In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer

by Irene Opdyke; Jennifer Armstrong

  My fear made it all too real, very quickly. I sat pressing my knees together to keep them from trembling. “Ojcze nasz, Który jesteś w niebie, święć się Imig Twoje…” Over and over I whispered the words of the Modlitwa Pańska, the Our Father. I counted Hail Marys on my fingers, but each time I heard a voice in the corridor, or a strange noise from somewhere else in the building, I froze and lost my place in my prayers. Hours went by, I think. I do not know for sure.

  At last the door opened, and two guards told me to follow them. I dared not look right or left as we walked to the commissar's office. I did not know what terrible things might be happening behind closed doors, or what might be in store for me. My detachment came and went in waves: One moment I was an observer of the scene, the next moment I was afraid I might wet myself from fear.

  I stepped into the office, and saw, to one side, the two soldiers I had recognized in the park. My little handbag was on the commissar's desk. A picture of Stalin occupied the wall behind the desk.

  “That is the spy Irena, who worked in the hospital,” one of the soldiers said the moment I entered.

  The commissar, who looked disturbingly like Stalin himself, dismissed them. They saluted and left. I stood with my arms pressed tight against my ribs. Violent tremors went through me, as though I were freezing to death.

  “Take off your jacket,” the commissar ordered.

  I willed my fingers not to tremble as I unbuttoned my jacket. I handed it to one of the guards, and he searched it thoroughly. I heard stitches rip as he shoved his large hand into one of the pockets.

  “Empty your other pockets,” the commissar said in a deep, expressionless voice.

  “I don't have any other pockets,” I quavered.

  “Where is your gun?”

  I almost laughed at the absurdity, but I was too frightened. “I don't have a gun. I have never had a gun. What would I do with a gun?”

  The commissar looked at one of the guards and jerked his chin. The man immediately began frisking me. My face flooded with shame as he ran his hands over me. Still tucked into my brassiere was my transit pass, but by now my train must have gone without me.

  “Now you will answer some questions.”

  “But I don't know any—”

  “Sit down.”

  The desk lamp was turned toward me, shining into my face and turning the rest of the room dark.

  They asked me my name, where I was from, why I had been in Ternopol, how I had ended up in the hospital. I stumbled through my answers like a bad liar, but I swore repeatedly that I was telling the truth—and I was telling the truth.

  “With what organization are you connected now? It will go easier for you if you tell us the truth. What are the partisans planning?” The deep voice rumbled at me from behind the light.

  “I am alone—all alone,” I said. My stomach was jerking and quivering. “I don't know anything.”

  He repeated his questions as one of the soldiers laboriously wrote down everything I said. I pressed one hand to my chin to keep it from shaking. The same questions: Where were the partisans? Who was in charge? What were they planning? I began to cry, knowing they did not believe me and unable to convince them of my innocence. The commissar was fixated on the story Dr. Ksydzof had spread. He was convinced that I had been planted at the hospital on purpose, as though my rape had been part of an elaborate scheme. “They raped me,” I sobbed. “Your soldiers. They raped me and beat me.”

  At last the commissar planted his hands on his desk and pushed his chair back. The edges of the light caught the whiskers of his thick mustache. “Take her away,” he said. “We will try again later.”

  A different cell. A cot and a blanket. I curled up in a ball, and fragments of prayers darted through my mind as I fell in and out of sleep. Then I was dragged awake and back to the commissar's office, where we went through the questions again. Where were the partisans, what were they planning? There were threats of prison in Siberia, threats of torture. I felt as though I had become nothing but a tiny voice whispering to the glare of the light. They were convinced that I was hiding something, and I was: I never mentioned Dr. David or Miriam. But my face must have proved me a liar: They hounded me for hours. Obviously they did not believe my story, and even to myself it began to sound untrue. To explain my year-long absence I said I had gone from village to village, working for food, sleeping in barns, hiding out. But my story was so flimsy they knew it was a lie. Again I was taken to the cell where I fell into some nightmare sham of sleep, and again I was shaken awake and interrogated.

