The Locket

by Evans, Mike

“I don’t know.” Papa moved his arms from his chest and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t like it.”

  “We would be in control of our own destiny,” Uncle Alois added. “At least to some degree.”

  Papa shot a look in his direction. “And when one of our own breaks a German rule, what then?”

  “We will administer discipline,” Uncle Alois replied.

  “We?” Papa’s eyes opened wide. “They will let us administer justice for a Jew who breaks a German law? I do not think so. If a rule is broken by one of our people, the Nazis will make us find that person and give that person up. They will use us to enforce their will on our people by making us their policemen. We will be worse than our ancestors who collaborated with the Romans.”

  “I agree it is a difficult position,” Rabbi Gavriel nodded. “But we have no choice. The council must be formed. If you do not serve, then someone else will take your place. Do you want someone else deciding the issues that affect us?” He glanced around the room. “Do you want someone else deciding issues that relate to the well-being of your own family?”

  “We have many demanding to be included on the council,” Uncle Alois added. “Some of them you know and respect. Some of them are… of dubious character. We are doing our best to see that only men of honor are included. That is why we came to you.”

  “The position includes an extra ration of food,” Rabbi Gavriel offered. There was a long silence. Then finally Papa spoke. “I will serve,” he sighed. “But only if I may give my extra ration to someone else.”

  “Very well,” Rabbi Gavriel nodded. “As you wish.” He stood and shook Papa’s hand. Uncle Alois hugged Mama and me, then opened the door and they both stepped out to the hall.

  When they were gone, Mama turned to Papa. “You would give away an extra ration of food?”

  “There are many here who are in much worse shape than we.” “We are not in such great shape as to be that generous.”

  “We are not in such great shape that we can afford not to be generous,” Papa countered.

  * * *

  That evening, I left the apartment and went down to the corner. Stephan met me there and we went for a walk. As we picked our way along one of the paved streets, he took a small package from beneath his jacket. It was wrapped in paper and when he unfolded it I saw he had a piece of cake. For a moment I just stared at it, unable to believe it was really there. Then my eyes opened wide with excitement. “Where did you get it?” I asked finally.

  “From the bakery,” he grinned. “What bakery?” I frowned.

  “There’s one a few blocks from here.” “Beyond the fence?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get them to sell it to you?”

  “Took off my jacket to hide the star, and folded it over my arm. Went to the back door. They sold it to me without question.”

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “You ask too many questions,” he laughed. “How did you get out?”

  “There’s a way.” “What way?”

  “I can’t tell you.” His eyes darted to the side. “You can’t go anyway.” “Why not?”

  “It is too dangerous and too dirty.”

  “What is it?” I insisted. “How did you get out? Tell me.”

  “You ask too many questions,” he laughed. “Let’s eat the cake before someone sees it and takes it away from us.”

  I pinched off a piece with my fingers and placed it in my mouth. It was sweet and creamy and more delicious than anything I’d ever tasted. Stephan had a bite and then gave me another. In only a couple of minutes it was gone and my head felt light from the sudden rush of sugar. My stomach rumbled from it, too.

  When the last crumbs of the cake were gone, he gave me a boyish grin. “Okay, I’ll tell you how we did it.” Then he leaned near my ear and whispered, “We crawled out through the sewer.”

  My mouth dropped open. “The sewer?”

  Startled by my sudden outburst, he clamped his hand over my mouth and glanced around with a worried look. When it seemed no one heard, he put his face closed to mine and said, “Don’t repeat that. You hear?” I nodded my head and he moved his hand from my mouth.

  “They guard everything but they leave open the sewer?”

  “So far,” he replied. “But you must keep quiet about it. You can’t tell anyone. Not David. Not your mother. And certainly not your father.”

  I didn’t like the way he referred to Papa. “Why did you say it that way? Certainly not your father?”

  “He’s…you know…one of them.” “One of whom?”

  “The Judenrat. The council.”

  “You say that like there’s something wrong with it.” “They are a detestable group.”

  Now I was angry. “What do you mean? My father is not detestable.” “I like your father,” he said defensively, “but he made a terrible mistake joining the Nazis and their council.”

  “He didn’t join the Nazis,” I fumed. “He’s a member of the council. The Jewish council. And they’re doing a thankless task for our benefit.”

  “It is thankless,” he conceded, “but it is not for our benefit.”

  “How can you be so mean?” I fumed. “Is this you talking, or some of your so-called friends you hang out with on the corner?”

  “When the Nazis come for us,” he argued, “the Judenrat will hand us over. When the Nazis choose who will live and who will die, the Judenrat will give them the list. When the Nazis have food for us to eat, the Judenrat will decide who is full and who goes hungry.”

  “My father is an honorable man,” I argued. “He will do the right thing.”

  “Your father is honorable,” Stephan nodded. “But he is a man.” “How can you say that? You act as if you don’t even know him.”

  “We are all in a tough position, but members of the Judenrat give themselves special privileges. Your father will take those privileges just like all the others.”

