A Life To Live...

by Israel Kipen

  Pre-War Warsaw was a beautiful city by any European standards. Its population was not more than one million, but its streets, buildings, parks and shops were a delight.

  The university stood in one of the most exclusive parts of the city and one entered into it through an iron gate, adorned with a symbolism peculiar to the institute. To be educated there, even as late as 1938, was still something rare. The university was blatantly elitist both in spirit and in essence; the medieval system of fraternities still prevailed, with students wearing caps which denoted their own particular fraternity; while it was also the centre of Polish nationalism and, with regard to Jews, it had long been a crucible of anti-Semitism. In the ‘thirties, as already mentioned, Jews were excluded from the faculties of medicine and law; they were also particularly liable to physical assault, knuckle-dusters being very much in vogue at the time. The very looks of some of the students were often enough to thwart any wish to attend, while, walking through the campus grounds, I found myself often almost waiting to be struck, such was my apprehension of the place.

  This notwithstanding, I did feel a near-magnetic attraction towards it. I had no true notion of what it was I wanted to study; I simply wanted to learn and to know, and, in a hazy way, I wanted also to belong. I certainly had no thought-out plan, though my choice of history as my major subject did tell something of my predilection. So did I enter the University of Warsaw at 19, drawn to learning for its own sake, even as I feared walking through it. In completing the application forms, I had to state the language I used at home. In truth, I should have written Yiddish; instead, I wrote Hebrew. This was my personal statement of defiance as a deliberate counter to the nationalistic intent of the question. Not that the authorities needed to know my spoken language to identify me. My name, Israel-Chaim, told them all that was necessary. However, the application form required details of nationality and religion, for in Poland, Jews were regarded as much a nationality as Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Germans and others, even if their citizenship was Polish. With my acceptance into the university, I received a number of documents, the main one of which was called an Index. It was a thin hard-cover booklet which the subject lecturer had to sign testifying to a minimum number of attendances at lectures by the students. As I opened that booklet, I found on the first page a photograph of myself beneath which a rubber-stamp imprint informed me that I was to sit exclusively on the left side of the lecture hall. I looked at the imprint with incredulity and dismay. I had known that segregation existed in university lecture theatres, this being because Polish students did not wish to sit in close proximity to Jewish ones. Till then, however, I had viewed this as an unwritten convention. But seeing the official directive in black on white what was in effect my first passport, I was hit hard and walked away dejected, wondering whether attendance at the university was worth the indignity incurred, let alone the potential physical danger entailed. In the event, the deeper the hurt penetrated, the stronger became my resolve not to yield to such deliberate insult. Though not free of ambivalence which was to dog me throughout my stay at the university, I resolved to go ahead with my course. I found board with a Chassidic family and tried to settle into the unfamiliar environment of big city life and student lifestyle. I remained, overall, alone and friendless. Two former schoolmates had also enrolled, but I was not particularly drawn to them.

  Four particular episodes remain with me clearly to this day.

  One was a certain lecture I attended. The lecture hall was on the first floor, the staircase was narrow. As I walked into the hall, I saw Jewish students in the back taking notes in a standing position as they often did. Not giving the matter a second thought I took a seat on the right side of the hall. Looks like daggers were continually being directed at me, so that I could barely concentrate. When the lecture was over I went quickly with others to the lecturer’s stand to collect my index book. As I waited, another Jewish student warned me of a gang waiting for me at the head of the narrow staircase. There was no other exit from that place. I decided to wait until all other students had secured the lecturer’s signature and answers to questions that had occurred to them, and then, when I was on my own, to engage him in discussion relating to the lecture he had just given. To my salvation, he was in no hurry and was quite amiable and ready to talk, and the more ready he was to talk, the more questions did I pose. We must have been together for some considerable time for in due course the sounds outside the lecture hall abated and when we left, the two of us together, I saw to my relief that my would-be assailants must have dispersed. I hurried down the stairs and in the direction of the gates, looking back only when I was outside. I had been lucky, even if dare-devilishly foolish.

  On another occasion, I had to obtain a signature from a professor in the Law Department. Jews were not permitted to enter that sacrosanct place and other Jewish students obtained the required signature by giving their index books and fee to the orderly at the entrance of the building and collect it later. Being incorrigibly reckless, I decided to do it my way, and as other students streamed into the lecture hall there, I entered in their company. The orderly did not see me. The building was a modern one with a large tiered lecture hall that was packed. What held my attention far more than the lecture throughout the hour that I sat there were the diverse people sitting there – middle-aged and even elderly men, military men of high ranking, nuns and most elegant-looking men. At lecture’s end, I collected my book from the professor and made for the exit. This time, the orderly did spot me and seemed to hesitate over what he should do. During that moment of indecision on his part I walked from the building with measured step, doing nothing to draw attention to myself for the offence I had just committed. Once again I was lucky.

  The other two recollections of that time uppermost in my memory were unconnected with the university.

  One evening, in the company with two others, I attended the opera. The opera being performed was the Polish work “Halka” and we decided to see it. The only tickets we could afford were in the “gods”, located on the fifth floor of the magnificent Warsaw Opera House. Unused to such splendour, we felt the need to stop and admire the huge glittering crystal chandeliers, the columns and the wide and sweeping staircase. The interior, meanwhile, was classical in design and decor; the gilded walls, the elegantly dressed people and the atmosphere of excited expectation reached us at the very summit. Just before us sat an elderly poorly-dressed man. He was heavily built, wore rimmed glasses and had a stand in front of him. At first, we paid scant attention to him, but as the lights dimmed, a hooded light came on over this man’s stand on which the full score of the opera was laid out. For the duration of the opera I watched him as much as I did the performance on the stage. I was fascinated. The man followed the score conducting the music to himself, clearly absorbed and oblivious to everything else around him in a state that was patently for him a spiritual experience. I learnt from the door attendant that he was a shoemaker and opera buff. As far as I was concerned, that old man stole the show.

