by Leon Silver
Tolek’s family had survived until Tatte had returned from the Great War. So had many other families. But what if Goldenstein could really get Klara and Juliusz out and bring them back? It had only been seven months but he missed them as though it had been years. His heart warmed with a smile. They could live in Budapest, then decide what to do.
Goldenstein got onto the carriage steps, eyes begging for Tolek to accept the offer. Tolek was nearly sick with the weight of the decision. He just didn’t know what to do. But the danger – the risk – of travelling through hostile territory during this war… how could he subject Klara and Juliusz to that?
The train whistle blew and still Goldenstein stared at him. Tolek’s hand, almost of its own accord, nearly dived into the pocket to throw the money at the man. But a superior power stilled him.
The train lurched forward and Tolek shook his head.
Goldenstein grabbed the railing as the train took off.
5 That moment of absolute loss
A refugee family, the Eisens, arrived from Warsaw: father, mother and son a little older than Juliusz. On the day they showed up at the help centre no accommodation was available – families that were supposed to have checked out hadn’t done so and there would be no new space for a couple of days. Tolek took the Eisens home to his rented room in the boarding house. No more than two people were allowed in the rooms at night, so he smuggled them up the stairs one at a time. Tolek had put people up before, so he had a stack of mattresses piled under his bed and a potty. With instructions to keep silent at night and use the bathroom at the end of the hall only during the day, he told the Eisens they could stay until they worked out what to do next.
But this generosity had a selfish edge to it. The little boy, Shlomo – a serious, big-eyed child – reminded Tolek of his own son. From the first day, Tolek spoiled him. He brought home special treats for Shlomo that he knew Juliusz would love: beef goulash and lángos, a pizza-like fried bread, and potatoes; somlói galuska, a sponge trifle with custard and raisins. But Shlomo’s favourite was főzelék, a vegetable stew with meatballs and red peppers topped with a large smiley face. As he watched the boy consume these goodies, Tolek saw his own son savouring the flavours. He even bought Shlomo a blue and white sailor’s top. He sniffed back tears as the child tried it on. When Tolek bought Shlomo paper and coloured pencils, he showed him Juliusz’s drawing of his family. Sometimes Tolek took Shlomo to the office with him for the day for babysitting. He had even obtained a few wooden toys. The Eisens were busy lining up at embassies trying to get permits for here, there, anywhere. The queues were endless; thousands vying for the same jackpot.
One day Tolek raced home with another sumptuous food delivery. He opened the door to silence and a short ‘Thank You’ note resting on the table. The Eisens had left no indication of where they had disappeared to; it was not safe to say.
It was like they had been rubbed off the page.
* * *
Tolek had one sweet victory in his career as the refugee committee secretary. The committee received news that the Polish Consulate was also receiving money from the Joint, part of which they should’ve handed over to Tolek’s operation. Tolek fired off a cable advising the Americans that they had not received any pengős from the Poles at all. As soon as the American dollar tap was turned off, an urgent call came in from the Polish Consulate.
Tolek’s secretary, Zelda, came running into the office, white-faced. ‘The Polish Consulate is on the phone asking for you.’ She picked up the receiver and handed it to him.
‘Mr Klings? My name is Jankowski; I am His Honour the consul’s secretary. We would like you to come over to the embassy and talk things out.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jankowski, I hold His Honour the Polish consul in great esteem, but when I was at the consulate in December last year, I was very badly mistreated. I was not treated as a Polish citizen. I am very happy to talk to you, but it may be better if you can come to the refugee centre office. I can see you any time.’
Surprise and shock vibrated down the line. No one had addressed the office of the consul in such a rude manner before.
A few days later, the refugee committee’s office staff witnessed a rare sight: Mr Jankowski arriving in the official Polish Embassy limousine, tiny Polish flags fluttering at the fenders. This semi-legal refugee organisation had never had a visitor of this calibre.
Jankowski and his two secretaries were received in Tolek’s office by the four members of the committee. They were served coffee and small Hungarian cakes by a waiter employed for the occasion.
Tolek didn’t bring up his mistreatment again. He just asked if the Polish consul would share the Joint refugee grants with them.
