Eli's Promise

by Ronald H. Balson

  “Stop with the stories and the excuses. I want my wife and her sister out of Lipowa now! I paid you ten thousand to get that done. I personally don’t give a damn who the commandant is. If you can’t do it with Dolp or Riedel, find some other way. As far as I’m concerned, it’s your responsibility and you’re on the hook.”

  Maximilian leaned forward and talked softly, as if some passerby might overhear. “Let’s get our facts straight. You asked me to bribe a Nazi official to get your wife and your sister-in-law out of a work detail that almost every other able-bodied woman in Lublin is required to do. And because of my long-standing relationship with you and your father, and due to my unique abilities to ingratiate myself with the Nazi command and influence Commandant Dolp, I accepted the assignment. Not without considerable risk to me. The commandant’s transfer was entirely unexpected and out of my control. I do not have the same relationship with Commandant Riedel. If you’re lucky, I may cultivate one in the future. But I don’t have it yet.”

  “What about my ten thousand zloty?”

  “I think you have to face reality, Eli. The money’s gone.”

  Eli’s face turned bloodred. He grabbed Maximilian by the shoulders and pulled him outside. “I gave you that money to get something done. As you just said, you accepted the assignment. Now get it done. If it takes more money, then you go find it and fund it.”

  Maximilian lifted Eli’s hands from his shoulders. “Remember this: I am your buffer—the only thing that stands between your family and the Nazis. You’re still in your house, your wife comes home at night, your sister-in-law comes home at night and your brother’s wife, Sylvia, comes home at night. No one in your family has been sent out of town to a distant labor camp. Your father, your brother—they still have jobs that pay a salary. The rest of Lublin is starving.”

  “My sister-in-law won’t last. She’s in the grip of a mental breakdown. If I tell her that she’s never going to be released, she’ll fall apart. What about getting her a medical leave of absence?”

  “Will the hospital admit her? If she’s in the hospital, then it could be viewed as an excused absence. Otherwise, there’s nothing I can do.”

  * * *

  “There’s no chance that any Lublin hospital will admit Klara,” Esther whispered softly in the kitchen. “Their beds are filled with patients who are near death. They have dysentery, they’re malnourished, they suffer from typhus, vitamin deficiencies and a myriad of bacterial diseases. They suffer from war injuries. They have broken bones. There are children who sleep on the street and suffer from rodent bites. There is simply no room in any hospital for patients who suffer mental breakdowns.”

  “Then she’s going to have to go to work every day,” Eli said. “You’ll have to talk to her and keep an eye on her. Let’s try to stay positive and tell her that I’m still working with Maximilian.”

  “I can’t keep an eye on her. She’s in another building in a different section, but we walk to and from work, and I’ll keep encouraging her. If she loses hope, there’s no telling what she’ll do. We can’t let her lose hope.”

  * * *

  One month later, in the swelter of a record-breaking July heat wave, when the internal temperature of the sewing factory soared to 110 degrees and the air was too thick to breathe, Klara lost hope. She was sitting at her station when she suddenly stopped, slumped down in her chair and stared forward in a catatonic state. Her coworker leaned over and asked if she was all right. She didn’t answer. She urged Klara to pick up her garment and sew. She didn’t move. The uniformed section guard caught sight of Klara’s inactivity, hurried over and screamed at her. He shook her listless body so hard that her head flopped back and forth like a rag doll. Still, she would not respond. He lifted her out of her seat and dragged her into the courtyard, where she crumpled to the ground in a heap. He drew his leg back and kicked her as hard as he could with his steel-toed boot, breaking her ribs. She didn’t cry. A shot rang out and they carried her body away.

  * * *

  Esther heard the shot. Everyone in the shop heard the shot, and it shook the women in the same manner that a sudden crack of lightning would. A single shot. Someone was killed. Keep on working.

  Esther waited for Klara on the corner. It was their custom to meet every day at the end of the shift and walk home. On the way, Esther would listen to Klara. She was her sounding board. It was therapy. Klara would vent and it made her feel better. Esther would ultimately steer the conversation to other, more mundane topics. What should they make for dinner?

