In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer

by Irene Opdyke; Jennifer Armstrong

  The road became narrow, and the shadows of the pines made pockets of cold air that we traveled through. I heard a far-off birdcall, and then another, and all the while, the horse was twitching his ears one way and then another, as though trying to locate something or someone nearby. At last, I reined the horse in and turned on the bench seat.

  “This seems as good a place as any,” I said.

  The hay in the dorozka bed stirred, and one by one, the Morrises sat up, spitting out bits of dried grass and seeds and pulling hay from their hair. Herschl stood and helped his wife to her feet. Hermann was doing the same, and all four looked around them with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

  “Our new home,” Herschl said gamely.

  They hopped down, as I did. Each in solemn turn shook my hand, while I clutched the reins so tightly with my other hand that the leathers left marks across my palm. “I'll bring supplies when I can,” I said, roughly clearing my throat.

  They stepped in among the trees, their footsteps muffled by the thick layer of pine needles. I stood, watching them walk deeper and deeper into the forest. They stood out brightly in a patch of sunlight, and the next moment they were gone.

  I went to the horse's head, leaning my cheek against his muzzle and mingling my breath with his; I was the one who needed calming, not the horse. After a moment, I took the bridle and led the horse around, the wagon wheels bumping up onto the mossy shoulder of the road.

  The following Sunday, I took two more of my friends from the laundry room, Abram Klinger and David Rosen, to the same spot. I held back the tears that threatened to come as they climbed down. I felt like a bad mother who had taken her children to the forest and left them there. For several minutes I watched them thread their way among the tree trunks, and then the darkness of the puszcza swallowed them.

  It was on my way back to Ternopol that day that I stopped at the church in Janówka. I wrapped the horse's reins around the gatepost of the picket fence and walked up to the vestibule. A bee zoomed past my nose on its way to a red rosebush just before I stepped into the little wooden church.

  There were not many people. They were peasants, mostly, or so I judged by their dress and by their weather-beaten faces. They sat scattered like fallen leaves among the pews. The priest was speaking when I dipped my knee toward the altar and took a seat in the back.

  I bowed my head and closed my eyes as though in prayer, but truly, I was both exhausted and overexcited. I let the priest's gentle Ukrainian accent wrap around me like a tender hand, and at first I did not pay much attention to his words. But then I began listening, and I realized that he was encouraging his flock to resist the Nazis and to help the Jews.

  “…and to remember those who are less fortunate than you,” he was reminding them in a quiet voice. “Our Savior commands that we not stain our hands with the blood of innocents. The righteous path is never an easy path, but at its end lies eternal love, eternal life.” Surely, he must know that the forest surrounding his parish was filled with hunted men. He was telling his parishioners to help them. What he was saying could well bring him punishment from the Germans.

  I looked up and studied him with new interest. He was a very old man, bald and wrinkled, but he had an upright carriage and his voice had no quaver in it. I noticed him glance my way from time to time, and I thought his look was kind. The urge to talk with him was so great that I nearly jumped from the pew with impatience.

  When the service was over, I lingered in the churchyard, admiring the roses, while the priest blessed the country folk, and one by one, or in small family groups, they took their leave of him and trudged down the road with their dogs trotting nose down behind them.

  At last, he turned to me. “Good morning,” he said. “I am Father Joseph.”

  I shook his hand, which was dry and papery, but strong. “My name is Irena, Father. I was passing and your church is so pretty, I had to stop.”

  “Perhaps God asked you to stop,” Father Joseph suggested.

  I tried to smile, but I suddenly felt tears welling up in me. “Perhaps.” I fingered the blossom of a rose, trying to order the thoughts that raced through my head like the bees diving into the flowers. I had wondered too many times in the last few years if God was watching me at all.

  “Is this your dorozka?” the priest said, walking to the bony horse and stroking his nose.

  I wiped my nose quickly, sniffing back my tears. “Yes— at least, I borrowed it from a friend.”