Jankowski nodded. ‘If you can turn the grants back on, we will subsidise the refugees in transit with a certain sum of money per head, from lists you issue us.’
‘Done.’ After a quick glance at the other committee members, Tolek tried for the jackpot. ‘But one more thing: we also need Polish passports for all of these people.’
‘Impossible… we don’t have the personnel to process so many passports.’
‘We have plenty of personnel.’
‘In that case,’ Jankowski said with a thin smile, ‘I can give you 100 blank passports. You fill them in, stick on the photographs and return them to us for stamping with the official Polish embassy seal. Then we can do some more.’
Do-it-yourself passports. They had struck gold. The Poles must have wanted those American dollars pretty badly.
But there was a price to pay for this victory.
The Hungarian Police, led by Kovacs, stormed the refugee offices in the middle of a busy day. The handful of people being processed scurried out of the building any way they could. The police didn’t stop them. Kovacs cornered Tolek in his office, telling the staff to wait outside.
The inspector leaned on the desk and spat his toothpick onto Tolek’s files, the corners of his mouth twitching dangerously. ‘I know the business with the passports. Jews are running all over Hungary. They can all go – but you, my friend, will never cross the Hungarian border. I promise you this.’
He spun his inspector’s badge on the surface of Tolek’s desk. The two men waited until it came to a stop.
‘Remember,’ Kovacs said menacingly, ‘if you ever leave Hungary, I will drop my badge, just as I did now, and never pick it up again.’
Tolek was in a sweat when the police left. It was clear the Polish Consulate had contacted Kovacs and told him Tolek Klings must pay. Again Tolek was caught in the dilemma of staying or leaving. He could easily smuggle himself out, but the refugees needed him.
On his next visit to the inspector’s office with his weekly list, Kovacs’ secretary, Szabo, a family man in his fifties, called him over for a chat. Szabo had shown genuine empathy over what was happening to Europe’s Jews. A few times, when his boss wasn’t around, he’d said how sorry he felt for all the displaced families.
Szabo whispered, ‘Something stinks here, Tolek. If you can see your way to disappear for a while, it will only do you good.’
Tolek went cold, then passed all the money he had on him under the desk to Szabo to thank him for the warning. He had only ever done his best for the refugees who came to him, but now he understood his life was truly in danger once more. He could hide somewhere until he could make his escape, but what about the people who needed his help? These refugees needed him and if they thought he was about to disappear they’d stop trusting him.
For the moment, Tolek decided to continue as though he was in no danger.
* * *
A week later, the doorman rang Tolek’s office to say that two men with police badges were coming up to see him. The doorman had strict instructions never to allow more than one person through at a time, so Tolek knew this was an official visit. Tolek stuffed the latest refugee lists in his pocket, took off his jacket, undid his tie, grabbed a rag and started polishing the small set of wooden toys that were still in the corner. He hadn’
t had the heart to get rid of them.
The two men, dressed in suits and ties and carrying their hats, came in and asked to see Tolek Klings. Their jackets hung open, and Tolek noticed their shoulder holsters bulging menacingly.
Tolek smiled, not missing a beat. ‘Sure. Please sit down, Mr Klings has gone downstairs, I’ll fetch him.’ Heart thumping, he forced himself to slowly descend the stairs. Then he slipped out the back door and called Fabian from a phone booth, giving him the agreed message for urgently needing to escape: ‘The time has come. I need to take a holiday.’
Fabian and Pfeffer met him in a café. They had been to his room and brought two suitcases packed with his personal belongings. They also had two Polish passports in different names and US$600 (Tolek’s savings) that had been hidden in a safety deposit box. They also brought several blank Joint withdrawal forms for Tolek to sign until he could be replaced. Tolek gave them the latest lists and updated them on the refugee situation. He worried that he was putting 200 people at risk – once Inspector Kovacs found out he had escaped, the refugees might be punished with greater restrictions.
Fabian and Pfeffer assured Tolek they would handle it. Anyway, he had no option. It was escape or jail.
Tearfully they shook hands and hugged farewell.