  The women on the day shift were filing out of the shops and leaving the area and Esther waited. When Klara didn’t appear, Esther feared the worst. A slender woman, much younger than Esther, approached. “Are you Klara’s friend, the one she walks with?”

  Esther nodded. Tears formed in her eyes. She didn’t need to hear the rest. “I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “Klara just gave up. So many of us feel the same way; we don’t want to keep on going in this devil’s furnace. We want to give up, too, but we don’t have the courage. Klara just couldn’t do it anymore. I shook her. I begged her.” The woman hung her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  * * *

  Eli saw Esther walking alone and he knew. He rushed to her and wrapped her in his arms. “She’s gone, Eli. My poor sister couldn’t take it anymore, and now her suffering is done. Maybe it’s for the best.”

  Eli looked for words, he stumbled through an “I’m sorry,” but Esther stopped him. “There’s nothing to say,” she said. “I want her buried in the Jewish cemetery. Tell Maximilian to recover her body and bring it to the mortuary. I’ll speak to the rabbi.”

  Eli anticipated that nothing would come of Maximilian’s efforts to recover Klara’s body, and he was right. The Nazis had no concern for Klara or her remains, and Maximilian reported that they disposed of her as they saw fit. He had obtained a two-hour excused absence from Commandant Riedel for Esther to attend a memorial service. That was the best that he could do.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  FÖHRENWALD

  FÖHRENWALD DISPLACED PERSONS (DP) CAMP

  AMERICAN ZONE

  JULY 1946

  Since the camp committee meeting the previous month, there had been no further mention of the black marketeer who called himself Max. Camp residents had been urged to report any information to Bernard Schwartz, director elect, but no one had come forward, and Bernard was forced to consider that the rumor of visas for sale was nothing more than a fairy tale.

  Bernard knocked on Eli’s door in the late afternoon. “I have two favors to ask of you, Eli. First, I need someone to ride with Daniel and me through the camp tonight. The butchers are at it again. We’ve learned that there will be a secret shipment of meat tonight. They’ll be cutting it up and selling it tomorrow.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Well, we’re not sure this time. That’s why we ride at four a.m. If the lights come on in a basement room, we’ll know it’s them and we’ll bring in the camp police.”

  Eli nodded. “I’ll go, but I have to tell you, selling meat to hungry residents does not seem like a capital offense to me. What is so wrong with butchering meat for people who can afford it? I assume the cows are lawfully purchased from area farmers. They’re not poaching, are they?”

  Schwartz shook his head. “No. They buy the cows from Bavarian ranchers. Then they butcher them here in the camp in secret. All strictly kosher. Under a rabbi’s supervision.”

  “Which rabbi?”

  “We don’t know yet. But, Eli, it is wrong and it’s unfair. Most of our residents arrived at Camp Föhrenwald with nothing. Some were barely alive. You, of all people, would know that. When you and Izaak arrived a year ago, you were but a shadow of the man you are today. Föhrenwald relies on UNRRA to supply food and provisions. In fact, just today we received word that twenty-nine UNRRA ships left New York bound for European DP camps loaded with American food. When our share arrives, it will be distributed fairly. It’s impo
rtant that no one receives more than anyone else: three ounces of meat or fish per person per day, that’s it. So you can understand when meat is sold in the dark of night for money or other property, it not only violates camp rules, it undermines our sense of community.”

  Eli nodded. “Okay, I understand. May I ask you something about last month’s meeting?”

  Bernard raised his eyebrows. “Pretty stormy, wasn’t it?”

  “Without a doubt,” Eli said, “but…”

  “The meetings get like that sometimes. There’s a constant stress level in Camp Föhrenwald. People are frustrated. They want to know when they will be liberated from yet another camp, free to start their new lives. You can’t blame them.”

  “No, I don’t blame them, but at the meeting there was discussion about a man selling visas on the black market. Have we heard anything more specific about the operation, or the man who calls himself Max?”

