All But My Life

by Gerda Weissmann Klein

  There were about 250 Jewish people left in Bielitz, most of them old and sick. None of our once numerous kin were in this group, and there were few of our old friends. Just a handful of trusting, lonely people who either could not or would not leave Bielitz.

  As the days went by and we settled into monotonous routine, we relied more and more on the news and rumors we heard at the Kultusgemeinde. More and more frequently the dreaded word Aussiedlung (deportation) crept into conversations. Young people, we heard, were sent to labor camps. The old ones were sent to Auschwitz. Even then we knew what kind of a camp it was. Somehow we never believed that what happened to Jews in other towns would ever happen to us. Each time, however, that I returned from the Kultusgemeinde I would swiftly run up the steps to the apartment that we shared with the Kolländers to be reassured that Papa and Mama were still there.

  The Kolländers were very religious. The pious old mother alternately cried or prayed. There were also two unmarried daughters in their late twenties and a son about forty-five years old. He had been paralyzed in both legs early in the war when a tunnel under his home had been blown up. His wife and only daughter were somewhere in the part of Poland still occupied by Russia.

  In the adjoining apartment lived a couple by the name of Freudenreich. Mrs. Freudenreich was a frail, sweet, gentle person. Her eyes were always red. The first day I saw her and said good morning she asked me to come in. I was struck by a large number of photographs and paintings in her room, all of a girl of about nine or ten. Her room was like a shrine for her young daughter, who had died in an accident in Vienna a few years before. Mrs. Freudenreich talked in a monotone about her daughter and her tragic death. I said nothing. When I got up she kissed me. “It’s been so long since I kissed a child,” she said. “You must come often.” And I did.

  Downstairs lived a young woman with charming twin girls. They were four years old, golden blond and blue-eyed. I loved to play with them while their mother told me about her husband, who had gone with the same transport as Arthur. She showed me some of his letters. They were full of love and anxiety to see his children. Those dreams were never to come true.

  In another room near ours a middle-aged woman lived with her old mother. The mother was dying of cancer and the daughter seemed to be losing her sanity. Her biggest concern was her inability to obtain olive oil for her complexion.

  When I thought of our neighbors, I sometimes had a feeling that we were the only normal family there.

  We got used to living in the ghetto. Ilse, Rita, and Ruth lived close by and I saw them often. Abek came as frequently as before.

  We had been in the ghetto for about two weeks when one day, while only Papa and I were home, there was a knock at the door strong enough to break it. We knew it could only be the Gestapo. Papa hid in the wardrobe while I opened the door and faced a husky, red-faced, uniformed man with pistol in hand.

  “Where is your father?” he shouted at me.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “Don’t you have one?”

  I shook my head.

  “What are you? A bastard?” he yelled. “All Jews are bastards.”

  “Where is your father?” he yelled again.

  “I don’t know.” I could hardly move my lips.

  “You will tell me right now or I will shoot you like a dog.” He pointed his pistol at my heart. I felt its cold muzzle pressing my breast. When I heard Papa move in the wardrobe, I was paralyzed with horror, realizing that he might show himself in order to save me. At this moment there was a tooting of horns and shouting outside.

  The intruder lowered his gun and hurried away. We learned later that the Gestapo had combed the ghetto in search of someone and that the sound of the horn was a signal that the victim had been found.

  White as paper, Papa staggered out of the wardrobe. He had heard the threats but had not known that the pistol was already touching my breast. Papa’s eyes were glassy. He lay exhausted on his bed and I brought him water. When he winced in pain and sweat broke out on his brow, I gave him one of the pills Dr. Reach had left for emergencies.

  “Don’t tell Mama,” he whispered. I shook my head.

  “There is one wish,” Papa continued, “one wish only–you and Arthur.” He fell into a gentle sleep. I wiped the sweat from his forehead. Slowly a little color came back into his face.

  Then fear gripped me that my beloved Papa might die. I shut my eyes tight to avoid seeing his gray hair, his lined face, his frayed sleeves–to feel for a moment close to the happy, vital Papa of my childhood.

