Don't Tell the Nazis

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  He had a point. There were many ways of calling attention to yourself when there were three people hidden under your floor. For example, Dolik, Leon, and Mr. Segal couldn’t go to the outhouse, so they had to use a chamber pot. Which meant that Mama or I carried a brimming chamber pot to the outhouse in the darkness of night. We also went through more water and milk. If someone were carefully watching, we could be discovered.

  But summer turned to fall and we continued the ruse.

  The next Aktion took place on September 21, 1942, which was Yom Kippur. Police stormed through the ghetto again, rounding up more Jews.

  The thought of witnessing people being marched at gunpoint onto the train turned my stomach, but I had to find out whether Dolik’s mother lived or not.

  I counted as small children stepped onto that train of death, and grandmothers shuffled in. There were two girls my age that I recognized from school; they wept as a soldier pushed them through the train doors. Two hundred doomed Jews. Before the war, Viteretz had sixteen hundred Jews. Surely the ghetto was nearly emptied by now? There couldn’t be more than three hundred Jews still alive.

  One single bit of grace: Doctor Mina was not among this day’s doomed.

  Most of those who came to watch the Jews put onto the train cars were German and Volksdeutsche workers—the people who had come to our town and been given the property of the murdered and the food of the starving. Snippets of their conversations floated in the breeze, about how soon our area would be Judenfrei—cleansed of Jews.

  I don’t know what made me more angry and sad—the words themselves, or the satisfaction of the people who spoke them.

  How I wished I could help the people who were herded onto that train, which would soon be on its way to the death camp at Belzec. I searched the crowd and noticed there were some of the original Ukrainian and Polish townsfolk standing and watching as well—and most looked shocked and disgusted at what the Commandant was doing. Did some of them have Jews within their floors or hidden behind their walls? I hoped and prayed that they did.

  That night, once we moved the wood stove aside and helped our friends step out of their hiding place, Dolik and Leon clung to each other, weeping with relief at the news that their mother was probably still alive. But it was a bittersweet relief. Doctor Mina might be alive, but for how long?

  Our double life continued, Mama and I doing daily chores and worrying about Maria. But we heard nothing.

  At night we visited with Dolik, Leon, and Mr. Segal. I got by on just two or three hours of sleep. It seemed too selfish to rest instead of talking or playing cards with our guests. I knew that if the roles were reversed, I would be desperate for company after spending the entire day in cramped darkness. But the schedule took its toll, especially with just Mama and me doing the heavy work of bringing in the harvest. Sometimes I think I slept through digging potatoes and scything wheat.

  The arrangement took its toll on our guests as well. While Mama and I ached from overwork, Dolik, Leon, and Mr. Segal got weak and sick because they could barely move for much of the day.

  I felt most alive when we had finished playing cards and Leon would go to a quiet corner and read a book by candlelight. That was when Dolik and I sat side by side and flipped through pictures, or just talked. I told him of my earliest memories of Tato before he got sick, of how he’d put me on his shoulders and prance around, neighing like a horse. About how a honeybee would fly through our window each morning and land on the tip of his teaspoon. He’d feed the bee a drop of Mama’s berry jam.

  Dolik reminisced about visiting his father’s parents in the country when he was little. “Bubbe and Zayde had geese,” he told me. “I tried to pat this one big white goose, but it would run away at the sight of me.”

  “Did they have a horse or cows too?” I asked.

  “They had an old mare named Sheyn that I’m sure had been pretty at one time.”

  “Did you ever ride her?” I asked.

  Dolik shook his head. “She was too old. I did feed her carrots, though.”

  He also told me stories about his bubbe, who was an expert mushroom hunter. “I loved going into the woods with her,” he said. “What I loved even more was eating the fried mushrooms when we got back.”

  We had a silent agreement to talk only of happier times. It took our minds off the fact that we were living in the midst of death.

