He pulled it toward himself at once and regarded it in amazement.
“The real one?” Disbelief was obvious in his voice after he inspected the blank and apparently found it faultless. “And the signatures? How did you obtain the signatures?”
“Not me,” she beamed at him. “All the praise goes to Reuven – he’s the mastermind of the entire operation.”
When Lore had initially told me about that Reuven of hers, I was immediately suspicious. A young Polish Jew who managed to pass for a mischling and therefore enjoyed the benefits that the occupying forces offered the half-bloods, was a bit too cunning and shrewd not to cause suspicion. How did he manage to get himself a position as a doorman who held the doors for the officers of the General-Kommissariat themselves? How did he manage to be on such good terms with the daughter of Hening, a civilian engineer and an assistant to Leutnant Shtamp – the head of the entire Labor Department in Minsk? How did he worm his way into that daughter’s trust in the first place?
To each of my questions, Lore had a nonchalant shrug and an answer. He brings her little trinkets when she does odd favors for him; when one needs to have their work permit extended, for instance. She’s often left in charge of the office when both Shtamp and Hening are gone and it’s quite easy to persuade a girl to accept diamond earrings for a blank that her father wouldn’t even miss. Conveniently enough, both of her superiors sign those blanks beforehand, so she only needs to type in the person’s name, the description of the work, the name of the work supervisor, and the number of workers.
“Reuven had to bring her a golden watch for this one and a few rings just so she’d leave it blank and didn’t ask any questions,” Lore explained. “She agreed very reluctantly and only after he swore to her on his parents’ grave that she wouldn’t find herself in any trouble for this. She said, if it has anything to do with partisans, she’ll tell her father that he stole the permit. Reuven agreed to that.”
“We’ll need to type in his name with the rest then,” Willy asserted at once. “Surely, he isn’t staying behind.”
Lore lowered her eyes. “He is, actually.”
“But it’s pure madness!” Willy regarded her in astonishment. “A suicide, no less! As soon as we don’t make it back by the evening, they’ll put two and two together at once and arrest him.”
Lore only shrugged. “He said, if he doesn’t present himself at his working place as usual, then they’ll surely smell a rat and raise the alarm. Everything has to go as it usually does. Besides, he said he’ll talk his way out of it. He always does…” she whispered, more to herself as though to persuade herself of her own words.
With both of them breathing heavily in excitement behind my back, I carefully typed the twenty-five names, including mine, into the working permit. However, I hesitated in spite of myself before typing Willy’s name in, as our work supervisor. For an instant, some cold, alien fear clutched at my very heart and stole my breath away. I looked him gravely in the eyes. His face was alight with the glow of the setting sun. Before mine, the headline of the Minsker Zeitung suddenly stood. “Captured squad of the Wehrmacht anti-partisan detachment summarily executed by Stalin’s terrorist brigade near Nalibokskiy Forest.”
A chill crept further along my spine. It turned me cold with horror which I couldn’t quite explain to myself. At that moment, just as my fingers hovered over the keys of the typewriter, had I realized that I wasn’t really afraid of anything up until now; not of the SS man’s boot on my back during the Purim pogrom and not even of Schönfeld’s threats when he shoved his gun into my ribs. But now, I was gravely terrified of losing this man who stood before me, smiling softly and unsuspecting of the battle that was raging inside me, silent and still contained – by some miracle, no doubt.
“Are you sure about it?” At last, I asked him directly.
“Of course, I am! What kind of question is that?” He suspected nothing of my morbid and mortifying thoughts.
The kind that means if something doesn’t go according to the plan, you’ll get it much worse than we will, I was about to answer but didn’t have the heart to put into words. The kind that doesn’t guarantee that the partisans won’t take you for a spy once we’re in their hands and won’t order you shot, on the spot.
“You’re putting your life at great risk,” I said carefully instead.
“I know,” followed a simple reply.
