“You are right,” he said. “These last years have been very long ones.”
While we had been talking, two small heads had appeared at the cottage window. I smiled and waved at the children. It suddenly occurred to me that I had not spoken with any children in months and months, and I longed to play with them.
“My bear cubs,” the forester said when he noticed them. “Come, meet my family. And I should introduce myself. Zyg-munt Pasiewski.”
“Irena Gutowna.”
He led me inside, where his wife was setting out lunch. As though it were the most natural thing in the world for a strange girl to walk in on her, Pani Pasiewska invited me to join them. Soon we were enjoying fresh brown bread and hard yellow cheese, stewed mushrooms, and a bowl of blackberries. The children chattered about a very large frog they had caught that morning but which had escaped from their bucket when they set it down to examine an owl's nest, and Pasiewski and his wife urged me to talk about myself.
Wanting to sound him out, I began to describe my days hiding out in the forest with the remnants of the Polish army in the first dreadful months of the invasion. We were talking in Polish, and as my own beautiful language filled my ears, I felt a wave of homesickness so strong that I had to stop and turn my face away for a moment.
Pasiewski put his glass of tea down with a thump on the table. “My God, I know you, Irena. I was part of that group, too. I was in the village that night you were captured. We tried to find where you'd been taken, but you were gone.”
I stared at him. “I had no idea that was you!” I gasped. “I did not recognize you.”
He reached across the table and took my hands in his. “How small the world is. I'm so grateful you are alive. I never expected to see you again in this world.”
At that, all my defenses gave way, and I put my head down and wept. There had been so many soldiers in that group, and I had been so dazed and terrified all the time that I had not really known any of them. I did not remember Pasiewski from before, but this man was a link to my past, even if it was a dreadful part of my past. It overwhelmed me.
So I knew that he had been a partisan then—but was he now? I did not dare tell him about the people I knew hiding in the woods, or about the people I was hiding in Ternopol, until I was more sure of him. In the meantime, however, it was sweet to feel I had friends. We talked about Poland, about places we had visited when we were young, songs we loved, our favorite foods—anything and everything about Poland that was safe to speak about. When I finally left the cottage at the end of the afternoon—without having picked a single mushroom! — I was happier than I had been since I said good-bye to Janina at the beginning of the year.
I would be back, I promised. I would be back as often as I could. And perhaps in time, I told myself, Pasiewski would be an ally in the dangerous job I was doing.
As fall progressed, I visited the Pasiewskis whenever I could. I told Major Rügemer that I had found a cousin living as a forester, and this made it easier for me to go to Janówka on my days off. Whenever I went, I brought chocolates for the children, vodka for Zygmunt, and precious white flour for his wife. Although we were friends, there was always a trace of reserve between us: When so much was at stake, it was hard to trust, no matter how much we wished to. We talked about the war, of course. In those days, it took first place in every conversation. He had heard that the Russians were beginning to advance toward the west, and that the Germans were growing anxious. The better I knew Zygmunt, the surer I was that he was involved with resistance fighters in the forest, but I did not ask. We were wary of each other's secrets. He did not ask why I sometimes came with an empty dorozka—empty after delivering supplies to my refugees. I did not ask where he had been when I sometimes visited the cottage to find Pani Pasiewska and the children on their own. We were close, but not close enough to trust other people's lives to one another.
One day in late October, as I was returning from the Pasiewskis’ cottage, Abram Klinger whistled to me from behind a tree. I was elated at seeing him, as always, and followed him for about a kilometer through the trees to the foxhole where he and several others were living.
It was a crude shelter, only a deep hole they had dug and roofed with branches and a few scraps of lumber stolen from nearby farms.
“We need something better for a roof,” Hermann Morris explained, nudging at the roof with his shoe. “Winter is coming…”
In emphasis, a cool breeze stirred the boughs over our heads. “The Russians are advancing,” I said. “Perhaps the war will be over before then.”
The women shuddered. “The Russians. We pray to God they will not be worse.”
“I'll bring you what I can,” I promised. “As soon as I can.”