  By morning I was exhausted. When the guards took me to the commissar's office, I found him eating a plate of eggs and sausage. He stabbed at his eggs, making the yolks run. I watched him with a kind of disbelief. It seemed like ages since I had last eaten.

  “Do you wish to repeat your story, or is there anything you would like to add?” he asked through a mouthful. Drops of golden yolk dotted his mustache. I felt sick to my stomach, watching him and smelling the food, but I could not take my eyes off his plate. There was a red and polished apple beside it.

  “Do you wish to add anything to your story?” he said again, spearing a sausage with his knife.

  “I ran away from the hospital when Dr. Ksydzof tried to rape me,” I said, swallowing hard. “I have told you this and I know you don't believe me, but it is the truth.”

  He put his knife and fork down, and riffled through some papers, which he flapped at me. “We have a different story from the doctor. Whom do you expect me to believe?”

  “Dr. Ksydzof,” I whispered.

  He grunted, and then gestured with his fork; the guard took me back to my cell. It was impossible for me to tell how much time had gone by, how long I had been there, or even what time of day it was. The commissar had been eating breakfast, but I had begun to doubt the reality of everything around me. Just because he was eating eggs and sausage did not mean it was morning, and even if it was, I did not know which morning. At some point, I was brought cold tea and some bread, which I wolfed down and which immediately made me feel like vomiting. I held my hand over my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to be sick. I swallowed and swallowed the flood of saliva that filled my mouth.

  Once again, I was led to the commissar's office. This time, I sensed something had changed. He waved me to a chair and placed a glass of hot tea in front of me. I picked it up and cupped my hands around it, watching him nervously as I sipped.

  To my surprise, the man smiled. “You know, I have decided I believe you,” he began. He folded his arms on the desk and leaned toward me. “You are young and pretty—so helpless. I would like to help you.”

  The tea stuck in my throat. I did not believe a word he was saying. I did not trust his new manner any more than the old one.

  “You must have some friends nearby who can help you. When you escaped from the hospital you must have stayed with someone…” His voice trailed off in a question.

  I blew on my tea, stalling. I did not know what to say. My mind was sluggish and words took a long time to sink in.

  “There must be someone you can stay with while we sort this all out,” the commissar continued. “Dr. Ksydzof is in Moscow, but he will be back soon and we can finally put all the pieces together. In the meantime, you may go stay with your friends and get some rest. I know our accommodations haven't been very…very comfortable for a young lady.”

  I blew on my tea again. “I know a girl,” I said slowly. The words came like lines I had memorized. I did not know where they came from. “Her name is Lalka.”

  “Yes?” he said, leaning forward again. “You would like to stay with her tonight?”

  Through my mind ran a memory of my dog Lalka chasing a stick into a stream, the water splashing up around her and sparkling in the sun. “Very much,” I said fervently.

  He smiled, and then sat back and uncapped a pen. “Tell me her last name and her address, and we can take you to her home.”

  I gl
anced up at the picture of Stalin over the desk. I felt as though I were in a play, or as if I were speaking someone else's part. “I don't remember her last name, Commissar; I don't know her that well. And I don't know the name of the street, either,” I hurried on as he began to frown. “You know how it is—you know how to get there, even if you don't know what the streets are called.”

  His friendly attitude completely changed. He had expected to follow the little thread of Irena Gutowna to the whole ball of partisan yarn. Now he was back in the tangle. “Do you think I am an idiot?” he barked.

  Tears, true tears, began sliding down my cheeks. “I am sorry—I am so mixed up and tired, I don't remember the name of the street. But I can find my way.”

  He sat glaring at me for several moments. Tears ran down my face faster than I could wipe them away. At last he strode from behind his desk and opened the door, calling a guard.

