by Evans, Mike
Finally, one hot summer day, water stopped running from the kitchen faucet. Mama could take it no more and she shouted at Papa, “I told you we should leave!”
“Yes, you’ve said that before.”
“Then why are we still here?” Her voice was loud and abrasive. “When we could have gone,” Papa said dryly, “you didn’t want to go. Then when we couldn’t, you finally decided you did, but by then it was too late.”
“But look where we are now. They bring strangers into our house. Tell us we have to accommodate them. Is it our house anymore? No! It’s their house. The Germans. The Nazis. They own this house now and they took it from us without the slightest nod to the legal system.” She lowered her voice. “Alois was right. He saw it coming and you ignored him.”
“I don’t need Alois to tell me what to do with my own family.”
The lone bright spot for me came with Stephan’s visits. He continued to come by each evening and we sat together on the front steps. As more people were placed in the house, we resorted to walks at night in the neighborhood for a few moments of privacy. Those walks brought us relief from conditions at home but all around us we saw the scene repeated at houses up and down the street.
“How did it come to this?” I sighed. “Greed,” Stephan offered.
“That’s it? This was all because of greed?” “Yes,” he nodded. “Greed and hatred.”
“You may be right,” I conceded. “They blame us for everything they think is wrong. Losing the war, losing the monarchy, snow in the winter, hunger. They blame all of it on us.”
“When we are rich,” he echoed, “they say we control the markets. When we are poor, they say we only want welfare.”
“Where will it end?”
He grimaced. “Not in a good place, I’m afraid.” “What do you mean?”
“Word is, the Nazis are building camps here in Austria, just as they have in Germany.”
“Camps? For what?” “For Jews.”
I still could not believe it. “They could do that? In Austria?” “They’re building one right now. Between Mauthausen and Gusen.” “That is not possible.”
“I am afraid it is.”
As summer gave way to autumn, officials from the Interior Ministry, along with German soldiers, came through our neighborhood. They tacked notices on the doors of each home and affixed them to streetlight poles and handed them out to anyone who passed by. The notice informed us that all Jews were now required to enroll with the Central Office for Jewish Emigration. Mama tore the notice from our door and brought it inside to Papa. He was seated at the kitchen table, which had become his place of refuge from the many who filled our house.
“We already filed forms with the Office of Economic Rehabilitation,” she complained. “Isn’t that enough?”
“This is different.” Papa studied the notice. “That form was about the tax. This one is about something else.”
“What else?” “Emigration.”
“Immigration? We are already here.”
“Em-igration,” he said, stressing the pronunciation of the first syllable. “They want us to leave.”
“I do not want to go anywhere,” Mama retorted. “This is Austria.
This is my home.”
“Just a few days ago, you said you wanted to go.”
“I was mad then,” she said, almost laughing. “They can’t make me do anything I don’t want to.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Benjamin Murmelstein heard them talking and came to the kitchen. Papa handed him the notice. “Now they want us to register again.”
Murmelstein read the notice and laid it on the table. “Some of the people upstairs do not want to submit to the authorities. They don’t trust them.”
“Who?”
“The man in the attic. I don’t know his name.” “Ehud Averbuch,” Mama added.
“Yes,” Murmelstein nodded. “That’s the one. And his wife, too. They are from a rural area. Somewhere west of here.”
“A little village near Steyr,” Mama offered.
Murmelstein seemed amused. “You know this much about them all?” “I know most of their names,” she smiled. “It would be rude not to know the names of your houseguests.” “They are hardly your guests.”
“Ahh,” she waved her hand. “They are in my house. They are my guests.”
“Well, Averbuch does not want to file the form.”
Just then Averbuch appeared at the kitchen doorway. “What is it I do not want to do?”
“We were discussing the form,” Papa told him. He pointed at the notice that lay on the table. Averbuch picked it up, glanced at it briefly, then tossed it aside. “I do not trust them. Whatever they know about me, they will use against me. Why should I give them the ammunition for the gun they point at me?”
“I think you should comply. After all, they are the government.”
“They are not my government.” Averbuch placed his hand on his chest. “I still swear allegiance to Charles I.”
“It doesn’t matter to whom you swear allegiance,” Papa explained. “We must deal with the Nazis now and I think it would be better if we complied.”
“Better?”
“Everything they want to know is public knowledge—your education, training, and occupation.”
“They will never get the form from me,” Averbuch said defiantly. Murmelstein did not like it. “You may endanger us all if you do not.” The following day, I walked with Papa, Mama, and David to the Central Office for Jewish Emigration. A clerk at the office reviewed our forms and accepted them without delay. Five hours later, we departed the building with identification cards, complete with our photographs, as proof of registration.
Early one morning the following month, agents from the Ministry of Public Security arrived on our block. I watched from the porch as they went from house to house on the opposite side of the street. Slowly at first, people came from the houses in ones and twos, each of them carrying a small suitcase. They seemed reluctant to go and the soldiers hurried them along.