  One day in early October, Uncle Ivan visited after dark. He sipped his tea in silence and regarded us all as we sat around the kitchen table. “Kataryna, I have some news,” he said finally. “Nathan and Maria came to us in the forest when they escaped. They stayed with us for a few days and I gave them some lessons in survival and living on the run. They left for Lviv, hoping to blend in with the crowd and find work. I had Maria memorize the address of a woman she could leave a message with.”

  Mama could not seem to find her voice, so I asked, “Have you heard anything from the woman?”

  “Finally, yes,” said Uncle Ivan. “One of our couriers met with her in Lviv just a few days ago. Maria had left this with her.” He reached into his pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Mama.

  She unfolded the paper and a twenty-zloty banknote fluttered onto her lap. Mama read the letter:

  Mama, don’t worry. Assigned to the Huber farm near Thaur in Austria. I’ve heard it’s not a bad place. N sends love to father. Will write when we can. Love M.

  Mama rested her head in her arms and wept with relief. “I wish she’d come home so I could watch over her, but at least now I know she got out of the war zone alive.”

  I was so relieved to hear that Maria was safe, but like Mama, I would worry until I saw her with my own eyes.

  “Thank God they got out of this area safely,” said Mr. Segal.

  “That’s why I came here as soon as I heard,” said Uncle Ivan, standing up. “But I must be on my way.” He enveloped Mama in a firm hug. “Stay safe, Sister,” he said. And then he was gone.

  The Commandant had a nasty way of timing Aktions to Jewish holy days, but the next trains to Belzec left on October 30, which was not a holy day. Again, Mama and I went to the square to witness who was taken, and again Doctor Mina was spared.

  The next Aktion was during Chanukah in December. The ghetto was emptied of all its remaining inhabitants. The police tore down walls and set fire to buildings, ensuring that every single soul still remaining in the ghetto was taken. The Judenrat was not spared. Doctor Mina was also not spared.

  She was thin and haggard, but she walked to the train with her head held high. Her eyes searched the crowd, and when she saw me, I nodded slightly, hoping to let her know that her sons were safe. She nodded back ever so slightly—enough for me to see, but imperceptible to the police who were nudging her forward.

  I stood and watched as the train doors were closed and bolted from the outside. As it chugged past me, my knees gave out and I fell to the ground. Anger, helplessness, sorrow, frustration … a wave of emotions washed over me. Doctor Mina had devoted her life to helping others. Why did she have to die?

  Strong hands gripped mine and pulled me to my feet. “You’d best be getting home, Fräulein Krystia,” said a familiar voice. I looked up. The blacksmith, Herr Zimmer.

  “Thank you,” I said, brushing the dirt off my clothing. Then I ran back home.

  Leon knew as soon as he saw my face that his mother had been taken to Belzec. “Are we … Are we the only Jews left in Viteretz?” he asked.

  “There may be others hidden too,” said Mama. “But I’m afraid there can’t be many still alive.”

  Leon sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and cradled his head in his arms. His entire body shook with his silent weeping. Dolik sat beside his brother, but he was silent too. He stared straight ahead with a pale face; his eyes were dry. I got out a piece of paper and pencils, then sat down with them, but kept my silence.

  There were no words that could possibly bring comfort to Dolik or Leon on such a horrible day. I
sketched an outline of Dolik, and beside him, Leon. On one side of the boys I drew Mr. Kitai, and on the other, I outlined Doctor Mina. Behind them, I drew the house that they’d lived in for so long.

  Dolik noticed what I was doing and he tugged the paper over and took the pencil from my hand. Wordlessly, he continued to add more detail. We passed it back and forth in silence for hours.

  After Doctor Mina was taken to Belzec, the five of us continued to share dinner each evening, and we’d talk in whispers and pass the time playing Remi and drawing portraits on paper, but the shadow of death was never too far away.

  One evening, just after our friends had come up from under the floor, there was a knock on the door.

  “Hide in the bedroom,” whispered Mama.

  They darted out of the kitchen and softly closed the bedroom door behind them. I looked frantically around and noticed that the stove was slightly askew, so I quickly pushed it back into place as Mama opened the door. Just then I realized that there were five places set on the table. It was too late to hide the three extra plates.

