soon,” Abek said in farewell.

  We walked home in silence.

  Papa told Mama of the encounter with Abek, and how glad he was to have found another Hebrew scholar. I was knitting, and tried not to pay any attention.

  While Mama was fixing supper, Papa called me to his side. “I want to talk to you about Abek,” he said quietly.

  “What about him?” I feigned indifference.

  “I am convinced that the boy cares a lot for you.”

  “Papa, you are talking silly. I don’t even know him.” I started to walk away.

  “Wait just one minute,” he said, “Abek is a fine boy. I could see it during the short time that I spent with him. The fact that you hardly mentioned him is proof enough that you may care for him. I only ask one thing of you: whatever life may bring, try not to make any decisions during this horrible war. Grow up slowly. Enjoy life. I want to see you laughing more than anything else. You have already cried enough in your young life.”

  Several days later, when Abek came and brought Papa the book he had promised, I made it my business not to remain at home.

  Papa was quite annoyed that I did not return until late, and he told me that Abek had asked about me several times. He had even offered to fetch me from Ilse’s house, where I had gone, but Papa had persuaded him to stay.

  The news from the Eastern front was disheartening, and there were no letters from Arthur. This time we all knew much better how to conceal our concern.

  My girl friends in Bielitz had heard from their brothers. Gisa, in Krakow, wrote again and again, this time not kindling our hopes, but expecting comfort from us.

  One bright morning early in October the mailman handed me two letters, one from a friend living in the Gouvernement, the other, a square white envelope without a return address, addressed in black ink in unfamiliar writing.

  As I opened this one the black ink seemed to be transformed into a rainbow of colors. Scribbled on a tiny sheet, in Arthur’s handwriting, were a few words telling that he was well and working and that he would write more as soon as the mail could go through normal channels again. Someone apparently had taken that note into the Gouvernement, and a stranger had transmitted it to us from there.

  Papa’s and Mama’s eyes glittered with tears of joy. It was. the second time Arthur had escaped the murderous Germans.

  That afternoon Abek came. In my happiness I was kind to him and a different relationship developed. From then on he came almost daily. Inasmuch as he worked outside the camp, restoring paintings and hanging them in German homes, he came and went unchallenged. He seemed to enjoy more privileges than anybody else in camp, perhaps because he painted portraits for the guards.

  He brought me books, and we had many discussions. Often, after having talked to me for several hours, he would return to camp, only to write me a lengthy letter.

  Life had new meaning, and became more and more interesting. Abek no longer assumed the superior air with me that he employed in talking to others, but unconsciously fell into the role of older brother. He was six years older than I, but this difference in age, which at first had seemed greater to me, became less and less important. My parents were glad about Abek’s com
ing. Papa had someone to talk to, and they knew it was very good for me to have a friend.

  Toward the end of October we received our first direct letter from Arthur since the Germans had attacked Russia. It was not much different from his earlier brief note. He was working in a chemical plant and was well. Though he assured us that we were not to worry about him, I thought I detected a reference to hardship.

  November came with lots of snow and frost and we had to face the prospect of a bleak, heatless winter with little food. One morning Ilse arrived, completely out of breath. After she recovered she told us that a policeman had seen her beautiful piano and had ordered her to turn it over to him. With tears in her eyes she said, “Please come home with me, Gerda. I want to play it for the last time.”

  Since Jews were not allowed on busses, we had an hour’s walk in a bitter wind. After the ordeal Ilse’s house was a haven of warmth. Her grandparents and mother anxiously inquired about my parents. Ilse’s little sister Kitty, a sweet child with large dark eyes and piquant, pointed face, cuddled on my lap and asked to be told stories, until finally Mrs. Kleinzähler called her away. The grownups left the room and I stayed alone with Ilse. She sat down at the piano; I settled into the deep wine-colored couch and listened to her playing.

  The snowy wind was howling at the windows and by four o’clock it began to grow dark. Ilse did not turn on the light. She kept on playing without pause; first, gay waltzes, then stormy polonaises, Chopin’s “Funeral March,” lilting dance melodies. Her choices reflected our many moods. When the street lamps across the road were lighted, their dim light fell on Ilse and created a grotesque shadow of her on the polished wood of the piano. She was now completely absorbed, giving herself entirely to her music.

  Away from her piano Ilse was shy and withdrawn; only through her music was she able to express herself openly. Her music seemed to ask over and over again that painful “Why?” that our hearts kept asking; and that “Why?” she asked with bluish lips three and a half years later in another darkness in a wet, cold meadow as she died in my arms, having barely turned eighteen.