As I watched through the front window I noticed no one had come from the Jelineks’ house, directly opposite ours. A soldier stepped onto their porch and tried the door but it appeared to be locked. He turned toward the street, shouting and waving his arms, then three more soldiers joined him. To the right of the door I saw furniture in front of the window. Moments later, one of the Public Security officials came up the street and turned onto the walkway leading toward their house. Suddenly a window flew open upstairs and a chair sailed out. It landed
on the sidewalk and smashed to pieces, followed by another that landed in the grass. Instinctively, the officer ducked with his hands over his head and backed out of the way.
Within minutes, an armored tank arrived, belching smoke and fumes. It turned from the street, bounced over the curb, and plowed through the front porch, smashing down the door. Soldiers stormed the house and we heard gunfire. A little while later, they led three men from the front door to the street and lined them up at the curb. An army officer, who supervised the attack, stepped to the end of the line, drew his pistol, and shot them in the head one by one. After that, most people moved a little more quickly to do as they were told.
All along that side of the street, people filed from their houses. Each of them clutched a single suitcase and a few held on to an extra box or bag. One or two pushed small carts or wagons. Soldiers wandered among them and every now and then knocked the extra bags from their hands so that everyone who left the block only carried one item. Seeing it made me angry and twice I wanted to run to the street to stop them, but each time David held me back—once before I reached the door and the last time only stopping me at the porch. Standing there at the top of the steps of our home I saw the look on the faces of those who were leaving and it made me gasp. They walked as if in a trance, methodically placing one foot in front of the next, eyes focused ahead in a blank, emotionless stare. No one talked, no one shouted
, no one said a word. They just came from their homes and walked down the street to our left.
Then trucks arrived and parked in a line along the curb. Soldiers who had been patrolling the block entered the houses and began hauling out furniture, paintings, china, and other belongings. Most of it was stacked on the waiting trucks. What they found unfit for use they piled in a heap outside the Wallach residence three houses to our right. In a matter of hours, the houses were emptied and the trucks drove away. Shortly before noon, they set fire to the pile near the Wallachs’ house, then they started down our side of the street.
About one o’clock, a Public Security officer came from the street and started up our walkway. I saw him coming and moved away from the window to stand beside the piano. I heard his heavy footsteps as he reached the porch, then the door rattled as he banged on it with his fist. The sound of it made me jump. Mama came from the dining room and opened it. The officer nudged her aside as he pushed his way into the house.
“We have received reports about your house,” he glanced around in an imperious manner, as if offended by what he saw and afraid to come too far inside.
“Reports?” A frown creased Mama’s forehead. “What kind of reports?” “You have too many people living here. Conditions in this house are no longer sanitary.” His face wrinkled in a scowl. “What is that awful smell?”
“The toilet,” I explained. “It overflows almost every day.” “A pigsty,” he grimaced. “Full of filthy pigs.”
Papa came from the kitchen. “Your men brought them all here. If it’s unsanitary in here, it’s your own doing.”
“That no longer matters,” the officer replied dismissively. “All of you must relocate to other accommodations.”
“Other accommodations?” Papa came closer. “We don’t have any other accommodations. You’ve taken everything we had. Burned the shops. Looted the contents. Most of what’s valuable has been sold or traded just to survive. We have nothing except this house and the few scraps you see here.” Papa gestured toward the room with a sweep of his arm.
“I see you still have a piano,” the officer smirked. “Take it,” Mama snapped. “Just leave us alone.”
“I’m afraid we are well past that now,” the officer answered, his voice betraying a hint of growing frustration. “You are to be relocated to alternative accommodations. You must pack at once. Bring warm clothing and food, if you have it. You are each permitted one small suitcase. No trunks.” He looked around once more. “If you have a cart, you can haul your luggage on that.”
“And just where are we going?” Papa asked. “You will be shown where to go.”
“And how long will we be away?”
The officer looked away. “You have ten minutes to pack,” he barked. Then he turned on his heel and walked out.
For a moment we just stood and stared at each other. Then Papa clapped his hands. “Do as he says.”
I ran to the bedroom and took my identity documents from the top drawer of Mama’s dresser. A small leather wallet lay next to them and I put the papers in it. Mama came behind me and took a suitcase from the closet. Papa picked up Grandma’s jewelry box.
“Not the box,” Mama cautioned as she stuffed clothing into the luggage. “It is too heavy and takes up too much room.”
“I’m the one carrying it,” he replied. “I’ll decide if it’s too heavy.” Mama handed me a suitcase and I put my clothes inside. David took some food from a shelf in the kitchen and wrapped it in a towel with a few tins of crackers. He found a suitcase under the bed and used it. While we packed our belongings, others in the house did the same. I heard them scurrying around upstairs.
In spite of the way we felt about leaving, there wasn’t much left to pack. Three paintings hung in the bedroom and a fourth was on the wall in the dining room, but they were too large to carry. All that was left was a few pieces of jewelry and the essential things we needed for daily life. We were ready in less than ten minutes and made our way to the front door. When we reached it, Mama hesitated. “Perhaps we should wait until that man comes back.”