  “What kind of privileges?”

  “Extra rations of food. Better apartments. First pick of any clothing and furniture that comes available.”

  “We live in the same apartment we were assigned when we came here. As far as I know there have been no clothes available for anyone. We have one mattress that was there when we arrived and one chair Papa found in the basement. And as to the food, he was offered an extra ration, but he gives it to a family in the next building that has three small children.”

  Stephan looked at me a moment. “Perhaps he’s an exception. But the others are just in it for themselves.”

  I turned away and continued walking. “I don’t believe it.” A few steps later, I wheeled around to face him. “My Uncle Alois is on that council, too. He would never agree to the things you suggest.”

  He looked at me and I saw sadness in his eyes. Then he said quietly, “I hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  One afternoon not long after my meeting with Stephan, I returned to our apartment and found Mama alone, seated on the chair in the front room. She was repairing a shirt using a sewing needle she’d fashioned from a piece of wire and thread she’d made by weaving strands of her own hair. The apartment was empty and the bedroom door was closed. “Where’s David?”

  “Out,” she answered. “And Papa?”

  “In there.” She cut her eyes toward the bedroom door. “The council?”

  “Yes,” Mama nodded. “Uncle Alois is with them?”

  “Yes,” she sighed in an exasperated manner. “Of course he’s with them. Why wouldn’t he be?” Her voice was tense and her tone was sharp.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “What do you mean?” Now she really sounded aggravated. “Why would you think something is the matter?”

  “You sound upset.”

  She looked at me for a moment, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Adolf Eichmann is with them.”

  My eyes opened wide. “He is in there now?”

  “Yes,” her voice was
no longer a whisper. “Why do you think I just told you that?”

  “How long have they been in there?” “They just started.”

  I eased closer to the door and listened. The first voice I heard was that of Rabbi Gavriel. He was speaking softly and I thought perhaps he was praying. Then Adolf spoke up. “Moshe Batsheva, it was good of you to allow us the use of your room for this meeting.”

  “Accept it with my gratitude,” Papa replied. “It was the least I could do.” He sounded unusually conciliatory.

  “As you all know,” Eichmann continued, “I am head of the Office for Jewish Emigration. We control the ghetto, but to do that effectively we need your help, which is why I asked you to organize this council.”

  “We will be glad to assist in the administration of our people,” someone offered. I felt my heart sink. Perhaps Stephan was right after all. Then the voice continued, “But we must have your assurance that we will have true authority over the matters entrusted to us.”

  “True authority?” There was a hint of sarcasm in Adolf ’s voice.

  “If we are to have any legitimacy with the people, we cannot merely be your puppet. No one would listen to us.”

  “Yes,” Adolf nodded, “I see your point. So let me make very clear how the system works, so there will be no confusion later should an issue arise. The people account to you. You account to me. I account to the Gestapo. If you work with me, I will work with you. But my word is the last word. Understood?” Several of them murmured and grumbled, but from the tone of the meeting I assumed they all agreed.

  Adolf continued. “Our chief goal is for you to emigrate from Austria. You cannot live here any longer.”

  “But Austria is our home,” someone protested. “We have always lived here.”

  “It is now part of the German state and it is Reich policy for you to leave.” Adolf spoke with an authoritative tone. “We can assist you in moving your families to Palestine, but you must leave.”

  “Not all of our people are interested in Palestine,” Uncle Alois offered.

  “Perhaps some of you can go to the U.S. or Great Brittan,” Adolf responded. “I don’t care where you go, but you cannot remain here. You must get everyone to understand this. You must convince them.”

  “We can tell them,” someone explained, “but the primary problem we face is the visa taxes you impose on us and the need for so many documents and approvals.”

  “We have nothing left,” another added. “You have taken it all. We have no shops, no houses, no lands, no investments. It is all gone. Left behind when you sent us here.”

  “We are holding all of your assets in a closed account,” Adolf explained. “You cannot access it, but we can. Those who can demonstrate their ability to survive in Palestine, or anywhere else they wish to go, will be supplied with the funds for the taxes.”

  “You would do this?”

  “The Führer has agreed. He doesn’t want you here and he is willing to help you leave. But your people must show some evidence of a trade, an occupation, a transferrable profession.”

  “And how shall we do that?”

  “You can begin by taking a census of the entire ghetto, which will ascertain everyone’s occupation. Those with sustainable trades and occupations will be given the assistance they need.”

  “And what about the others?” Uncle Alois asked. “We will address them later.”

  “How do we take such a census?”

  “Line them up and make them tell you.” Adolf ’s voice was loud and abrasive. “Must I tell you even the simplest procedures? Line them up and make them give you the information.”

  “What if they do not comply?”

  “Turn them over to me,” Adolf roared. “To you?”

  “Give me the names of every person who refuses to comply and we shall deal with them.”

  “That is simple enough,” Papa said, trying to lighten the mood. “We can take a census.”