  “You will go with Miss Gutowna. She knows the way. And you,” he added, rounding on me suddenly, “you will be back here at eight in the morning.”

  “Oh, yes,” I promised. I would have promised anything to get out of there.

  I walked out of his office, and he followed me to the door, watching me as I walked down the corridor with the guard. We walked past the cell I had spent such hateful hours in, and then went through a security gate and to the outer door.

  A bright moon lit the street. Not a soul was in sight. Hardly any lights showed at windows. It was after curfew, and Ternopol was a dead city without a single mourner.

  “I—I think it is this way,” I stammered to my guard as I turned left.

  Our footsteps echoed off the buildings, and our shadows walked ahead of us. I turned down one street, and then another, trying to think what to do. I was cold, and I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets.

  “You're sure you know where you're going?” the guard asked as we passed a synagogue.

  “Yes—you see, I have to go the way I am familiar with, and I am sorry it takes so long but—ah, here it is!”

  Ahead of us, a three-story building reared up into the darkness. Beside it was a fence with a board missing. The guard looked up at the building, noting the number above the door.

  “Thank you,” I said quickly. “Thank you. This is it. My friend lives here. I will be back tomorrow.”

  I put my hand on the doorknob, and he gave me a quick look before turning and walking away.

  “Idiot,” I said under my breath. The moment he turned the corner, I slipped out of the doorway and through the gap I had spotted in the fence. I ran across the dark yard, barking my shin on a metal watering can that toppled, clanking like a broken bell. Then I scrambled over another fence, and across another yard, and I was running as fast as I could down an alley. A back door opened. An old man stepped out, heading for an outhouse.

  “Train station?” I asked.

  He jumped, startled, as I stepped out of the shadows. Without a word, he pointed down the alley with a knobby finger, and I sprinted away again. When I burst out onto the street, I slowed my pace and kept to the shadows, afraid of attracting attention on the deserted curfew streets. Then, with a gasp of relief, I recognized the bulky silhouette of a church near the station. Moments later, I was in the waiting room.

  People were sleeping everywhere—on benches, out on the platform, huddled among their belongings. Boxes and bundles tied with twine served as pillows, and coats were tucked up to chins like blankets. At the far end of the platform, two German guards stood smoking. My hand shook as I reached into my dress and felt for my transit pass. I tried to compose myself as I walked toward them. I had no idea what I looked like after the days of interrogation.

  “Sir, can you help me?” I asked, holding out my pass. “I was sick with a cold and missed my transport on Friday. What can I do?”

  Both of the guards examined my paper, and one of them blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “You are in luck, Fräulein. The trains have been delayed for two days. Yours has not departed yet. It leaves at five in the morning.”

  The hairs on my arms stood up. “I can leave on the next train? I can go home?”

  “Go home, go to Kraków and dance with the Gypsies in the marketplace, whatever you want, little girl.”

  They laughed, eyeing me with careless amusement. The one with my pass held it out, then snatched it away with another laugh. My heart thrashed like a netted bird.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing it over for real.

  I crumpled it in my fist. I would not let it go again until it got me onto the train. I was almost home: I would let nothing stop me from leaving the hated Soviets and their Red Army soldiers and returning to Radom the next day.

  And yet I did not count on the Germans. On the train, we pressed our faces to the grimy windows as we steamed westward, and voices rose with breathless laughter. But as we crossed the border that separated Soviet-held territory from the German-controlled General Gouvernement of Poland, our train came to a halt and we were ordered off at gunpoint. Many of us were too astonished and frightened to protest, and as we stumbled, blinking, into the sunlight, we saw a barbed-wire fence stretching away on either side. Many women screamed, and children wailed with fear.

  “It's a quarantine, you ignorant fools!” a guard said, sneering. “We can't have you spreading filthy Russian diseases. Get in there.”

  I felt my stomach quivering as I shuffled forward in a group with the other refugees. We had no idea what to expect: The indignities of quarantine camp took my breath away— inspection, disinfection, segregation, humiliation.