I wanted to speak again but he only lowered his warm palm on my shoulder and kissed my temple with infinite affection. “Ilse, don’t waste your time on empty talk. We live together, or we die together. That’s how it is; that’s how it was from the beginning. If I don’t make it – for whatever reason – but you survive, that’ll be enough for me to die in peace. I’ve lived a long life as it is—”
“What nonsense is this now?” I cried, my voice breaking with tears which threatened to spill over my cheeks. “You’re forty-three only! A long life he says…”
“A long life,” he repeated with stubborn determination. “And if I die, you’ll find yourself someone of your own age and you’ll live a very long life together and have many beautiful children—”
“That’s it!” I pushed the typewriter angrily toward the wall. “I’m not putting your name there. We’re not going anywhere! I’m not signing up for this!”
“Yes, we are.” Willy calmly moved the typewriter back, put his arms over my shoulders and typed his own name into the blank. The paper swam in front of my eyes. The death sentence, at least for one of us. Willy extracted the blank from the typewriter and inspected it once again. “Come now, Ilse. We all have to hope for the best. The partisans will take me, you’ll see. Even they need accountants.”
In the corner, Lore snorted with laughter in spite of herself. When I looked at her, her face was just as wet as mine. She, too, didn’t know if her beloved would survive the ordeal. She, too, had nothing else to do but believe him when he assured her that he would.
March 1, 1943
The morning dawned fresh and mother-of-pearl. Willy had been gone for the most part of the night and returned a mere hour ago, strangely agitated; muttered something on account of vehicle and weapons, smoked three cigarettes in a row, kept pawing at his breast pocket in which Otto’s military Russian-German dictionary was and only relaxed after I took his hand in mine and led him to the bed.
“It’s still early. Hold me, Willy, for the last time—”
“For the last time this morning. I’ll be holding you tonight again before you know it.”
Yes, that’s a fine thing to believe in. Let’s believe it then.
We dressed in silence. It took me longer than usual to put my woolen cardigan in order, as my fingers trembled so badly I could barely fasten the buttons. Having noticed that, Willy took my hands in his and kissed them, the usual soft smile playing on his face.
“Don’t fret now, old comrade. Together, we’ll get through.”
I nodded stiffly and tried to smile back. He grinned wider and stroked my hair gently before placing a kiss on my forehead. “You’re so brave, my Ilschen. So very brave.”
No, I’m not. I’m terrified, and I can hardly breathe.
Downstairs, parked in front of the Government Building, a truck was waiting with the driver in it. The young Feldwebel jumped out as soon as he saw us approach and gave Willy a crisp salute. They chatted amicably on the way to the ghetto while I sat rigid as a statue, grateful that they didn’t appear to bother with me in the slightest. I would hardly be able to reply anything intelligible if asked.
The main entrance. Bending over me, Willy presented the sentry with the working permit and a bright grin. “A beautiful morning, is it not?”
“It truly is, Herr Hauptman. Do you know the way to the Labor Exchange?”
A faint shadow of suspicion passed over the sentry’s face. He knew all of the officers who picked up Jewish workers here on a regular basis yet he’d never seen Willy here before.
“Fräulein Stein does.
She’s our guide today. Her name is on the permit.”
Another, barely noticeable, doubtful look from the sentry before he was back to studying the paper. Willy straightened slightly in his seat.
“I hate to rush you but we really should hurry. The damned partisans blew the train tracks and now it’s a matter of hours before the entire Government Complex will be left without any heat. The morning may be beautiful but it’s still blasted winter outside and I’d hate to get another dressing down from my superiors in addition to the one I’d already received this week.”
The trick worked and the sentry even let out a hastily curbed chuckle. The kinship of orderlies triumphed over his diligence. He returned the work permit and brought his hand to his forehead in a salute.
“I won’t hold you any longer, Herr Hauptmann. Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.”
The gates closed behind us.
“The partisans blew up the tracks?” The driver asked, risking breaking military protocol.
