“He also took an interest in my salvation. By the time I arrived at St. Mary’s, religion was on the back burner for me. I hadn’t thought much about God or Judaism in any way other than the obvious – the realization that being a Jew targeted me for extinction.
“One day Father Janofski invited me to join him in the quadrangle for morning prayers. ‘It would do you good to reconnect with God,’ he said.
“‘Where is God?’ I asked. ‘Why is he letting this happen?’
“Father Janofski raised his eyebrows. ‘That would be a good question to ask Him. Seeking those answers is an exercise in faith. Morning prayers are a solid way to begin each day.’
“Above all, Father Janofski was a man of faith who saw that my soul was starving. We spent many an hour discussing religious philosophies, for he had great knowledge and drew from many religions. He didn’t try to proselytize me, he just wanted me to be a God-fearing man and I credit him for the comfort I now receive from my faith. You know, our philosophies are not so different. The Kabbalah teaches that the goal of man is to bring God into the world.
“We also followed the progress of the war. Father Janofski and I had prepared a map of Europe which we kept in the cellar by the radio, and as we listened to the broadcasts we tried to plot the positions of the armies. So, for example, when Hitler launched his last offensive thrust against Russia in July 1943, we plotted the battles and held our breath. Within two weeks, the German armies had been repelled at Kursk and by October the Russian army was at the gates of Kiev, just a few hundred miles from Poland.”
“You must have been enheartened.”
“We felt that liberation was near. I was confident that my family would survive the ordeal and that we’d return to help rebuild Zamość. We knew of the death camps, but we had no way of knowing the extent of the murders or the extermination of our people. We didn’t know, for example, that by May 1943 every last Jew in Zamość had been deported, almost all to the death camps. Even as I sit here today, it’s beyond comprehension.
“As the Allied armies closed in on Hitler, he increased his fanatical pursuit of the Final Solution, by which he planned to murder eleven million Jews, including five million in Russia, three million in Poland, a million in Romania and Yugoslavia, three quarters of a million in France and a third of a million in England. To this end, he stoked up the ovens at Auschwitz, burning 6,000 bodies a day, and at Treblinka, Sobibor and Chelmno, too.”
“You didn’t mention Belzec.”
“Belzec closed in December 1942 because it was inefficient compared to Auschwitz. The Germans were concentrating their efforts at Auschwitz and Birkenau.
“In December 1943, it was on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the radio broadcasts told us that the Russians were nearing the Polish border. News of the advance scurried through the church and plans were made for a celebration. That night, after mass, Sister Mary Magdalena locked the church doors and brought out a tray of wine. A small glass of wine was poured for each of us. And then another. Prayers of thanksgiving were offered. Giggles and songs filled the halls.
“Father Janofski and I stood watching the sisters, Hannah, my mother and father and Lucyna all smiling and giddy. He took me aside. ‘See how happy they are, Ben. They’re rejoicing for the first time in years. There’s an expectation of freedom, but sadly, it’s premature. I don’t want to burst their bubble, but this war is far from over.
“‘We’ve all taken refuge in this house of God,’ he said, ‘but there’s a false sense of security here. My Christian brothers are being expelled or killed throughout Poland. Half of the Catholic priests in Chelmno have been murdered, a third have been killed in Lodz and Poznan. Of the thirty churches and forty-seven chapels that existed in Poznan, only two churches remain. We live on borrowed time here in Krasnik.’
“‘But the Russians are on our doorstep,’ I said. ‘Freedom is near.’
“‘They could be months away, Ben. The German army may be backpedaling, but it hasn’t been defeated. There is danger in a wounded animal. We must continue our efforts.’
“‘The Polish underground is increasing its activity,’ he said, ‘and I want to assist in any way I can. We’ll continue processing our documents, but I’ve been asked to transmit information to the British underground and I’d like your help. The message I decoded yesterday told me that microfilms, pictures of German armament factories in occupied territories, will be delivered soon. They’re to be passed on to the Allies through a contact in Rzeszow. If you’re willing, you can take my car, but it’ll be dangerous.’
