by Rona Arato
Above and Front cover: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of Flora Carasso Mihael
The Last Train
A Holocaust Story
By RONA ARATO
Text © 2013 Rona Arato
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any information storage and retrieval systems, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Owlkids Books Inc., or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright).
Owlkids Books acknowledges the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Book Initiative for our publishing activities.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Arato, Rona
The last train : a Holocaust story / written by Rona Arato.
ISBN 978-1-926973-62-3 (Print)
ISBN 978-1-926973-71-5 (E-book)
1. Arato, Paul--Childhood and youth--Juvenile literature. 2. Jewish children in the Holocaust--Juvenile literature. 3. Holocaust, Jewish (1939-1945)--Juvenile literature. 4. Bergen-Belsen (Concentration camp)--Juvenile literature. 5. World War, 1939-1945--Children--Juvenile literature. 6. World War, 1939-1945--Concentration camps--Germany--Juvenile literature. I. Title.
D804.48.A72 2013 j940.53’18083 C2012-904862-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012945654
Design: Barb Kelly
For my husband, Paul,
and in memory of his brother, Oscar,
and their beloved parents,
Lenke and Ignaz
Introduction
My name is Rona Arato. My husband, Paul, is a survivor of the Holocaust that occurred during the Second World War. I knew some of Paul’s story: he, his brother, Oscar, and their mother, Lenke, were in the Bergen Belsen Concentration Camp and on a death train that was liberated by the American Ninth Army. But many of the details from that awful time were missing. It was only after we learned about the Teaching History Matters project and met other train survivors and the soldiers who liberated them that we were really able to put the pieces of his story together.
To tell it, I listened to many testimonies and read the memoirs of the survivors and soldiers from that fateful event and the camp. Matt Rozell—the teacher who created Teaching History Matters and brought us all together—and the historians at the Bergen Belsen Memorial were all generous with information. In 1994, Paul and I attended a memorial service in the Karcagi Synagogue commemorating the 50th anniversary of the German occupation, and I had the opportunity then, and on subsequent trips, to get to know the people who appear as children in this book.
What you read here is all based on actual events. I have tried to honor the integrity and truth of everyone’s story. The dialogue is mostly imagined, but the account it tells is true. The main characters are real people.
This has been a difficult book to write but one that I knew I had to write. It is a tribute to the train survivors, the soldiers who liberated them, and to Matt Rozell.
Rona Arato
Prologue
Toronto, Canada
Spring 2008
The picture on the computer screen shows a woman running toward the camera, arms outstretched, her face a mask of surprise. Yet what catches Paul’s attention is in the backdrop—an abandoned freight train. Sixty years earlier he was on that train. He was six years old on April 13, 1945, when two American soldiers in a tank liberated him, his mother, his brother, and thousands of other prisoners. For sixty years he has thought about that day and about the soldiers who saved their lives.
Chapter 1
Karcag, Hungary
April 1944
Ma nishtana ha-laila ha-zeh mi-kol ha-lelot? Why is this night different from all other nights?
This night is different because our fathers are not with us.
Paul listened to the familiar words of the Four Questions, the heart of the Passover Seder.
This night is different because we are celebrating Passover without our fathers.
He looked around the synagogue social hall, where women, children, and a few elderly men sat at tables draped with white cloth. Paul thought of Passovers he and his older brother, Oscar, spent at their grandparents’ house, when all his aunts, uncles, and cousins were still together. But his father, like other men in town, had been taken away to some kind of work camp, so his mother and some other women had organized this Seder to celebrate Passover, the holiday of freedom. And tonight, as they recited prayers, sang familiar melodies, and ate matzo (unleavened bread), chicken soup, and roast chicken, they tried to forget, for a few hours, about the missing fathers, brothers, and grandfathers, and this thing called war raging around them.
The next day, the Germans marched into Karcag.
Chapter 2
Oscar and Paul watched from a dusty street corner as trucks rumbled by. Tall men with guns slung over their shoulders stepped past them. Their faces were hard; their eyes looked straight ahead. Wide-eyed, Paul munched on a piece of matzo as they passed.
“Oscar, who are they?” Paul asked.
“Soldiers.”
“They look mean. I don’t like them.”
Oscar cupped Paul’s mouth. “Don’t let them hear you say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because they might get angry.” With his blue eyes and fair skin, Oscar resembled their father, while Paul’s black curly hair and brown eyes were like their mother’s. Oscar bent down so that his head was level with his brother’s. “Don’t ask questions,” he said. “Just listen to me.”
“Yes, Oscar, sir.” Paul grinned. “But I still don’t like them.”
Oscar sighed. Paul was pretty smart, but he liked to do things his own way. As the older brother, it was ten-year-old Oscar’s job to watch out for his five-year-old brother. When their father left, he put Oscar in charge of keeping Paul safe.