As I drove back to Ternopol, I found myself echoing their prayers. I remembered the kindness of Miriam Meyer back in Svetlana. But I also remembered the cruelty of Dr. Ksydzof and the Russian soldiers. I cursed both the Russians and the Germans: I wanted them all to return Poland to us.
But still, I had the responsibility of the people in my care. I could not sit weeping over my lost country when their lives were so precarious. Especially when I returned to the villa that afternoon and Lazar Haller told me that Ida was pregnant.
The Coming Darkness
Everyone was despondent. What should have been joyful news was truly terrible. Clara, white-faced, took me aside and spoke in a low voice.
“It's been decided—we've all decided, including Ida and Lazar—that we must end this pregnancy. You'll have to get us some—”
“No!” I backed away from her, and stared at Ida and Lazar across the room. “No, you must not think of it. Do not let them take another life!”
Ida had been crying, but she shook her head emphatically. “Irene, it is impossible to consider having a baby here. The risk is too great.”
I backed away even more. “No, let me think of something. The war will end soon—they say the Russians are coming. You've heard the reports.”
There was silence in the basement. Lazar took his wife's hand and stroked it silently. His chin trembled. The others looked at the floor, or at the table, or at the shadows in the corners. The furnace rumbled quietly in the other room.
“Please, wait a while longer,” I begged. “Don't do this thing. Ida, please.”
Ida let out a deep breath. It seemed as if everyone had stopped breathing. “It is not my decision alone. We are all family now, and we must consider everyone.”
Lazar looked around, into the faces of his friends. One by one, they nodded. For a moment, I thought Lazar would still object: He was their leader, and must have suffered torments over the safety of his friends and the life of his child.
“We'll wait,” Lazar agreed at last. “We'll trust in God.” I went back upstairs, drained and heartsick. Already, night was closing in. I stood by the front door and looked out through the curtain, and saw the first flakes of snow circling through the coming darkness.
Schulz arrived in the morning, laden with rolls of tarpaper. “For the windows,” he explained, letting them thump to the hall floor. “With the Russians advancing, we must be more thorough with the Verdunklung in case of bombing raids. Let's get these windows covered up.”
Some of the windows had had blackout curtains or drapes on them, but in the early days of the German advance into Russian territory, most had been removed. Now, however, the war was returning our way, and the threat of Russian planes had to be taken seriously. We spent three hours nailing the thick, oily paper over the windows, and when we were through, the villa looked wounded. The black windows made the rooms ugly and dark.
But there was one roll of tarpaper left over. We had finished up in the kitchen, and I eyed that last heavy roll as Schulz and I scrubbed the sticky residue from our hands. It would do perfectly to cover the foxhole in the woods: It was waterproof and could keep out the snow and rain.
“Schulz,” I said casually, “where should I put this last roll?”
&nb
sp; He glanced over his shoulder as he whisked a towel from the rack and began drying his hands. “Oh, I'll take it back to the factory.”
“I was wondering if I could have it,” I asked. “You know I have a cousin in the forest. I'm sure he could use it. And it's only one roll…”
Schulz gave a small shrug. “I don't care. Sure, take it to your cousin.”
“Danke schön, Herr Schulz.”
There was a knock on the door, and I found Major Rüge-mer standing on the doorstep, smiling like a boy. “Look what I've got!” Parked at the curb was a horse-drawn sleigh.
“Where did you find that?” I asked with a laugh.
“Being a major has some privileges,” he said. “Come, let's go visit this cousin of yours.”
As often happened when the light was just so, his glasses caught the reflection and hid his eyes. I could not tell what he was thinking: Was he testing me, to see if this cousin of mine really existed? There was no time to warn Pasiewski, but I could not say no.
“Let me get my coat,” I said. “And Schulz said I could take this leftover tarpaper for my cousin's house.”
“Come, come. Hurry up then,” the major said impatiently. “If we wait too long the snow will all be gone!”