“I savored the opportunity to handle important missions and readily agreed. Three days later, after evening vespers, I took Father Janofski’s car, a ten-year-old two-seater with a long metal shifter in the center of the floor, and drove out on the road to Rzeszow. It putted along noisily, shaking like it had the palsy, and wouldn’t make more than thirty miles per hour. The passenger seat was filled with religious articles and my cover story was well rehearsed – I was delivering the articles to or from a church in Rzeszow, depending on which direction I was headed. Father had prepared a set of phony papers to use if I was stopped, but we all knew that if the ruse failed, the car would be readily connected to the church and an arrest would mean death for us all.
“Among the religious items was an old, leather-bound Polish bible. A hole had been cut out of the center pages, large enough to conceal a four-inch canister containing microfilms for the British. I was to deliver the book to a Rzeszow antique book store and ask for a man named Poulus. My password was, ‘The good father returns this gospel with his compliments.’
“When I got there, the shop was crowded. Mr. Poulus was a burley man with a large, square-shaped head and a close-cut black beard. His reading glasses hung from his neck on a silver chain. When it was my turn to be waited on, he asked me gruffly what I wanted. I mumbled the password.
“‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m glad he liked it. I have another version that the good father is sure to enjoy. One moment and I’ll fetch it.’ He disappeared into the rear of the store and returned with another old book, which he handed to me and quickly shooed me out the door.
“Although I was nervous as all hell, the pass was ridiculously easy and I carried the book to the car and put it on the seat with the other articles. The return trip to St. Mary’s was similarly uneventful. All in all, the assignment was accomplished smoothly and I relished the prospect of another opportunity.
“From then on I would deliver books or envelopes to contacts in nearby villages and, on occasion, all the way to Lublin. The city trips were the most dangerous. Father Janofski’s car was unreliable and I was told to travel in the middle of the day when traffic was the heaviest and it was easiest for me to blend in.”
“Were you ever stopped?” Catherine said.
“Twice. The first time as I drove into Lublin. There was a blockade searching for weapons being smuggled north to Warsaw. They looked at the religious items and opened the trunk, but since they were looking for weapons and they didn’t see anything like a rifle, they waved me on. The second time I was stopped, I was walking to the car after delivering the canister to Poulus. I was shoved up against a building and searched. The book fell to the ground. Since I had nothing incriminating on my person, I was released. They never picked up the book or opened it. I don’t know if anything was inside, but that search scared the heck out of me. I mentioned it to Father Janofski, who shrugged and told me that he had another delivery ready, and did I want to take it or not. Of course I agreed, knowing that our work with the underground network was important to the war effort. Did you know, Catherine, it was a Polish underground message that alerted the British to Germany’s rocket base in Peenemunde?”
“Peenemunde?”
“Hitler was developing the V1 rocket, an unmanned guided missile which could carry a bomb in its warhead. Peenemunde was destroyed by Allied bombs before Hitler could get his rockets off the ground.”
Ben sat back and laced his
fingers behind his head. “And so the winter passed into the spring of 1944. Every day the radio news was more encouraging and we could sense the day of liberation was coming. In May, the rumors were rampant that the Americans were planning to land in Europe and the radio gave us the news that the Russian army had crossed the Polish border.
“Finally, on June 8th, we received word that joint American and British expeditionary forces had landed in Normandy and were pushing east. The news was so exciting I couldn’t wait to see Hannah. I paced impatiently all day waiting for the communion service. When Hannah finally came to meet me in the corner of the transept, I whispered, ‘The Americans have landed. The Russian army is on Poland’s doorstep. Our rescuers are coming soon, Hannah. We’re going to make it.’
“She nodded. But her face was flushed and she seemed unsteady on her feet. I felt her forehead and it was burning. ‘You’re sick,’ I said.
“‘The sisters have been attending to me.’ Her voice was thin and it took effort for her to speak. We held each other tightly and she put her head on my chest. ‘I hurt inside, Ben.’