The trains were undoubtedly being watched, so Tolek did something desperate, which he realised later probably saved him. He hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take him to Barcs, the border town near the Drava River, which separated Hungary from Yugoslavia. Tolek showed the driver some American dollars, and was greeted by the magical smile such currency invoked. US dollars reigned supreme.
They left Budapest and drove in heavy rain for fourteen hours, arriving at Barcs at six the next morning. They didn’t even stop for a cup of tea or something to eat. Tolek knew this escape route off by heart, as he had sent many refugees this way, and had the taxi drop him and his the two suitcases at the home of the farmer who organised the river crossings. Tolek gave the farmer the standard US$20 fee, and the farmer gave Tolek a piece of bread and a radish and told him to hide in the bushes near the river. A boat would come to ferry him across that night. He stressed to Tolek not to come back, to do exactly what the boat owner said, or he would not get another chance.
Dressed in his suit, shirt and tie, Tolek sat on his suitcases in the mud under the bushes all day, watching the river traffic. He kept waiting to hear screaming police sirens followed by search parties but the day passed quietly and peacefully. Heavy rains had caused the river to run high and fast. His stomach knotted with fear. He had always been scared of deep water and he’d never learned to swim. His fears kept him company all day. What if the farmer had betrayed him? He was travelling even further away from his family. When could he turn back?
When it was finally dark, a lone peasant rowed a boat to shore. Tolek left the cover of the bushes and got into the boat with his suitcases. The peasant leisurely rowed the boat to the other side, eyes half closed, murmuring to himself. The floods meant he couldn’t get right up to the bank, so he motioned to Tolek to get out in what seemed like deep water. Tolek waved a couple of dollars, and the peasant grabbed them, straining to row a few more paces before the oars hit mud. He pulled out one of the oars and stabbed the river bed to show his passenger that the water wasn’t deep. Reluctantly, Tolek climbed out.
Tolek walked out of the river into flooded fields and, with no moon to guide him, was soon lost. It was dark and cold and had started raining again, and the suitcases had become an unbearable weight. Tolek walked for kilometres in sticky, flooded fields, not seeing lights or any signs of life. His shoes and pants were caked with mud, his toes swimming in cold water, and his jacket was soaked through. Tolek decided that it was better to save himself than the suitcases. He propped them up on his knee, opened them and watched water pour out. No wonder they had been so heavy. Tolek rummaged in the cases and took out a few personal things by feel, stuffing them into a small canvas bag. He left the suitcases in the mud – a strange refugee monument – then walked the rest of the night, mumbling Yiddish songs. When he saw border guards with flashlights and barking dogs, he flung himself down in the water. The flooded fields must have disguised his scent, because he was never detected.
Tolek walked until daybreak. Soaked and disorientated, half mad, he reached firm ground on the edge of a village. He circled the village – he was so tired he could hardly lift his muddy feet, yet he knew that he must move on – and walked past two more villages until he decided to seek help. He approached a run-down farmhouse and knocked on the door. An old woman peered from the corner of the window before the door opened barely a crack. Tolek knew a bit of Ukrainian from his legal practice, so he spoke to her in a combination of Ukrainian and Polish, fancying the mixture to have some resemblance to Yugoslav. He said that he needed help, and was willing to pay. There really was no need for dialogue, one look at Tolek and the dollars in his hand said it all.
She waved her hand. ‘Go away. My husband’s dying. He is very sick. I can’t help you.’ She closed the door, bolting it.
It was April, and it turned out to be a beautiful day. Tolek walked to the next village, where he found an unfinished house without a roof. Totally exhausted, he had to take a chance and lie down on the dirt floor in the sun, the canvas bag under his head.
He woke late in the afternoon and, apart from unimaginable hunger and thirst, he felt rested and strong – confident. Last night’s mud had dried into hard crusts on his clothes, and he was stinking and filthy. He was also itchy all over. Who knew what he’d picked up in those flooded meadows?