  “There is one other thing,” Adolf continued. “Already some of your people have exhibited an inclination not to comply with any of our requirements. They only want to make trouble, and that trouble will come back to all of you. We must work together to find them. They must be rooted out from among you.”

  “You want us to give them up?” Rabbi Gavriel questioned.

  “If you do not,” Adolf added sternly, “the army will move in to eliminate them. That will bring death and destruction on many more than just the troublemakers. Perhaps resulting in the liquidation of the entire ghetto. If you want to emigrate, or give your people that option, you must root out these troublemakers, and you must act quickly.”

  “We know of no one who is making trouble,” Rabbi Gavriel replied. “Or even planning trouble,” someone added.

  “That is because you have not been doing your job,” Adolf shouted. “If you had been doing your job, you would already know all of the leaders in the resistance movement. Their accomplices, the names of their members, and where they live.”

  “What resistance movement? Where?”

  “Here!” Adolf shouted. “Among your people. Are you blind? Have you chosen not to see? This is your job. To keep tabs on this sort of thing. You must develop connections, contacts, informants.”

  “Informants?”

  “Yes.” Adolf was still shouting. “Informants. How else will you know what is happening?”

  “If you know of the existence of this person, give us his name?” There was the sound of shuffling papers, then Adolf barked, “There.

  That is his name! Written down in black and white. Do I need to read it to you?”

  Suddenly Mama took me by the shoulders. “You have heard too much,” she whispered. I was about to protest but thought better of it and she steered me away from the door. “It is not good for you to know these things.”

  “What things? What is it not good for me to know?”

  “You should let them do their own business.” She pushed me toward the door, then reached around me and opened it. “Go downstairs. And do not come back until you see them leave.”

  On the street, I found Stephan and told him what I heard while listening at the door. He looked worried. “You are certain it was Eichmann in the room?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “Didn’t you see him when he arrived?” “No.”

  “Were you watching?”

  “Yes. We watched the door the entire time and he didn’t go in or out.”

  “How could that be?”

  His face was clouded in thought. “This is a problem,” he mumbled. “Why?”

  “If he entered the building without being seen, that means he knows about the tunnels.”

  “What tunnels?” I frowned. “The sewer?”

  “No.” Stephan shook his head. “The tunnel to the basement of the building.”

  “I don’t understand. There’s a tunnel?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Most of the buildings are connected by tunnels. They were designed that way for the steam pipes.”

  Now my eyes flashed with anger when I realized what he was saying. “You mean you could come to my apartment at night without being seen?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “This is why,” he gestured. “What is why?”

  “The Judenrat.”

  “The council prevents you from coming to see me?”

  His eyes blazed. “I can’t go to the apartment of a man who is head of such council.”

  “He is not the head,” I countered.

  “They meet in his apartment, don’t they?” “They did tonight.”

  “Then he is in charge,” Stephan insisted.

  I was angry again that he would say things about Papa but still curious about the tunnels. “So how could Adolf get into the tunnel without being seen?”

  “I don’t know,” Stephan replied, “but I feel certain he did.” He stepped away as if leaving, then glanced back at me. “Don’t say anything to anyone about it.”

&
nbsp; “I must tell my father.”

  “No,” he snapped. “You can’t tell him without also telling him how you know about them.”

  “I don’t have to tell him about you.”

  “Just keep quiet,” he insisted. “Just keep quiet.” Then he turned away and started up the street.

  As the months passed, life in the ghetto became even more restricted. A curfew was imposed and for the first time soldiers patrolled the streets at night. That meant no one could come or go from the buildings after dark without using the tunnels. At the same time, food became more scarce than ever before. Most people got by with only one meal each day.

  We heard rumors that those living on a street five blocks over from us were being moved out. No one said where they were going, but for several days trucks moved in and out of that section. When I walked over there to see for myself, the streets were even more crowded than before. Stephan said it was because more people were being brought in to replace the ones who were removed. That didn’t seem right to me, but I didn’t question him.

  Then late one night I was awakened to the sound of gunshots coming from the backside of the ghetto. I went to the window to look out, but Mama called me back for fear I would be seen by the soldiers and cause trouble.

  The next morning, I walked a few streets over from ours to have a look. As I came around the corner, I saw three bodies lying in the street, all of them men. Dark blotches of blood stained their clothes, and flies buzzed around them. They had been dead for some time. No one on the street went near the bodies except for a woman who was on her knees beside one of them, weeping. As I approached she looked up. “They shot him,” she cried. “He left the apartment last night and they shot him.”

  “Who did this?”

  “The soldiers,” she sobbed. “They patrol the streets at night just waiting for someone to come out. He was only going to find something for us to eat. And they shot him.” She leaned over, her head resting on his chest. “We have nothing to eat since all the people came.”

  “What people?”

  “More people from the countryside. They moved them into our apartment. Everyone has extra people now. We are living sixteen and twenty to a unit.” She looked back at the bodies lying in the street. “They were only out here looking for something to eat.”