  “Making a delivery?” he asked. He turned his mild eyes to me, the eyes of a man who had seen everything and yet still loved people.

  At once, my heart ached to confide in him, to lay my worries and responsibilities in someone else's lap. I joined him at the horse's head, rubbing its velvety nose as I spoke. “I would like to tell you—I would like to tell you about something that happened to me, Father, when I was captured by the Russians.”

  Father Joseph nodded, as if he already knew. But he bowed his head as if in the confessional, and touched my hand gently. So I told him. I told him everything that had happened to me, and all the lies I had told, all the deceits I had sworn to. The only thing I did not tell him was that I was helping Jews escape. It was too dangerous a secret to share.

  When I was finished, I looked at him anxiously, waiting to hear the sort of sorrowful rebuke that so many priests specialized in. But Father Joseph only nodded again.

  “Irena, this is a war. God knows your heart. And God knows what you are doing with that dorozka today.”

  We were silent for a moment, while the horse eased his weight from one sore hoof to another and gave a patient sigh.

  “Thank you, Father Joseph,” I said at last.

  “When you come through Janówka next time, stop and visit me.”

  I had begun gathering the reins in my hand. I looked over my shoulder at him. “Next time?”

  Father Joseph made a small wave as he walked back toward the church. “Do zobaczenia.”

  The Blows of the Ax

  I had taken six people to the forest, and although they had disappeared, they were never far from my thoughts. When I could, I borrowed the dorozka from Helen's farm and drove to Janówka, where I left bundles of food. Sometimes, peering into the depths of the forest, I would hold myself very still, as though my friends could only become visible to me if I were very quiet, as though this were an enchanted forest and everyone in it was living under a sorcerer's curse. Sometimes, I thought I heard the far-off blows of an ax.

  I would tip my head to the side, frowning, yearning to hear a familiar voice call my name, but the only calls were from cuckoos, who flickered in and out of shadow among the tall pine pillars. The heavy heat of June pressed down from above. The trees held their breath. I would leave my offerings at the base of a tree and back slowly away, turning only at the last minute to climb back into the dorozka. The bony horse knew the route perfectly well, now.

  I did not always stop at the church to see Father Joseph. Occasionally, I was in too great a hurry, and had to be back to serve a meal. Or else I would see the old priest, with his straw gardening hat shielding his eyes from the sun, leaning on a pitchfork and talking with a neighbor. He knew what my trips to the puszcza meant. I was sure of it. I did not know if anyone else in the village noticed my comings and goings to the forest. In those days, people were either especially nosy, or they kept anxiously to themselves—but no one ever seemed to recognize me or take notice.

  And to my surprise—and relief—no one at HKP took much notice of my comings and goings. More officers had been arriving in ones and twos, and the place always seemed to be in some sort of upheaval. I could tell Major Rügemer was very distracted: Because of Rokita's Aktions, the major never knew how many Jewish workers he'd have in the factory, and yet Berlin was demanding ever greater efficiency all the time. This was the sort of crazy and self-defeating policy that was typical of the Nazi leaders. They wanted to get rid of the Jews, but they wanted the factories to run nonstop to
provide weaponry and ammunition for fighting the Russians and the Allies. Rokita was fulfilling one part of the policy, making it impossible for Rügemer to fulfill the other.

  “More men from Berlin are arriving next week,” the major said over dinner one evening. “This place will be bursting at the seams.”

  “No doubt they are needed for the greater effort,” said a captain named Hess, wiping grease from his fat lips with the back of his hand.

  Rügemer frowned into his wine. “I think I'd like to get a place in town. Too many young men here for an old man like me. Does anyone know of a villa?”

  “Take any one you like,” Rokita said airily. He waved his knife in a careless gesture that dripped gravy on the tablecloth. “You need hardly ask permission of the locals.”

  The major frowned again, obviously finding the SS man's manners offensive. He pushed his plate away. I had been clearing the next table, but I quickly moved to the major's side.