  Herr Zimmer stepped in, holding an empty mug.

  “Frau Fediuk,” he said, with a slight bow to Mama, “I’m sorry for bothering you in the evening like this, but could you spare a mug of milk?”

  “Certainly,” said Mama, taking his mug. As she walked to the counter to fill it up, I stood in front of the kitchen table, hoping to block Herr Zimmer’s view of the place settings.

  As Mama handed the mug back, I saw that her hands were shaking.

  He took the mug from her and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” said Mama. “We are neighbors, after all.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “It is our duty to watch out for our neighbors.” He bowed again and backed out the door.

  After he was gone, Mama collapsed onto a chair. “Do you think he saw the plates?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  But if he did, nothing came of it. The next weeks were some of the happiest times of my life.

  And then in March 1943, our world fell apart.

  Mama was at the pump getting water and I was at home peeling potatoes for supper. The door burst open and Commandant Hermann himself stepped in, his Luger drawn. Behind him was an armed policeman.

  “You have a Jew hidden here!” he said to me. “Give him up now and I won’t punish you.”

  “I don’t have a Jew here,” I told him in what I hoped was a sincere-sounding voice. It wasn’t a lie: We had three, not one. But as I said the words, even to me they weren’t convincing.

  “Officer Weber, check that room,” said the Commandant, jerking his head toward the bedroom.

  From the open door I watched the policeman rip apart our feather mattresses, pillows, and comforters, then flip our beds onto their sides to look underneath. He came out of the bedroom, leaving destruction behind him, trailing a cloud of feathers. “There is no one back there, Herr Commandant,” he said.

  “Then go outside and check the shed, the outhouse, and the root cellar.”

  Officer Weber hurried to obey as the Commandant planted his black leather boots on the dirt floor and glared at me with cold blue eyes. A vein in his forehead throbbed. He removed one leather glove and shook it in front of my face. “Tell me now where this Jew is!”

  “We aren’t hiding a Jew.”

  He slapped me hard across the face with his glove. I gasped and he did it once more.

  “There is no Jew here,” I said again. He could kill me and I still would not tell him.

  He punched me hard in the stomach and I doubled over. Mama burst through the door and tried to push him away from me.

  The Commandant turned to her. “You!” he said. “I give you a safe job, and in return you hide Michael Segal? That Jew ran a counterfeit document ring in the ghetto.” He raised his Luger toward Mama’s face. “Where is he?”

  Mama stood there. Silent like me.

  Officer Weber returned. “Nothing,” he said. “There must be a false wall or floor somewhere in here.”

  The Commandant said to me, “Bring me an axe.”

  We did have an axe in the shed, but I would not bring it to him. I was too frightened to respond. I stood as if glued to the floor.

  Officer Weber must have seen the axe in our shed, because he hurried out and a few moments later came back with it. He used the wooden handle to tap all over our wall, listening for a hollow sound, then he methodically did the same for the floor.

  Mama and I stood together, our arms wrapped around each other, too horrified to breathe.

  When Officer Weber got close to the metal plate under the wood stove, the hollow sound was distinct. He lifted the axe to cut through the metal, but the Commandant put his hand up. “Stop,” he said. “That will not work. It would be easier just to push the stove aside. That plate underneath is likely the entry to the hiding place.”

  They pushed on the corner of the stove together and it moved. The Commandant took the axe from Officer Weber and used it to lift up the metal plate.

  Dolik stared out defiantly. Leon was hiding his face in his brother’s chest.

  “These are two young people,” said the Commandant. “The girl told us you had Michael Segal.”

  The girl? Had Marga told the Commandant? How did she know that we were hiding Mr. Segal?

  I had a fleeting hope that the Commandant would take pity on Dolik and Leon because they were young, but Officer Weber grabbed them and yanked them both out of the hole. That’s when the Commandant saw Mr. Segal.

  He turned to me, his face mottled. “You lied.”