Papa reached past her and opened the door, then he took her by the arm and ushered her out to the porch. “If we must go, we might as well choose the time rather than waiting for them to drag us out.” It was one of the few choices left for us to make.
As we came from the house, officials from the Ministry of Public Security met us at the street and checked our documents. I showed them my Austrian papers and handed them the card we received from the Central Office for Jewish Emigration. They checked the name on my card against a list, then stamped the card and returned it to me along with my papers. A soldier gestured for us to move down the street to the left and we started in that direction.
A few paces behind us Averbuch stood with his wife and their three children. They had refused to register with the emigration office and had only the usual identification papers. When the ministry officials checked their list, the Averbuchs were not on it. One of the officials struck Averbuch on the head and shouted. Averbuch became upset and started going on about Charles I and where his loyalty really lay. Before he’d gotten very far with it, soldiers grabbed him and threw him into the street. His wife rushed after him, crying and cursing the soldiers. Their children stood a few meters away with a look of terror on their faces. I wanted to grab them and hold them tight but before I could muster the courage to act, I heard the sound of a gunshot and saw Averbuch’s body crumpled in the street. Blood flowed from a gaping wound to his head. An army officer stood over him with a pistol still in his hand.
Without a word, the officer pointed the pistol toward Averbuch’s wife and shot her in the head. She fell atop her husband’s body. I saw blood run from her nose onto Averbuch’s white shirt. With the smell of gunpowder still in the air, other soldiers picked up the children and dropped them near their parents. Without hesitation or remorse, the officer with the pistol shot them, too.
Tears poured down my cheeks as I stood there gasping for breath. Words could hardly describe my despair as I thought of those children, helpless, unable to defend themselves, their lives cut short by such an outrageous act. Suddenly sorrow melted away, replaced by rage. How dare they treat us this way? I balled my fist and started toward the officer, but Papa’s arm came around my waist. He lifted me off the pavement, swung me around in the opposite direction, and carried me up the street.
When we’d gone a few paces he set me down and, still holding me close, pressed his lips near my ear. “You must keep quiet. All of our lives depend on it.” I turned to look back but he shielded my eyes. “No, Sarah. You cannot look back.” He eased his grip on my waist but held on to my arm and hustled me forward. “Start walking.”
Slowly I forced one foot in front of the other and began moving down the street. I imagined that I looked like all those I had seen earlier in the day, with their hollow eyes and blank, emotionless stare, only now I knew why.
A few minutes later, Stephan came to my side. His mother, Yardina, and Yosef, his brother, were close by. I looked over at him, still unable to form words to describe what I’d just witnessed and what I still felt. “I know,” he nodded. “I saw them.” He took my hand and together we followed the others from our street.
Soldiers directed us at each corner and about an hour later we arrived at the railway freight yard on the south side of the city. Long lines of rail cars sat on the tracks. They appeared to be cattle cars with slats for walls that allowed air to freely circulate. Bits of hay protruded from openings near the floor. We were herded toward them like animals. In the crush of so many people being forced together, families were separated from each other. I very quickly lost track of Papa, Mama, and David. Then a few minutes later Stephan’s hand slipped from mine and he disappeared in a sea of faces. All alone, I clutched my suitcase in front of me, gripping it tightly with both hands as the surge of people pushed me toward a train car.
Unable to turn to the left or right, I followed the person in front
of me up a concrete ramp, pushed forward by the press of people behind me, until I reached the door to the car. I stepped inside and moments later soldiers shoved it closed and latched it from the outside. By then, the afternoon sun was fading and the temperature was turning cold. I stood there, clutching my suitcase, thinking about all that had happened that day and wondering if I would ever see a familiar face again. Then I heard Mama and Papa talking and wedged my way to them. David stood nearby. Mama kissed me on the cheek. We lost everything that day and yet when I found them again in that rail car, and we were together once more, I felt as rich as ever.
The railcar had recently been used to haul livestock. Hay on the floor still bore droppings from the last load. The pungent aroma of manure stung my nose. We stood shoulder to shoulder, packed into the car so tightly I could hardly breathe. In spite of the openings along the walls, air inside the car quickly became stuffy and hot. Sweat ran down my neck and my hair was damp. Several older women fainted but, crammed together the way we were, their bodies never hit the floor. And there was no toilet. Before long, the pungent smell of manure was overpowered by the odor of our own urine and feces.
An hour after the doors closed, the train lurched forward and began to roll from the freight yard. Murmuring filled the car as we wondered aloud where we were going. Some thought they were taking us to Germany. Others thought we would be taken as far as France or Poland and dumped at the border. No one knew for sure what would happen and after a while, when all the obvious possibilities were exhausted, talk died away leaving only the rhythmic click-clack of the rails to fill the silence.
Probably four hours later the trained slowed. Someone looked out through a crack in the wall. “I see lights,” she said. “It looks like a city.”
“Vienna,” Papa said quietly.
“Are you sure?” Mama asked.
“I think we have been traveling east,” he replied. “About four hours have passed since we left Linz. That would put us in Vienna.”