Tolek followed a narrow track between the fields that eventually led to another village. He circled the village, approaching a farmhouse on the outskirts where the owners were working in the yard. They could report him to the police but he had to take a chance. Tolek approached and asked for their help, showing them a few American dollars. They accepted him with open arms, taking him into the farmhouse and, without any conversation, sat him down in front of plates full of fresh bread, butter, jam, soup, eggs and coffee. It was delicious; food had never tasted so good. When Tolek was finished eating, he took off his filthy clothes, had a hot bath in a small tub then slept in a fresh bed with a feather pillow and eiderdown. In the morning, he found that the couple had washed, dried and pressed his clothes. He had saved some underwear from the suitcase and now put on a fresh pair – he felt like a new man. Over breakfast he told the farmers through a mixture of languages and hand signals that he needed to get to Zagreb. He laid a few more dollars on the table and received rainbows of smiles.
After breakfast the couple hitched up their wagon and took Tolek to the station, where he hugged them goodbye as though he had known them for years.
When Tolek arrived in Zagreb, he took a taxi to Ludwig and Stella Voyanoff’s house, the acquaintances who’d sent him parcels at the internment camp. They hugged and kissed him many times as their three children peeked out from behind the doorway. Tolek wished he had a couple of Shlomo Eisen’s wooden toys for them. He offered to pay for the food parcels sent to camp, but Ludwig and Stella dismissed the offer with a shrug. Wouldn’t you have done the same for us, Tolek?
From Zagreb, Tolek sent another telegram to his wife, letting her know he had moved on, and asking her to reply urgently, to let him know the family was safe and well.
That night, he reunited with friends he’d sent on that same escape route. They took Tolek out for dinner, trying to persuade him to set up a refugee operation in Zagreb, but Tolek wanted another try at rejoining the army. He still thought his best chance of returning home was as a Polish soldier and was planning to visit the Polish Consulate the following day.
Tolek’s experience at the Polish Consulate in Zagreb couldn’t have been further from that of the visit he had made to the consulate in Budapest. This time, he was called in for his interview before a panel of three high-ranking officers. Before they started, one of them turned his back to organise some pape
rwork. Tolek recognised the scar on the man’s neck – this officer was a Polish court judge and Tolek had appeared before him a few times as a law clerk in Lwów. The man’s name sprang to mind: Judge Chidofski.
‘Excuse me, sir, Judge Chidofski.’ Tolek bowed his head, hat in hand.
The judge turned with astonishment. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, your honour, my name is Tolek Klings. I’m a law clerk, I appeared before you in Lwów with my solicitor, Mr Schrenzel.’
‘Yes, yes… Mr Klings.’ Smiling, Chidofski came out from behind the bench and hugged Tolek. ‘Yes, my dear friend.’ He motioned to the secretary to suspend the interviews.
With his hand still around Tolek’s surprised shoulders, Chidofski led him into his private office, sat him down on a sofa, ordered coffee and sat next to him.‘What are you doing in Zagreb, Mr Klings?’
Tolek gave him a sanitised history. Then he said, ‘Please, your honour, none of my telegrams have been answered; do you have any news of what is happening to the Jews in Lwów and Bóbrki?’
The judge shook his head. ‘As you know, the Russians have occupied that area. Information is scarce. The Polish underground is not yet functioning properly.’ He looked Tolek in the eye. ‘From what I know, things are not too bad for the Jews. Hard but bearable.’
Tolek smiled with relief. ‘Thank you, sir, that is very good news.’
Tolek thanked God for having inspired him to turn Goldenstein down. Civilians would survive.
‘Your honour, I’m here because I want to re-enlist in the army. I want to fight for our fatherland.’
Chidofski shot to his feet and so did Tolek. The judge slapped him on the back. ‘We need men like you, Corporal Klings. There is heavy fighting going on in France. A new Polish brigade is being formed in Beirut, attached to the French. I can send you either to France or directly to the Middle East.’
‘Beirut,’ Tolek replied without hesitation. He would be across the road from Palestine where his best friend from school and youth camp, Herman Solomon, lived in Haifa. He had many other close friends there who had made aliyah – the ascension of immigrating to the Holy Land – years before the trouble started. They lived in the settlements and kibbutzim sponsored by the Joint and might have information from home and ways of getting Jews out of Poland. His sister-in-law Neche also lived there on a kibbutz – could she possibly have news from her sister Klara?