Apu told me to keep Paul out of fights and make sure he doesn’t upset our mother. So it’s my job to keep him out of trouble with the soldiers.
Suddenly, a hand grasped Oscar’s shoulder. He jumped.
“Anyu! You scared me.”
“Come home,” she said, her voice trembling. “Come! Now!”
Oscar looked into his mother’s eyes and saw fear.
As they walked home, Oscar looked sadly at his mother. Fear was new to him. He had lived his whole life in Karcag. It was a small town and he knew every part of it, from the muddy street where his family lived to the town square, which was paved with cobblestones and surrounded by shops. There was a Catholic Church, a Protestant church, and a synagogue. He and Paul attended the Jewish school, next to the synagogue. On the surface, everyone seemed to get along, but Oscar knew, from what he’d overheard, that the Jews always felt like outsiders. And that’s what our name means, he thought. His father had told him that Auslander was a German word that meant foreigner.
“To the Hungarians we will always be Jews first and Hungarian second—if at all,” his father had said. “I can only teach Jewish children and the Jewish doctor can only see Jewish patients. But the others leave us alone, and we leav
e them alone, and that way we all get along.”
Not anymore, Oscar thought as he entered the house. After seeing the raw fear in his mother’s eyes, he was beginning to understand what his father had meant.
“Anyu, what’s wrong?” Oscar closed the door and faced his mother. Her usually rosy cheeks were drained of color. Her hair, usually pulled back into a sleek bun, had come loose. Black strands curled around her face. She had dark smudges under her eyes from sleepless nights. The house was small. Sometimes, late at night when Paul was sound asleep, Oscar could hear her crying through the thin wall between their bedroom and hers.
“Anyu, what’s wrong?” he repeated.
Paul tugged at Anyu’s sleeve. “I want to go outside and play.”
“No, Paul,” she said. “You must stay in the house.” She ushered the boys to the kitchen and told them to sit at the table.
Paul grabbed his usual chair, the one facing the sink. He squirmed. “I have to pee.”
Their mother sighed. “Please, Oscar, take him outside. But come right back in.”
Oscar grasped his brother’s hand, and they went through the backdoor into the yard. He led Paul toward the mulberry tree, whose branches were furred from the first blossoms of spring. Beside it stood the wooden outhouse. Everything looked normal, yet Oscar knew that with the soldiers’ arrival, nothing was the same. Even Paul, usually talkative, was quiet.
The boys went into the outhouse. The rusty hinges of the door squeaked as it opened. When they finished, they trudged, still silent, back to the house.
As they entered, there was a knock at the front door.
“Stay here,” their mother ordered. She went to the door and opened it a crack. Aunt Bella, Anyu’s best friend, squeezed into the room. The women fell into each other’s arms.
“What is it?” Anyu asked.
“Mr. Gross wants everyone to come to the synagogue at seven o’clock.” Since the rabbi’s death four years earlier, Joseph Gross had assumed leadership of Karcag’s Jewish community. “The Germans have issued orders,” Bella continued. “He will tell us what we must do.”
“Why are the Germans here, Auntie Bella?” asked Paul. Bella wasn’t really his aunt, but Oscar and Paul had always called her that anyway.
The women eyed each other. “It’ll be all right,” said their mother. “We’ll do what we must and everything will be well.”
“But why are they here?” Paul asked again.
Aunt Bella knelt and met his eyes. “Why they are here isn’t important. They are here! And we must do what they say to stay safe. Do you understand?” She stood, turning to leave. “I’ll see you in the synagogue.”
Anyu nodded. They returned to the kitchen, where Anyu ladled chicken soup into bowls from a big pot on the stove. She set them before Oscar and Paul with pieces of matzo.
“Eat.”
She attempted a smile, but Oscar saw the strain on her face. He tried to smile back but couldn’t. He turned to his soup, and they ate in silence.
Anyu looked at her watch. “It’s almost seven. We must go to the synagogue.”
Chapter 3
The synagogue was crowded when the family arrived. Anyu climbed the stairs to the balcony, to the women’s section, while Oscar and Paul joined a group of boys on a bench at the back.
Paul looked around the familiar space. He loved this room, with its high ceilings, tall windows, and clean white walls. He had always felt comfortable here, but tonight things felt different. The old men who filled the seats were silent. Instead of shouting greetings to friends, they sat slumped in their seats. Everyone is afraid, Paul thought. I wish Apu were here. He’s strong. He would protect us.
“Oscar.” Paul grasped his brother’s arm. “When is Apu coming home?”
Oscar felt a lump in his throat. Paul’s face was hopeful and trusting, as if Oscar could ease his fears. What should he say?
“I don’t know, Paul. No one knows.”
“Will Mr. Gross tell us?”
“He doesn’t know either.”
“Are people scared of the soldiers?” Paul asked.