“I helped her back into the main sanctuary and brought her to Sister Mary Magdalena. ‘We told her not to come tonight, to stay in bed, but she said she had to see you. She needs a doctor,’ the sister said. ‘The care we’re giving isn’t helping her. She’s failing.’”
Catherine wrung her hands. Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said.
“I asked Father Janofski for the name of a local doctor. I told him I’d go into Krasnik and fetch him immediately, but he was fearful of sending me to summon a doctor for a nun. My presence at the church would be difficult to explain and there were no doctors in Krasnik that could be trusted with information about our operations. Since Hannah needed a doctor, he would go himself.
“Late that night he returned with a portly middle age man dressed in a tweed sport jacket. He introduced himself as Doctor Groszna and I was introduced as the church caretaker. Father Janofski and I led him back into the convent to where Hannah lay in a single bed room.
“‘What is the patient’s name?’ he asked.
“I answered quickly. ‘Hannah.’
“‘Sister Hannah?’
“‘No. Just Hannah.’
“He looked at her cheeks, flushed with fever and the pale area around her lips. Her eyes were half closed and she shivered, though she was burning to the touch. She was barely conscious. Loudly, he called, ‘Hannah. Hannah. I’m Doctor Groszna. Show me, where does it hurt you?’
“She weakly pointed to her throat and her lower abdomen. He probed deep into her throat with a tongue depressor, all along nodding his head and repeating ‘Uh-hmmm.’ Finally, he turned to Father Janofski and me and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse us, please. I need to examine her more fully.’ I was reluctant to leave her but Father Janofski pulled me out of the room and into the hall.
“A few minutes later, the doctor came out to see us. ‘I examined her chest and abdomen. As I expected there were bumpy red rashes.’ He took the stethoscope from around his neck and placed it in his black bag. ‘Unusual for a woman her age. I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever.’
“‘Can you cure her?’ I asked. I’m sure there was panic in my voice.
“He eyed me curiously and then shook his head. ‘There is no cure, young man. I have advised the sisters to keep her cool with cloths, to feed her liquids so she does not dehydrate and to pray that her immune system is strong enough to overcome the disease. Whoever attends to this woman must wash very carefully. We believe the disease is transmitted by saliva and mucous. It’s quite contagious.’
“‘Will she be okay?’ I asked.
“He bent down to take a small bottle from his black bag and answered in a disinterested tone, ‘Some recover and some do not. Those that recover often have permanent damage to their heart or organs.’ He gave us the bottle of medicine and left the church. He never returned.
“The next morning a black sedan pulled onto the gravel drive and two Gestapo agents walked to the door. Sister Mary Magdalena alerted us and I quickly ducked through the closet and down to the cellar. Father Janofski was told that Doctor Groszna had reported something unusual at the church: a woman named Hannah lay ill in the convent. He suspected that she was not a nun and by law was required to report such a finding to the Gestapo. They demanded to see her.
“‘Of course, you may do as you please,’ Father Janofski said, ‘but that would be unwise. She is a young postulate and under quarantine, as I’m sure the doctor told you. She has the plague. We do not expect her to live.’
“‘We were also told of a young man who showed an unusual interest in the sick woman. Where is he?’
“‘A local farm boy, I’m not sure where he lives. He comes around from time to time to do maintenance work in exchange for food and a few Zlotys. If you come next Friday, you’ll probably see him.’
“‘You don’t mind if we look around, do you?’ they asked.
“‘Not at all.’
“They inspected the church and convent, inside and out, but when they came to Hannah’s room with its quarantine sign on the door, they shook their heads and kept walking.
“Days went by slowly and Hannah suffered greatly with the disease. Pain and nausea were her constant tormentors. I sat by her bedside every day holding her hand and urging her to take her liquids but she had no appetite and her condition weakened. Father Janofski and I prayed together several times a day. The entire convent prayed for her.” Ben’s eyes glassed as he stared at the fireplace. “She was so pale.