  “Finished, Herr Major?” I asked.

  “Danke schön, Irene.”

  There were five others at his table tonight, and once the major had pushed his plate away, the others seemed ready to let me clear. Four of the officers left the table to pour themselves drinks at the bar, leaving Rokita and Rügemer behind. I picked up plates still heavy with food, silently cursing these men for wasting so much.

  “Well, what am I supposed to do now?” the major asked irritably.

  “For a villa?” Rokita asked. The major shook his head, and Rokita shrugged. “The Jews? If you're worried about your factory, don't be. We'll find substitute workers.”

  The major hunched over his wineglass, gazing down into his own red reflection. “It will take time, cause delays.”

  “I regret that that cannot be helped, Major,” Rokita replied without sounding the least bit regretful. “Listen, I'll tell you something, since you are my friend. You must know by now the Führer wants all the Jews exterminated. Once we finish with them, we'll eliminate the Poles and their tiresome Catholic church. Of course, the Aryan types, like Irene, we'll make good Germans out of them. You will have your workers. But we must cleanse this land once and for all. We're scheduled to finish with the Jews soon. By the end of July.”

  I hoisted my heavy tray, my ears ringing. Every one of Rokita's words had been like the blow of an ax, and my legs were shaking so badly that I was afraid they would buckle. Hitler wanted to exterminate all the Jews, and then kill the rest of my countrymen. In my heart, perhaps I had known it all along, but always I had looked away before I saw the whole truth. There was no hope for my friends as long as they were under Nazi control. No hope at all. Tears began welling up in my eyes, and it seemed to me that I saw the faces of my friends in the laundry room swimming before me—Ida, Lazar, Fanka, and the others. They were doomed. There was less than a month left to them.

  Just before I reached the kitchen, my strength gave way, and the entire tray of dishes toppled to the floor. The crash was deafening, and every head turned my way. Through a blur of tears, I saw the major and Rokita looking at me.

  “I—I twisted my ankle,” I blurted out.

  Schulz bustled out from the kitchen, exclaiming over the ruined dishes and scolding me not to cut myself on broken glass.

  “I have to take care of this,” I mumbled, reaching for a shard. Tears dropped onto my hands. “It's all up to me.”

  “I'll help, Irene.”

  I looked miserably into Schulz's face. Maybe he thought I was talking about the broken dishes. But I think he did not.

  The major called me to his office the next day. When I arrived, he was standing at the window. I believe he was looking at the Nazi banner hanging from the flagpole.

  “Yes, Herr Major. You wanted to see me?”

  He did not turn from the window. “Yes, Irene. I have some news for you. I have decided to take a villa in town, and I will need a housekeeper. I can't think of anyone better suited than you.”

  The ax fell again. I stared at the back of his head with a sudden furious wish that the old man would die.

  When I didn't answer him, Rügemer looked around. His eyes were owlish behind his glasses. “Does that please you?”

  I twisted my hands together. All I could think of was my friends in the laundry. I did not know how I would be able to help them if I moved out of HKP. The major was waiting for an answer.

  “Oh, that is very good, Herr Major,” I forced myself to say. “I'm very glad you think I can do the job.”

  He gave me a strange smile that was partly a frown. “I want you to do it,” he said somewhat petulantly.

  “Yes, Herr Major.”

  “The house needs some work, which I'd like you to oversee. Schulz can manage without you for a while. Then I'd like you to come back and train a new crew. We'll be getting in some locals—Ukrainians, I suppose.”

  My heart lurched. “What is wrong with the old crew? Did I not train them well enough?”

  He turned his attention to some papers on his desk. “It has nothing to do with you, Irene. —Oh, and my ulcer has been giving me trouble. Do you think you can prepare a special diet for my meals?”