  When Papa woke, after an hour’s rest, he seemed a shade paler, a shade grayer and older.

  Chapter 12

  A FEW DAYS LATER, ON MAY 8, I WOKE UP WITH PAPA AND Mama kissing me and saying “Happy birthday.” Mama pressed something into my hand. An orange! I hadn’t seen one in almost three years.

  “Where did you get it, Mama?” But Mama would not tell. She smiled with the old merry twinkle in her sad eyes. Mama had always loved surprises.

  Papa and Mama wanted me to eat all of the orange, but finally they each accepted a section. Later I learned from the Kolländers that Mama had given a valuable ring to obtain the one orange. It was the last birthday gift I was ever to get from my parents.

  Abek came and brought me a portrait of Arthur that he had painted from a photo. I was touched by the thought, and the likeness was excellent. I placed it on the table and for a while it gave the illusion that Arthur was with us. Abek also brought roses for my birthday. Roses in the ghetto. How unreal they looked! Somehow they were not mine, but I was tremendously pleased. Ilse, Rita, and Ruth came too. Ilse brought me a pin, a little white dog pin. Ruth and Rita brought note paper. Mama had made oatmeal cookies that tasted just like nut macaroons. “The rations, Mama?” I asked, but she just smiled in her old carefree way. I remember it as a very happy day and I shall never forget it.

  My guests departed. I stood alone on the wooden balcony in the dusk. All of a sudden I had an intense longing for my garden. I closed my eyes and almost felt its aroma–the cool white lilacs kissed by a May rain … . I wanted to run, run home. If I ran fast I could be there in half an hour. But my garden was as remote as paradise. “I am eighteen years old,” I confided to the old wooden post, “eighteen today.”

  Shortly after my birthday a notice was posted that all able-bodied persons were to register for work, inasmuch as there was a critical shortage of labor. A notice followed proclaiming that those who failed to register would be sent to Auschwitz, described in the notice as a newly created concentration camp about twenty miles away.

  Papa, Mama, and I registered. Papa was told that he would work in Sucha, where the Germans were fortifying the river. It was a two-hour train ride. Mama and I were to work in Wadowitz in a shop that sewed military garments, which was about the same distance away but in a different direction. There was a general feeling of newly found security. The wages of course would be ridiculously small, barely enough to cover the train fare. But we would be safe now, and might be able to stay in the Bielitz ghetto.

  Papa got up at four every morning. He had to be at work before seven. I trembled when I thought that he would have to push a wheelbarrow and work up to his knees in water. I ran home to our room every evening after work, grateful that he would be there for the all-too-short night. When Mama and I came home from work a little after eight, Papa was usually going to bed.

  After a week or so Mama was not needed at the shop; for a while they had enough help. It was good that Mama did not have to go; she could have supper ready for us and keep our room in order. I enjoyed going to the shop, even though we had to assemble and march out of the ghetto under guard, and be counted like cattle at departure and arrival. The train ride was a pleasant break in the monotony. I loved seeing the forests we passed, the mountains in the distance, the meadows strewn with flowers. But best of all I liked to open the train window and shout at the top of my voice. The clatter of the wheels would drown my voice.
To shout or sing was a luxury I hadn’t enjoyed in a long, long time. There always were people close by, old people, sick people. On the train I could sing off key to my heart’s content. I missed Abek, because I didn’t see him all week, but he came as often as he could and left letters for me with Mama.

  Surprisingly, Papa looked better. The sun gave him a little color. I only noticed that he rubbed his arm more frequently. It bothered him, but he never complained.

  One gloriously beautiful Sunday, early in June, Abek came and suggested that we go for a walk. It was a wonderful and daring idea. By crossing the railroad tracks behind the ghetto it was possible to get through the meadow into the forest.

  Abek was in an unusual mood. I had never seen him quite so lighthearted. As we crossed into the forest he tried to kiss me several times. I laughingly avoided him. This time he was not too angry with me. He took my hand and we ran down the green slope over daisies and buttercups.