  “No. Daniel told me that you might know the man.”

  “Well, I might, and that’s why I asked. I knew a man in Lublin who matched the description, but I was certain that he died in 1943.”

  “How were you certain?”

  Eli shrugged. “I saw him being led away. He was a fixer, but he double-crossed the wrong people.”

  “A fixer?”

  Eli nodded. “The lowest of his kind. Soon after the occupation, he made his contacts with Nazi officials. He was a rat. He scurried around our community snooping for the SS, denouncing Jews, ferreting out resisters, stocking the Nazi labor camps. Then he turned around and sold favors to the people. For a price, he could get you food when your rations were gone, keep you in your house when your neighbors were losing theirs or get you an ID exempting you from deportation.”

  “How did you know him?”

  Eli scoffed. “My father gave him a job when he didn’t have a coin in his pocket. We taught him to sell, and he was able to live a comfortable life. He became a dandy—the finest clothes, polished shoes, officious airs. He was totally unprincipled, a despicable person. During the occupation, we knew what he was, but when your back is up against the wall, and he is your only hope … well, you do what you have to do. Ultimately, he betrayed us all. If the person selling black market visas is indeed Maximilian, I will have my reckoning and I will get my answers. And that’s a promise.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes open, Eli. Whether it’s your Max or not, we’re going to put a stop to illegal sales. If you see him in the camp, let us know. And please don’t take direct action. If this man is truly selling authentic U.S. visas, someone in America is supplying them. We need to know his source. We can’t allow our emigration process to be corrupted. We owe it to our residents.”

  “What was the other favor you needed from me, Bernard?”

  “Back in Lublin, you were in the construction trade, no?”

  Eli nodded. “My family owned the brickyard. Rosen and Sons Building and Construction Materials. We were also concrete masons and carpenters. My father’s company built a large portion of Lublin.”

  “Good,” Bernard said. “I have need of your services and supervision. We are going to convert a storage building into an infirmary suitable for a sanitarium. There are now twenty-two people diagnosed with tuberculosis and under quarantine. We’re facing an epidemic.”

  “Lord have mercy. Once they’re under quarantine, how do we treat these people?”

  “As Dr. Weisman said, we have no medicinal cure for tuberculosis. We treat the disease with rest, fluids and traditional remedies. In civilian areas, there are large sanitariums and some recover. Sadly, many do not. But we want to make our patients comfortable and separate them from the rest of the community. That’s why we need you.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Bernard smiled, patted Eli on the back and walked away. Eli lingered in the doorway, gazing down the block at the building that would become a sanitarium. A tuberculosis epidemic in a DP camp. Will our misfortunes never cease?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FÖHRENWALD DP CAMP

  AMERICAN ZONE

  JULY 1946

  In a scarred and field-battered U.S. Army jeep, Bernard, Daniel and Eli motored slowly through the streets of Föhrenwald at 4:00 a.m. A light rain fell and played a staccato rhythm on the jeep’s canvas top. The air was sweet and humid, rich with the scent of mountain pines. With the headlights off, Bernard drove carefully.

  “What will you do if you see a basement light?” Eli asked.

  Bernard held up a black walkie-talkie. “I’ll contact the camp police. We’ll arrest the butchers and bring them up before the Honor Court.”

  “Even the rabbi?”

  “Especially the rabbi.”

  “And the meat?”

  “We’ll put it in the commissary and distribute it fairly. If this is Zygmund Stern’s operation, it will be the third time we’ve caught him. Each time, he has vowed not to repeat his crimes, but he’s not trustworthy. If he is the offender, I intend to bring him up for expulsion.”

  “I know Zygmund,” Eli said. “His son is on Izaak’s football team. He’s really not a bad fellow.”

  “One does not cancel out the other,” Daniel said in his deep gravelly voice. “He runs a black-market butcher shop to line his pockets. He does not butcher meat for benefit of our camp. He does not give to those in need. I hear the meat will be sold first to camp residents who can afford his price, and the leftovers sold to Germans who live in Wolfratshausen. The rations we receive from UNRRA are small. There are many who would benefit from larger portions of fish or meat. Myself for one.”