It was a beautiful ride over the snowy countryside, but I could not enjoy it. I was too busy worrying that one of my friends in the forest might step out into view, or that something would go wrong when we reached the cottage. But luckily, Zygmunt was too experienced to be thrown off by a Nazi uniform, especially when he recognized me. He had been chopping wood when the sleigh came jingling into the clearing, but now rested the ax on his shoulder while he watched us.
“Cousin!” I called out before the sleigh halted. “The first snowfall! Isn't it beautiful?”
“Beautiful indeed, Cousin,” he replied. He strode through the snow to meet us, taking off his gloves as he came. Steam rose from his hands into the frosty air.
“Cousin, this is Major Rügemer, my employer,” I said, introducing them in German. “Zygmunt Pasiewski.”
“Heil Hitler,” Zygmunt said without a trace of irony. His German was heavily accented. “Welcome.”
“Charming house,” the major said politely.
“Come in. Let me introduce my wife.”
I followed nervously behind, silently thanking Zygmunt for taking my cue. Pani Pasiewska greeted the major with a shy smile, and although she spoke only Polish, she offered tea and cake. As she showed Major Rügemer to the best chair, I hovered at the door.
“I'll just help my cousin unload the sleigh,” I said.
As soon as we were outside, I whispered to Zygmunt. “Please don't ask what this is for, but I'd like you to keep this tarpaper for me. Please trust me.”
Zygmunt looked at me for a long moment. Then he smiled and nodded. “Of course, Irena. I understand.”
“Dzigkujg”—thank you—I whispered as he hoisted the roll of paper onto his shoulder and headed to the barn.
We stayed for an hour or so, during which Pani Pasiewska hardly sat down for a moment. Country hospitality ordered that she offer her important guest the best of everything; and although the major begged her not to bother, she insisted on bringing out her precious best cups and laying a white cloth that had probably not been used since her wedding. The children, shy as fawns, hid behind the stairs the entire time and stared at the major's frightening uniform. Pasiewski and the major spoke of country matters, of the weather and the work that the forester did. Pani Pasiewska took down some wild-boar sausage that had been hung inside the chimney to cure in the smoke, and cut thick slices for us to eat with pickles; it was delicious, but I was too nervous to enjoy it. When at last the major rose to leave, I popped out of my chair with relief.
“I'll be back as soon as I can,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
During the ride back, Major Rügemer chatted about the delights of country living, and reminisced about hiking trips he had taken in the German Alps and into the Black Forest. I scarcely made any replies, only thinking of what I would say to Pasiewski when I went back for the tarpaper.
Over the next few days, the weather turned mild again and the snow melted, turning the roads to mud. I could use neither the sleigh nor my bicycle, but when November brought another heavy snowfall, I was able to return to the forest. I found Zygmunt in the barn. His one cow was drowsing in her stall, chewing her cud as Zygmunt pitched hay to her. The strong, sweet smell of the cow and the fragrance of the hay filled the barn.
“So, you have something to tell me?” Pasiewski said, chewing on the ends of his mustache.
“Zygmunt,” I began. “I need that paper for—for some people who are living in the forest.”
He shoved his pitchfork into a pile of hay. “Irena, do you think I never guessed?”
I gulped.
“Come, come. There are many people hiding out in Janówka, and you are not the only one helping those poor souls. I was wondering when you would tell me.”
I felt such relief that I sat down hard onto the hay. “I could say the same thing about you!” I said at last.
He grinned. “Well, we're cousins. We should trust each other now. I'll bring you the tarpaper. Then you should be on your way.”
I led the way out to the sleigh, where the horse was blowing clouds of steam. Its mane and forelock were crusted with ice.
“Thank you, Zygmunt.”
“And you can rely on me. Remember that, Irena.”
“Bless you, Cousin.”
I hupped up the horse, and the runners cut a wide circle in the snow as the sleigh turned around. The wind buffeted my cheeks and found its way through the buttonholes of my coat until I was thoroughly frozen. The snow dampened the sound of the horse's steps and made the runners hiss as they sheared through the tracks. I finally pulled up along the side of the road nearest to where the dugout was, threw the reins over a branch, and hauled out the roll of tarpaper. Snow dusted over the tops of my boots as I began tramping through the woods, and before I had been walking five minutes, I heard a warning whistle. After that, I found myself with a familiar escort.