  I could touch the grass and the flowers instead of admiring them from a distance. Running down the hill I noticed something quite peculiar: running alongside of me, Abek was laughing too but with the gaiety of a grandfather playing hide-and-seek with a grandchild.

  A couple of hours must have passed. It seemed a shame that this beautiful day had to end. Again we raced, this time up the hill. I got to the top first, sat down, and urged Abek to hurry. He came up breathlessly, flung himself down at my side, and started kissing me. I was calmly observing a curiously shaped cloud in the sky. When I pointed it out, Abek exclaimed, “Haven’t you any feelings?” I was surprised, not quite knowing what he was talking about. He kissed me and asked me over and over again, “You will marry me, won’t you?” but I continued to gather flowers without answering. Finally, we went home.

  The following Friday we had to work longer than usual at the shop. It was quite dark as the train puffed through the sleepy landscape. We were not to work Saturday and Sunday and the two free days stretched ahead enticingly. I was in a gay mood, and gave the other girls imitations of people in the shop. I was quite good at it and the girls roared with laughter. The train stopped at a deserted little station. As Ilse and I stood at the open window we heard footsteps on the short platform. Then we heard voices and we saw two young men pass by. One of them said, “Today it’s Andrichau, on Monday Bielitz.” Ilse and I looked at each other. Was it? I felt a little nudging pain under my heart. We did not speak for the rest of the trip.

  At home Papa was still up despite the lateness of the hour. He and Mama were both waiting for me. When I finished eating my supper, Papa motioned me to sit on his bed.

  “What is it, Papa?” I asked, unable to bear the silence any longer. He stroked my hair but did not answer. Fear gripped me! Had they heard something too? When Papa said nothing I kissed him good night. He held me longer, much longer than usual. So did Mama.

  I lay still in my bed, but sleep would not come. I was terribly afraid. And when finally I fell asleep I had horrible dreams. Toward morning I woke and saw Mama and Papa packing an old knapsack. I sat up in bed, demanding an explanation. For a moment there was silence; then Papa sat down on my bed and told me that in the morning–Saturday–he had to go to Sucha, where he worked. A camp was being formed there. On Monday Mama and I were to be moved to Wadowitz. Bielitz, our home town, would then be Judenrein–clear of Jews. Now I remembered what I had overheard at the little station. I wanted to shout, to cry out, to fight, but Papa’s and Mama’s strength kept me silent. How composed they were, packing and talking so casually!

  We got word that Papa and the other men were to leave on Sunday, a day later than scheduled. A strange silence fell over the ghetto. I went downstairs to play with the little twins. I could not stand seeing Papa and Mama, yet I ran back every few minutes to be with them. Abek came. He and Papa embraced.

  After supper, pretending to sleep, I listened to Papa and Mama talking. They talked both of the good life they had together and of what was to come–how the war would end soon, how Arthur would come back, and how he would have matured: “It is good for a man to have been away for a while,” Papa commented. Presently, they discussed me: how much of life I had missed because of the war. “We will make it up to her,” Mama said. “She shall have the prettiest dresses, dancing, and everything a young girl should have.”

  They talked about their parents, about the first years of their marriage, about waiting through the First World War … their reunion … when Arthur was born. Listening, I wanted to cry out–to reassure, to be reassured–but I bit my pillow in pain and kept silent.

  And so they talked on through the night, animated and happy. They faced what the morning would bring with the only weapon they had–their love for each other. Love is great, love is the foundation of nobility, it conquers obstacles and is a deep well of truth and strength. After hearing my parents talk that night I began to understand the greatness of their love. Their courage ignited within me a spark that continued to glow through the years of misery and defeat. The memory of their love–my only legacy–sustained me in happy and unhappy times in Poland, Germany, Czechoslovakia, France, Switzerland, England. It is still part of me, here in America.

  In the morning we did not talk about the train that was to leave a few hours hence. Silently we sat at the table. Then Papa picked up his Bible and started to read. Mama and I just sat looking at him. Then all of a sudden Papa looked up and asked Mama where my skiing shoes were.