  After a few minutes, three figures came skulking around the side of a house and entered a warehouse building. “That’s it,” Bernard uttered, and radioed the police. “I wish we didn’t have to do this. If it was cigarettes or an occasional bottle of vodka, I wouldn’t give a damn. I’d look the other way. But hundreds of kilos of beef when people are hungry? That’s criminal. Blatant profiteering. War always brings out the profiteers.”

  Eli heard shouting, the warehouse door opened and four men were led out by six camp policemen. “Rabbi Bernstein,” Bernard said, with a look of disgust. “I wonder what they paid him to certify the beef. Let’s go find out.”

  Eli, Daniel and Bernard walked up to the group. Zygmund, a large, barrel-chested man in a stained white apron, scowled and bitterly said, “Why don’t you leave me alone? I am a butcher. I have a right to engage in my profession. What right do you have to stop me from cutting beef to feed my family?”

  “I have the rights granted to me by our camp’s constitution, by the UNRRA and the U.S. Army,” Bernard said. “And who are we kidding? Are you going to feed your family two hundred kilos of beef, Zygmund? We have been through this with you on two other occasions. Now it ends. You and your associates will be brought before the Court of Honor. In your case, I will recommend expulsion. There will be no black-market meat at Camp Föhrenwald. Period.”

  Then Bernard turned his attention to the rabbi, who hung his head. “And you, Rabbi Bernstein. I would have expected much better. You’re aiding a criminal.”

  “The meat is being butchered for Jewish families. It should be certified kosher,” he said.

  “And no doubt you donated your rabbinic services for the good of the camp?”

  “I have nothing more to say.”

  Zygmund spat on the road. “Bah! I’m cutting meat. Does that make me a criminal? Is eating meat a crime?” He looked around. “Then we are all criminals. What about the bastard who’s selling visas? That’s far more serious. Why don’t you arrest him?”

  “I would in a split second. Can you identify him?”

  Zygmund’s eyes opened wide, and he rubbed the gray stubble on his jowl. A wide smile showed a mouth full of broad teeth. He glanced at his captors. “Perhaps I can. Does the director now wish to strike a bargain with the butcher?”

  Bernard narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. What does the butcher have to offer?”

  “
Information. Cooperation. An exercise of good citizenship for which the butcher expects reciprocation.”

  “You are a scoundrel, Zygmund, not by any means a good citizen, but if you have useful information about the man who calls himself Max and you’re willing to cooperate, we can talk.”

  Zygmund raised a pointed finger. “I have only met him once, but I can easily pick him out of a crowd. He came through the camp a couple of months ago, said his name was Max. He wanted twelve thousand Swiss francs or the equivalent in gold or jewelry for two visas, one for me and one for my wife. Six thousand per visa. Of course, I did not have the money, but I told him I could raise it. He patted me on the back and said that I would soon be on a ship to America. He said he would come back.”

  “When?”

  “He said soon.”

  “Can you describe this Max?”

  Zygmund puffed his ruddy cheeks and nodded. “Tall. Skinny. He had black hair, well combed. Pointy nose like a weasel. Dressed to the nines, fancy clothes.”

  Eli’s muscles tightened and he swore under his breath. “That’s him,” he said to Bernard. “Maximilian Poleski. It’s a perfect description. I want to be there when he returns.”

  “Let me off the butchering charge, Bernard,” Zygmund said, “and I’ll notify you as soon as he walks into camp.”

  Eli glared at him. “How do we know you won’t take the visas and run?”

  Zygmund scoffed. “And how would I pay him? Where would I get twelve thousand francs? Why do you think I was butchering meat? I was going to raise the money.”

  Bernard nodded. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. You’re going to contact Max and tell him you have the money and you want your visas. Tell him you want to meet him and exchange the money for the visas as soon as possible.”