Willy’s expression drew to a wry smile. “Nobody blew up anything. I just can’t bear sitting in the cold while they pretend that they’re earning their bread, the damned muttonheads!”
The driver laughed, along with him, at the SS sentry’s expense. Without either one noticing, I released a sigh of immense relief.
At the Labor Exchange, groups of workers were already waiting. As soon as I spotted Liza and my sisters, I pressed myself against the window at once, signing to them. They were all here. My girls. Till the last moment, I was fearing that Lore would choose to stay.
“Those are our workers.” Willy pointed the driver to the group before handing him the permit.
The Feldwebel jumped out of the truck, adjusted his overcoat and began calling out the names which I had typed into the permit – twelve women and thirteen men. Soon, they were huddling together in the back of the truck under the tarpaulin. Through a small window, I glimpsed Liza sitting next to Lily and Lore. She winked at me and demonstrated a freshly assembled rifle, her position hidden from the unsuspecting driver’s eyes. How Willy managed to smuggle those into the wooden crate with the tools overnight was anyone’s guess, but Liza’s friend Sergei along with the few other members of the underground were surely very grateful.
Our official destination was Rudinsk, a junction forty kilometers northeast of Minsk. With two officers and an official pass, we had no trouble getting through all the checkpoints. The truck rolled forward, leaving the heavily guarded city of Minsk behind. Willy opened the map and began giving the young Feldwebel directions. His stance tensed visibly when yet another check-point appeared on the road.
“They are sure fond of checking papers, the Field Police,” Willy noted.
I carefully turned to the small window again, thinking about what sign to give to Liza and the others. If the Police decided to check the back of the truck, no weapons could have been visible, or we would all perish here; a machine-gun position, manned by two Feldgendarmes, came into view as we rolled to a stop. Liza winked at me again – don’t worry, we see them as well as you do. Everything’s hidden.
The heater worked inside the cabin, yet I couldn’t stop trembling as one of the policemen approached our truck. After the usual exchange of salutes, he frowned at the destination marked on the paper.
“Rudinsk? That area is swarming with partisans, Hauptmann Schultz. Why would you want to go there?”
“We need to cut wood.”
“Wood is all the same everywhere last time I checked, but there’s a much lesser chance that you’ll get a bullet between your eyes if you disembark your little brigade right here and chop our local trees.”
Willy gave him a tight-lipped smile. I could see a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“With all due respect, my CO told me to go to Rudinsk.”
“Does your CO want you dead for some reason?” The Feldgendarm chuckled jovially.
Willy only spread his arms in a mock-helpless gesture.
“Listen to what I tell you if you know what’s good for you, Herr Hauptmann. Turn your truck around, park it a couple of kilometers from here and chop all the wood you like. You don’t have to go to Rudinsk for some special wood.”
“But what if a mobile SS squad appears with a check and we’re here instead of Rudinsk even though the working permit is made out for Rudinsk?” Willy pressed, working what no German would ever denounce – the love of order. “How would I explain my decision then? That I was afraid of the partisans and disobeyed my superiors’ orders because of that? And how would it make you look if I told them that you told me to cut the wood here instead of Rudinsk? I don’t know about you but it’s my most profound conviction that we’ll both find ourselves in the same disciplinary battalion if that happens. For cowardice and disobeying the orders,” he added emphatically.
The Feldgendarm pulled himself up at once, suddenly serious. He muttered something under his breath but returned the paper and motioned for the soldiers manning the bar to lift it. “Go ahead, Herr Hauptmann. I’ll give you an armed escort though, to follow you at least for a few kilometers.”
“It is not necessary—”
“No, no; I insist. It’s only as much as I can do to provide you with a secure trip.”
Despite his forced smile, I could tell Willy was cursing inwardly as the Feldgendarmerie patrol car began tailing us from the checkpoint on. In the back, I could see Liza’s profile, strained with tension, watching it as well, unmasked hostility in her eyes.