“Irene, thank you so much for coming,” Abram said as he took the tarpaper from me.
“That is to make a roof,” I explained, trudging behind him. “How is everyone doing with this snow?”
“Miriam is very sick,” Abram said, his jaw set. “Hermann is beside himself.”
My heart ached. “How sick is she?”
He shrugged, making the roll of tarpaper nod up and down. “I can't say, but Hermann thinks she might have pneumonia.”
I quickened my steps. When I arrived at the foxhole, I found Miriam feverish and coughing. Hermann Morris crouched at his wife's side, holding her hand. He looked at me with a stricken face.
“Irene…”
Miriam's shoulders quaked as she began to cough. It was bitter cold in their shelter. Even with my small experience of nursing, I could tell she was in very bad shape, possibly dying. I squinted up through the opening to see the light, which was fading quickly. Snow was beginning to fall again.
“Wrap her up in a blanket. I'm taking her with me,” I said.
Miriam opened her eyes and tried to focus on me. “Irene?”
“I'll take you someplace warm, Miriam. You'll get better.”
“Hermann?” she asked weakly.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said, beginning to lift her. “Abram, wrap the blanket tighter.”
Hermann struggled up out of the hole with his wife in his arms. Snow settled on Miriam's eyelashes, and she could not brush it away. Without speaking, we hiked back to the road, where the horse was stamping in the cold. Hermann bundled his wife into the back and drew the blanket over her. He looked stunned, as if he never expected to see her again.
“Can she walk at all?” I asked as I climbed into the sleigh. “I can't carry her myself.”
“She'll walk.” Hermann stepped back, blinking back tears.
I had to trust that sh
e could. The snow was falling faster, and it would be dark soon. I whipped up the horse, who needed no more urging to dash back to town. I prayed nonstop, prayed that Miriam would survive, prayed that the major would not be home when I arrived, prayed that I could smuggle this sick woman into the basement, prayed that the war would end before these people had to suffer any more. Snow flew out from the runners of the sleigh as we raced home, falling away into the darkness at the sides of the road.
The Punishment for Helping a Jew
Luck was with me, and I added Miriam to my family in the basement—through the garden door and down the stairs, stumbling all the way, falling into the arms of an astonished group of friends. As the month progressed, the weather grew worse, and I shivered whenever I thought of the people living in the forest. All over occupied Poland—all over Europe; indeed, all over the world, where the war burned like brush fires in dozens of countries—people were living like hunted animals in the woods and mountains and marshes. It was late November 1943, and the Germans were prosecuting their terror as far as they could reach. Every day, we had news of reprisals, executions, deportations, massacres, invasions; the entire catalog of crimes known to our kind was being carried out in the name of the Third Reich.
In Ternopol, we had our own examples, which were committed in public for the sake of instructing us, of demonstrating to us what our fates could so easily be. There was a deep cold pinching the countryside, and the winds whipped snow into high drifts on the weather side of the streets. I was coming home from the Warenhaus one Saturday afternoon, laden with soap and toilet paper, taking a route I seldom used. It led through a square with a gallows in it, and ordinarily I went out of my way to avoid this sight, but the wind was piercing that day, and I only wanted to get to the villa as fast as I could and warm my hands around a cup of tea. I discovered a crowd blocking my way through the square. Black-coated SS men were ordering people to stay put and not leave until given permission. I craned to see over the hats and shawl-shrouded heads.
The crowd was being herded in a jostling cluster around the gallows. Someone shoved me from behind, and I stumbled forward among arms and shoulders and parcels of rationed bread and firewood. While we watched, a Polish couple carrying their two small children in their arms was forced up onto the platform, and behind them another couple with a toddler was prodded up at gunpoint. Even from a distance, the yellow stars on the coats of the second group showed plainly. There were nooses for all.
In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer Page 16