  Mama tried to put herself in front of me, but the Commandant pushed her away. He hit me hard in the face with the side of his Luger and I crumpled to the floor. He shouted to Officer Weber, “Take the three Jews to the wagon.”

  Then he turned back to us. “Show me your hidden gold, now.”

  “We have no gold,” said Mama.

  “Nothing but lies come out of your mouths,” he raged. “Slavs are despicable people. You wouldn’t hide Jews if not for the gold.” He strode over to the cupboard and opened it, then picked up our dinner plates one by one and flung them at us. We ducked and darted as the dishes smashed into hundreds of shards. He picked up our cups and glasses and flung them against the stove and walls. Tiny bits of razor-sharp pottery flew through the air.

  He reached for our family Bible and threw it so hard onto the floor that the spine split in two. He grabbed the stack of family portraits that Dolik and I had drawn, looked through them briefly, then ripped them to shreds.

  Mama and I ran out the door, cutting our feet on shards of pottery. I could feel the warm gush of blood running down my face from a cut on my cheek, and more blood coming from my nose.

  Outside, Mr. Segal, Dolik, and Leon were sitting in the back of a horse-drawn wagon, white-faced and silent. Officer Weber stood guarding it, but he turned and pointed his gun toward us. “Stay where you are.”

  We stood there at gunpoint as the Commandant ransacked our house, looking for gold that didn’t exist.

  When he came out, his eyes still flashed with anger. A thin trickle of blood ran through one eyebrow where a shard of pottery must have hit him. “Take the Jews to the square. Put them with the others,” he said to Officer Weber.

  Then the Commandant grabbed Mama’s elbow. “You are coming with me.”

  I followed a few steps behind them. He took Mama to the town jail. When we got inside, Commandant Hermann turned to me and snapped, “You can’t go any farther.”

  As he pushed her through the next set of doors, Mama turned and looked at me. “I love you, Krystia. Find Maria. You are the bravest girl in the world and …”

  The doors closed.

  I waited, my eyes glued to the doors, willing them to open.

  I waited for hours.

  At dusk a Volksdeutsche welfare officer stepped through the doors. She seemed surprised and annoyed by my presence. “W
hat are you doing here?” she asked. “You’re getting blood all over the floor.”

  I looked down. My feet and legs were covered with pinpricks of blood from the dishes the Commandant had shattered. The floor was smeared with dried blood from my pacing.

  “It’s all over your face too,” she said, frowning.

  I put my hands up to my face and flinched at the pain. I could trace the rivulets of sticky blood on my cheeks and over my chin.

  “Go home,” said the woman.

  “I’m waiting for my mother.”

  “She is not leaving,” said the woman. “And I’m locking up. The Commandant left hours ago.”

  How? I wondered. I hadn’t moved. He must have left by another entrance.

  When I stepped out into the town square, I spotted a group of policemen guarding about thirty Jews who were clustered there.

  Dolik stood among them. He raised his eyes at the sight of me. I took a few steps forward, but a policeman raised his hand and said, “Go home, girl.”

  I stood there, staring at his hand, which was well-scrubbed and uncalloused. Then I looked at the policeman’s face. He seemed only a few years older than me. He had the faintest wisp of a blond moustache over his top lip. Did he not consider the evil he was a part of? How could he live with himself?

  I looked beyond him. Leon stood beside Dolik now, their arms around each other’s waists. Behind them stood Mr. Segal, a protective hand on each boy’s shoulder. How I wished I could have pushed away the policeman and run to my friends. How I wished I could have saved them. I knew what their fate was. And so did they.

  I could do nothing more to help them now, so I kissed the tips of my fingers and blew the kiss to Dolik. He lifted his hand as if to catch it. And then he smiled.

  With wooden steps, I turned and walked back home.

  Krasa’s shed door yawned open; she was gone. I checked the backyard. The chickens were also gone. I stepped carefully back into the house and grabbed the broom. I swept aside the shards of pottery so I wouldn’t cut my feet. Every curtain and sheet and blanket had been torn to ribbons. Everything breakable had been smashed. Our meager supply of food had been confiscated.