“The following Friday brought the return of the Gestapo. Again I hid in the cellar while Father Janofski shooed them away. This time they insisted on seeing Hannah. Holding a cloth over their nose and mouth, they stood at the doorway and briefly looked into her bedroom. Then they demanded to see the caretaker.
“‘He didn’t show up today. He’s not very responsible, but in these times, what could you hope for?’ Father Janofski said.
“‘It would be a mistake to lie to us,’ they said. ‘Your priestly garb will not protect you.’ With an arrogant smile they turned and left the church.
“Three or four days later, I was summoned by Lucyna and told to come immediately. I rushed to Hannah’s room to see her propped up on pillows and taking a bowl of soup. Her fever had broken. Color had returned to her face. She smiled at me. So pretty. I hugged her tightly and whispered, ‘I was so afraid …’
“‘You’re stuck with me,’ she said. ‘I’ll never leave you.’ I don’t mind telling you that I bawled like a baby. I spent the rest of the day sitting on her bed, watching her.
“We knew the Gestapo would return, so we decided to dig a fresh grave in the church cemetery and report that she had died. That night I took a shovel into the graveyard. It gave me the chills to turn up the dirt, even though it was a deception.
“Hannah grew stronger day by day. Soon she was walking the hallways and chatting with the nuns. With the British and American armies on the continent, we had every reason to believe that the Nazi scourge was in its final hours. We were going to survive this madness. The Russian army was driving westward, Allied forces were dropping bombs on German cities and the radio reports were enthusiastic.
“Two weeks later, on a Friday, as we expected, the Germans returned – the same two Gestapo officials, one tall and thin like Ichabod Crane, the other squat and stout with a Hitlerian mustache. They banged on the church door in a most insolent way. They demanded to see Hannah. Father Janofski took them outside to the cemetery and to the freshly dug grave. They nodded, took a walk around the church and left. After they pulled away, Father Janofski came down to the cellar.
“‘Well they’re gone, the vermin.’ He picked up a set of travel documents my father was preparing and examined them with a magnifying glass. ‘Remarkable work,’ he said.
“But as he paced around, he looked uneasy, and my father noticed it too. ‘Is something wrong?’ my father asked.
/> “Father Janofski nodded. ‘Abraham, this recent visit troubles me. First, I was afraid they would order me to exhume the body. Then, when they were walking around, there was a lot of hush-hush talking between these two Gestapo snakes. They kept eyeing the church. Nodding and pointing. Whispering.’ He shrugged. ‘Ach, maybe I’m getting old.’ As he turned to climb the stairs, he added, ‘Anyway, be on your guard. It never hurts to be too careful.’
“Nothing out of the ordinary happened for the next two days. I was making plans to deliver a microfilm canister to my British contact in Lublin. It was due to arrive at the church on Tuesday.
“Early Monday, after morning prayers, as my father and I were having breakfast with Father Janofski, we heard the sound of tires rolling over the gravel drive. I ran to the window and saw the black Gestapo sedan followed by two canvas-covered trucks pull to a stop at the front of the church. I waved at my father and Father Janofski, signaling danger. My father quickly descended into the cellar.
“Loud knocks reverberated throughout the church and as Sister Mary Magdalena unlatched the large wooden door, she was pushed aside by the rush of German soldiers. I didn’t have time to make it to the cellar, so I stood with a mop in my hand in the dark of the western transept. A dozen soldiers in full uniform stormed into the church, automatic weapons in their hands, their jackboots clacking on the stone floor. The two Gestapo officers followed and demanded to see Father Janofski. Sister Mary Magdalena hurried to find him.
“Without an ounce of fear, Father Janofski boldly strode into the nave. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snapped. ‘How dare you bring weapons into my church. This is a house of God.’
“‘Does God listen to the radio, Father?’ the tall agent said.
“‘Is that a crime now, to listen to music? Is Beethoven an enemy of the Reich?’
“‘Does Beethoven need a fifty foot antenna?’ He pointed to the cupola. ‘Show us the radio.’
“‘Is that what this is all about? The radio is broken. We have sent it for repairs.’
Once We Were Brothers Page 26