  Was I to spend the war coddling and cosseting an old German officer, then? I wanted to scream, or cry, or slap his face. But I was a Polish girl in a Nazi factory: I was not allowed my own emotions. I stood there, at a loss. I could not think fast enough to get out of this new job, could not find a way to stay at HKP, where I could do some good for my friends. I felt as though I were strangling on my own helplessness. “Of course, Herr Major.”

  Major Rügemer looked up at me and nodded. “Thank you. That is all, Irene. Schulz will give you more details.”

  Defeated, I returned to the kitchen. How could I have thought I had any power to help my friends? I was one girl against a giant force that could order me here or there at its whim—feed me rich stews in a warm kitchen or send me to work in a mine. One wild and useless idea after another passed through my mind, but there was no opportunity for daring escapes or rescues. I could see no way to do anything at all.

  I avoided the laundry room that day. I could not face my friends and tell them how futile their faith in me had been. I was so discouraged that I hardly even realized what Schulz was saying when he told me after lunch that we were going to see the new house.

  “It needs work, I understand,” he said as he took off his big apron and hung it up. “And there are two families in it at the moment. Ukrainians or Lithuanians—I don't know what they are. You'll have to explain things to them.”

  I followed him outside, where a car was waiting for us. It was not a long drive, only a few long blocks, really; we could easily have walked the distance in fifteen or twenty minutes. From behind the car windows, I watched the summertime town glide past. Trees arched overhead, draping their shadows across our windshield. We turned onto a residential street, and the car stopped in front of a large, stuccoed villa set back from the sidewalk. Large gardens separated it on both sides from its neighbors; on the left, a driveway snaked back to an old carriage house.

  “The major will certainly like this much better,” Schulz said as he hauled himself out of the car. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and squinted as he looked up at the windows of the house. “So. We'll go in.”

  We didn't knock. The outer glass door gave onto a little foyer, with another glass door closing it off from the front hall. Schulz turned the knob and strode in, calling out as he did. Even Schulz, who could be so sweet and fatherly, had that air of entitlement all Germans possessed in those days.

  There were startled voices, and footsteps from different parts of the house. One by one, the people living there joined us in the hallway. I gave them the bad news as soon as they were assembled. One of the two families was Ukrainian, the other Polish. I explained to them that the major had commandeered the house, and that he was generously allowing them two weeks to move out. The looks they gave me as I spoke nearly broke my heart. I could guess what they must think of me�
��a Polish girl working for the enemy. But I have no choice! I wanted to tell them. You must understand this!

  There was no argument from any of them. The house had been abandoned by its rightful owner, a wealthy Jewish architect, and these two families had moved in. Indeed, it was surprising that the Germans hadn't confiscated the house before this. Now the inevitable had happened: They had to leave.

  Schulz and I began our tour of the house. It would serve the major very well, Schulz noted. On the first floor were a dining room, a parlor complete with piano and gramophone, and a library. Most of these rooms looked out onto the gardens and terraces and a little vine-covered gazebo. Upstairs were several bedrooms and baths. The kitchen was vast, and a little room next to it would do for a bedroom for me. It was when I followed Schulz down to the basement that I felt the first stirrings of excitement.

  “It's so elaborate down here!” I marveled. “A kitchenette, a bathroom, all these storage rooms. Were these servants’ quarters?” I touched the light switch as I went through a door into the boiler room. The coal furnace, cold for the summer, loomed in a shadowy corner. Beside it lay a heap of coal. My gaze traveled upward to a coal chute. My heart began to beat more quickly as I went back out into the main room of the cellar. Several people could easily live down here.

  “I think it will do very well, don't you?” Schulz asked, heading for the stairs.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It will do perfectly.”

  The Race

  In the laundry room that afternoon, I described the house and its basement. Lazar Haller was nodding quickly as I spoke.

  “I think I know which house you mean,” he said. “It was built by a Jewish architect. There were rumors that he had a secret hiding place built in it somewhere.”

  “Not that it did anyone any good, I'm sure,” Steiner said.