  “Why?” I asked, baffled.

  “I want you to wear them tomorrow when you go to Wadowitz.”

  “But Papa, skiing shoes in June?”

  He said steadily: “I want you to wear them tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Papa, I will,” I said in a small voice.

  I wonder why Papa insisted; how could he possibly have known? Those shoes played a vital part in saving my life. They were sturdy and strong, and when three years later they were taken off my frozen feet they were good still … .

  When it came time to leave, Papa and Mama embraced. Then Papa put his hands on my head in benediction, as he had done for Arthur. His hands trembled. He held me a while, then lifted my chin up and looked into my eyes. We were both weeping.

  “My child,” he managed. It was a question and a promise. I understood. I threw myself wildly into his embrace, clinging to him in desperation for the last time. I gave him my most sacred vow: “Yes, Papa.” We had always understood each other, but never better than in that last hour.

  And so we went to the station, across the meadow, taking the longer way, trying to be together as long as possible. A crowd was already assembled. Papa was asked for his identification. We went out onto the platform with him. The train would leave in a few minutes. People were saying their heartbreaking good-bys.

  Papa entered the last car and went to the open platform at the rear to see us as long as possible. There he stood in his good gray suit, his only one, his shoulders sloping, his hair steel gray in the sun, on his breast the yellow star and black word.

  There he stood, already beyond my reach, my father, the center of my life, just labeled JEW.

  A shrill whistle blew through the peaceful afternoon. Like a puppet a conductor lifted a little red flag. Chug-chug-chug –puffs of smoke rose. The train began to creep away. Papa’s eyes were fixed upon us. He did not move. He did not wave. He did not call farewell. Unseen hands were moving him farther and farther away from us.

  We watched until the train was out of sight. I never saw my father again.

  Only after several moments did I become conscious of the fact that Mama was with me. She took my hand like that of a baby and we started to walk toward the ghetto. I didn’t once look at her. Only after a while did I realize that she too was weeping.

  That night she fixed me something to eat and I ate to please her. She asked me to sleep with her in Papa’s bed. I did so reluctantly. I was half asleep when I felt her arms around me, clinging to me in desperation. All my life I shall be sorry that I did not feel more tender that ni
ght. When Mama needed me most I wanted to be alone. I pulled away like a wounded animal that wants to lick its wounds in peace. Finally I fell asleep–on a pillow soaked with my mother’s tears.

  We rose early. While I put on my skiing boots Mama made me a cup of cocoa–the precious cocoa which she had saved for almost three years for a special occasion.

  “Aren’t you eating, Mama?” I asked.

  “It’s Monday,” she answered. Mama had fasted every Monday for half a day since Arthur had left.

  “But today,” I said, “you should eat something.”

  “Today especially not,” she answered from the window, holding the ivory-bound prayer book she had carried as a bride. She prayed and watched me–and I watched her. The chives were uprooted on the window sill. Yesterday we had taken out the few remaining jewels, sewed some into Papa’s jacket, Mama’s corset, my coat.

  A shrill whistle blew through the ghetto. It was time to leave.

  When we had made our way downstairs we saw the woman with the lovely complexion, Miss Pilzer, screaming and begging to be allowed to go with her mother. The dying old woman was thrown on a truck meant for the aged and ill. Here the SS man kicked her and she screamed. He kicked her again.

  On the same truck were Mr. Kolländer, the man with paralyzed legs, and the mother with her little girls. The twins were smiling; unaware of what was happening, they were busy catching the raindrops. An epileptic woman was put on the truck; her dog jumped after her. The SS man kicked him away, but the dog kept on trying to get in the truck. To our horror, the SS man pulled his gun and shot the dog. I looked toward Mama. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to be held by her–to be comforted. Now it was too late.

  Leaving the invalids behind, we assembled in a field in a suburb of Bielitz called Larchenfeld. Here we were left in the rain to wait. After about four hours the SS men finally came in a shiny black car, their high boots polished to perfection. A table was set up and covered with a cloth–a tablecloth in the rain!–and at that table they checked the lists of the people present.