“Yes.” Oscar swallowed. “They are frightening everyone. Maybe Mr. Gross can tell us what we’re supposed to do. So sit still and listen.”
Paul nodded and settled back in his seat.
Oscar turned to the front, where Mr. Gross was trying to quiet the crowd. “Please, everyone. We must remain calm. The German army has occupied Hungary and the Hungarian Gendarmes are in Karcag, carrying out their orders.”
“Our own state police herding us like dogs!” shouted an old man from the first row. “Regent Horthy said that he would keep the German army out of Hungary!”
“And what does that matter now that Hungarians are the ones ordering us around?” said another man. “Besides, Horthy allied Hungary with the Germans. Who can trust him?”
“He claimed he did that so they wouldn’t invade us,” the first man replied. “I suppose it worked for four years.”
“But now they’re here, aren’t they? Our regent made a deal with the Devil—that monster Hitler. Who expects the Devil to keep a promise?”
Paul listened to the angry voices. “Who is Horthy?” he whispered to Oscar.
“He’s Hungary’s regent. Our leader.”
“Why is everyone mad at him?”
“I don’t know, Paul. Stop pestering me with questions.”
A man sitting in front of them turned around. “Boys, let me explain. When this war started, countries took sides. Hungary sided with Germany. For this, Germany said, ‘Thank you. We will stay out of your country and leave you alone.’ But now Germany has broken its promise.”
“Is it Mr. Horthy’s fault?” asked Oscar.
“No. He tried, but the Germans are bad people. They started the war and now everyone is suffering. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” said Oscar.
Paul remained silent.
“Please, everyone, be quiet.” Mr. Gross lifted his arms, signaling for silence. When that didn’t work, he pounded on the lectern. “Sha! Sha! Arguing among ourselves won’t solve anything.” He held up a piece of paper. “The important thing now is to work together, follow orders, and not make trouble. The Germans have given us instructions.” As the crowd settled down, he began to read.
“There is a curfew. Everyone must be off the streets by five o’clock.” He paused and lowered his voice. “We are to sew yellow stars to our clothing and wear them whenever we leave our homes.” His voice shook.
“The school is closed. Your businesses are closed. Everyone is to return home and await further instructions.” He held his hands out, palms down, as if blessing the congregation.
“Have faith. God will protect us.”
“God will protect us! Like he protected my brother’s family in Poland,” a woman muttered, as they left the synagogue. “When the Germans entered Warsaw, my whole family disappeared. We haven’t heard from them in over four years.”
“Sha. Don’t frighten the children.” Anyu took Paul’s hand and motioned for Oscar to follow. “We will do as the soldiers tell us and we will be well,” she said as they walked home. She closed her eyes, and Paul saw tears run down her cheeks.
He’d never seen his mother cry. Suddenly, Paul was very afraid.
Chapter 4
The day after the soldiers arrived, the boys stayed home, since the school was closed. In the morning, their mother taught them their lessons. In the afternoon, they were allowed outside for an hour, to meet friends in the synagogue yard. Now they were sitting at the kitchen table. Oscar was working on arithmetic problems, and Paul, clutching a stubby pencil, was drawing on a piece of brown wrapping paper.
Paul looked up from his drawing at the window. He felt restless. He wanted to go outside and play with his friends, but Anyu said they had to stay in the hou
se. He put down his pencil, slipped off the chair, and walked into the living room. His mother was in her rocking chair in the corner of the room, in front of the green tile stove that heated the house in winter.
“What is that, Anyu?” Paul asked, pointing to the star she was sewing onto his jacket.
“A decoration. Ouch!” Anyu cried as she pricked her finger with the needle. A drop of red blood spotted the star. She dropped the jacket and buried her face in her hands.
“Anyu, are you all right?” Paul touched his mother’s cheek.
She looked up and gave him a weak smile, then sucked the wound. “See,” she said, holding it out for his inspection, “it’s nothing.”
“Anyu, why do we have to wear the yellow stars?”
“Because the Germans say so,” said Oscar. He emerged from the kitchen, his eyes glittering with anger.
“Will the gendarmes leave soon?” asked Paul. “I don’t like them.”
“Never say that in front of them,” said Anyu. She pulled Paul onto her lap. “Promise me that you’ll be a good boy and not cause any trouble.”
“I promise, Anyu. But I still don’t like them.”
“I don’t either.” His mother gave him a sad smile.
For the next few weeks, life settled into a routine. Anyu continued to tutor the boys at home. Whenever they went out of the house, they were careful to wear their yellow stars. Spring was here and the trees filled with green leaves. When he was in the backyard, Paul watched birds build their nests. One day, he stepped outside and shouted.
“Anyu, Anyu! Come outside! Quick!”
Anyu hurried from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. There was a worried look on her face. “Paul, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Anyu. Look.” He pointed at the chimney. “The storks are back.”