As my gaze followed Willy’s finger, tracing our progress on the map, I could feel him growing more and more anxious as we were getting nearer Rudinsk.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Apparently, he couldn’t bear it any longer. “Wave him off.” He turned to the driver. The latter looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Wave the escort off, I said! There are no partisans here.”
“But—”
“Wave him off.”
Whether it was the tone in which he said it or Willy’s look, the young Feldwebel stuck his arm out of the window and waved the police escort off. The Field Police peeled off at once, apparently glad to be returning to the protection of their base.
We traveled the rest of the way in charged silence. The driver was growing uneasy now; I could see it in the shifting expression of his clean-shaven face. It turned outright frightened when Willy calmly said, “don’t slow down,” when we approached the road sign that read, Rudinsk.
He kept the speed but made an uncertain motion, quickly countered by Willy’s drawn gun. “Don’t get any ideas now. Just keep driving and nobody gets hurt.”
With his other hand, Willy promptly relieved the young man of his personal weapon and handed it to me. “You remember how to shoot it, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Cock it and keep it that way.”
The forest flew past us, white with snow. The ribbon of the road snaked and curled just like it did on the map. Willy’s finger was stroking gently our final destination point – Rusakovichi, a small village near which the First Minsk Partisan Brigade operated. However, a sickening feeling of dread came over us as soon as the village came into view. It stood peaceful and quiet, just as it should have been, on the other side of the river Ptich. Only, the bridge that was on the map and which we were supposed to take to get to the other side, had been blown up. The driver stopped, looking anxiously at Willy.
Now what? His silent, imploring gaze said. Let’s turn back, and I’ll pretend that it never happened…
Willy motioned for him to get out. Soon, we all stood, eyes fixed with greedy fascination on the small houses on the other side – so close and so infinitely far.
“The bridge,” Liza stammered, her hands still clasping the rifle. “It must be recent.”
“It is,” Sergei confirmed and spat on the ground. “When they gave us directions, it still stood, blast it all!”
“What now?” I voiced what was on everyone’s mind.
In front of us, the d
ark waters ran deep and fast, framed by the ice which must have broken overnight.
“Nothing.” One of the men from the brigade was already discarding his clothes. “Someone will have to swim to the other side, no? Or do you all prefer to stand here like muttons and wait for the first patrol to come and arrest you?”
Leaving his rhetorical question at that, he plunged into the water and reemerged within seconds, spitting and cursing in Russian and rather crudely at that. Huddled on the bank, we all watched his progress with wary eyes, hands clutched in silent prayers for the hero to make it safely to the other side. The steam was rising from the water; it would be a miracle if his muscles didn’t freeze stiff in it. But the fates took mercy on us that day – after a few eternally long minutes, he was already on the other bank. He trotted toward one of the nearest houses, his body steaming much like the water from which he’d just emerged.
Next to me, someone began praying quietly in Yiddish. Willy pressed my hand tighter, still aiming his gun at the driver with the other one. The young Feldwebel looked like he was going to be sick any minute now. His face was taking on a green shade from the fear of what was coming his way and his superior’s – the fellow, who’d clearly lost his reason, in the young German’s eyes, that is. As soon as an elderly man came out as an escort to the now warmly dressed man from our brigade, the driver began trembling openly. A general commotion started in the village which had appeared to be deserted just moments ago. The elderly peasant was already aiding our comrade in pushing a rowboat into the water. As though in a dream I watched it glide toward us; Willy prompting me forward, my sisters taking their places next to me, and all of us rocking gently on the waves as the peasant worked the oars, demonstrating envious strength in spite of his advanced age. Catching my gaze, he smiled and said something reassuringly, out of which I only understood horosho – good. Yes, I smiled back, through tears. Everything will be good.
Soon, the partisans came, emerged right out of nowhere, from the invisible forest behind. Willy smiled at them and, in his halting Russian provided by Otto’s dictionary, said, “Zdravstvyite, tovarishy.”
No Woman's Land: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 2) Page 24