  Within hours of our arrival at camp, rumors began to circulate—slowly at first, and then faster. The men, who had been separated from the women upon arrival, were being examined for circumcision; the circumcised men, the Jews, were taken away. To where? Why? Would they be back? No one knew. Daily, we were forced to assemble in the muddy yard and listen to threats and warnings from the commandant. Enemies of the Third Reich would be punished. Walking near the fence and guard towers was forbidden. We were required to work for our “room and board,” our hard-bunk barracks and our unadorned potatoes. Hitler's welcome-home message to us was loud and clear: Obey, or suffer.

  One day, my resistance to camp life worn down, I could not rise from my bunk to report for my duties in the kitchen. Within moments, the guards came to roust me. “Aufstehen!” a soldier shouted.

  He ripped the thin blanket off me, and I cried out weakly in German: “Nein! Ich bin krank!” No, I am sick!

  The guard froze, and then took a closer look at me. “Warten Sie, Fräulein. Wait here. I did not know you are German. I'll get the doctor.”

  The infirmary was a marginal improvement. I was suffering from influenza, which had broken out in the unsanitary, crowded conditions of the camp: so much for German efficiency in a quarantine camp. We in the infirmary learned not to be too fussy as patients, because it was obvious that the German medical staff had little tolerance for the Poles. We tried to lie low and get better fast. April came and was nearly gone before I was able to leave my sickbed. I was weak; all my senses were ratcheted up. The gentlest touch made me wince. Lights seemed brighter to me, and even soft noises startled me.

  At last, I was given new documents and a pass for the train. This time, when I boarded, I pleaded with God and the Virgin to let nothing else prevent me from reaching Radom. Our transport was a cattle car, and we stood pressing our faces to the slits between the boards as we headed west once again. Fresh green spring air blew through the cars as we sped across the Polish countryside. Along a fence line I saw purple lilacs bowing in the breeze, and I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or cry. Since becoming sick I'd cried easily. Now tears flowed as I watched my homeland flash by between the planks.

  When I finally set foot in Radom again after my two years in exile, I found the city had changed. For one thing, many familiar landmarks had been destroyed in the bombing: the shells of apartment buildings and schools stood crumbling into ruin, and p
iles of broken masonry towered in empty lots. Only the factories seemed to be working, their stacks oozing black smoke. Also, all the streets had been given German names, and I had to find my way around by memory. I walked slowly, trailing my fingers along the faces of buildings like a blind woman. Turn left at this ruined heap—of the Wawel Hotel, was it?—and down a street now called Hermann Göring Strasse. I turned and turned, growing more bewildered all the time. The Germans had bestowed new names on the city, but had spent nothing to repair the damage they had inflicted.

  “You look lost, young lady. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  I turned to see a man with bushy gray eyebrows regarding me from a buggy. His two horses swished their tails and rubbed their fetlocks with their noses.

  “I have no money to pay you, sir,” I replied.

  “They can't all be paying customers.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come on. Up you go. Where are you trying to go?”

  I was still looking this way and that, trying to get my bearings. “I don't know the new name of the street my aunt lives on….”

  “Tell me the old name. I've lived here all my life. You can't make this town German just like that.” With that he snapped the reins and the horses clip-clopped into action. He kept up a steady chatter as we drove, bragging about his pretty daughter, Zofia, and his son, Tadeusz. As things began to look familiar to me, I started trembling with nervousness.

  “I recognize that church,” I said, grabbing his arm. “My aunt's house is very close! Oh, what if she's not there? I'll have to go to Germany alone to find my parents, and—”

  “One thing at a time. One thing at a time.”

  The old buggy jounced and jiggled down the street, around craters still unfilled since the blitz—and my aunt Helen's house came into view. Standing at the gate was a girl with black, curly hair. She took one look at me and ran shrieking to the house.