  The fourth incident revolved around a decision we – I and a few friends – made to have a night on the town. We went to an entertainment hall where music and dancing were to be had. The hall sat 2000 people and was packed. To enter, one was obliged to buy at least a glass of wine which cost 5 zloty, then the equivalent of one dollar and an extravagance on a student budget. The mood there was one of relaxation and merriment. When the band struck up its number, the huge dance-floor became crowded with couples dancing the tango which was so popular at the time. The longer I sat there, however, the more morose I became. I could not fathom how people could indulge in what seemed to me to be such mindless frivolity. Images of poverty and misery and of the more bitter realities of existence beyond those walls came to me and filled me with shame and remorse that I should be sitting there having spent five zlotys which could have been better spent on such who truly needed it to feed themselves. I proved thoroughly miserable the whole evening, my friends unable to unders
tand why I was so withdrawn. They clearly did not feel the way I did and, for my part, I did not elaborate.

  At the university, cadetship towards officer training was a compulsory duty. The military commission of inspection sat at the walled fortress of the Paviak where we were required to present ourselves for medical examinations. Among the questions asked was one relating to known physical disabilities or past illnesses. All Jewish boys answered the question in the negative, fully aware that as far as they were concerned the whole procedure was a sham, for no Jewish student was admitted into the officers’ corps.

  The one lighter aspect connected with my Warsaw days was my assignment from Father to visit his customers in that city from time to time. Entering the hub of the Jewish business district of Nalewki, I found myself among Chassidic Jews who would rib me with “Litwak, red Yiddish” (“Litvak, speak Yiddish”), the word “Litwak” denoting that I was from eastern Poland, that I was not a Chassid and that my Yiddish was not authentic Yiddish, in other words not theirs, so different was it in intonation, inflection and accent. Such banter and mock-derisiveness had a constant good-naturedness about it and produced a considerable amount of laughter with it.

  But the predominant reality with which I lived centred around the university which, with its stigmatising and restrictions, weighed darkly and heavily upon me. My much sought-after learning for learning’s sake was tempered by a distaste for attending lectures caused by the insolence and the constant fear that attended me on campus. The learning I pursued had no practical application beyond itself, while, against this, I knew of the difficulties my absence from the factory meant for Father and the business. In addition, the general political situation was deteriorating, bringing with it increasing certainty that war was approaching. And yet the city of Warsaw laboured under a spectre of unreality, its council undertaking in 1938 a city beautification process with property-owners being compelled by decree to spend vast sums on whitewashing walls and improving their properties so that when the bombs started to fall, the city should look its best. True as it was extraordinary, during the first half of 1939, Warsaw took on a greatly improved appearance.

  For a 19-year-old to make sense of such contradictions was very confusing. In those days, teenagers were not yet convinced that they knew better than their elders; respect for age and greater experience still counted for something. And yet how was that teenager to reconcile the two realities which, juxtaposed, constituted an absurdity: the whitewashing of Warsaw to beautify it at the very moment when war was in the offing through the defiant stand of the Commander-in-Chief of the Polish armed forces in telling Germany that not only would Danzig not be returned but also “not as much as a button”?

  After some six to eight weeks in Warsaw, unable to endure the place anymore, I packed my bags and returned home. Perhaps in letting me go in the first place, Father had gambled on this. Whatever the reason, he had proved judicious. I could thereby bear him no grudge for denying me a most coveted opportunity while I was now able to get the university out of my system, even though I resolved that this in no way marked forever the end of my studies.

  The situation at home was as it had always been. My three younger brothers attended school, my sister Shifra was enjoying a post-school freedom and social life. Young men had begun visiting our home, all of whom I had known from the gymnasium. We discussed the political situation with detached sobriety in ways that were enlightening and intellectually satisfying. And truth was that there was plenty to discuss. Europe was visibly hurtling down into the abyss with accelerating speed. The protracted and inconclusive Anglo-Russian negotiations were the enigma of the time. Everyone tried to place a different interpretation to its purpose and its potential contribution to the aborting of the oncoming disaster. In Europe, people talked politics in the way the British talked cricket. To some extent, the intensity with which we engaged in discussion served as an escape through intellectualism and rationalisation from the reality which was becoming increasingly dire.

  A certain unreality also asserted itself in the conduct of our business. The purchase of raw materials had to be planned well ahead of actual requirements. Commitments were therefore entered into with contracts signed for Indian raw cotton, Dutch secondhand socks and British serge, and long-term credit, risky at any time, extended, all on the assumption that the rhythm of life was to proceed as it had always done, undisturbed. There was a Kafkaesque aura about our existence. But we had to carry on regardless, for none could anticipate with any certainty when and how the final “crunch” would come.

  With the threat of war that hung over Poland, the ill-fated diplomatic mission of the British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain and American isolation, the intensity of the Jewish drama deepened. In the face of the almost universal refusal by national governments to admit German Jewish refugees, the only legitimate recourse for these was Palestine. But successive Conservative British governments through their Mandatory jurisdiction over it remained unmoved by the Jewish plight. Indeed, home policy conspicuously hardened with the most clearcut evidence of it manifested through its White Paper of 1939 effectively closing Palestine off to Jewish immigration. The desperation and bitterness of Jews at this patent expression of cynicism and hard-heartedness bit deep, all the more acutely as, unlike traditionally anti-Semitic Poland, Britain was reputedly liberal, enlightened and fair. Its behaviour now belied its reputation and stirred in Jewish minds the suspicion of a world conspiracy being forged against the Jews, with the arch-instigator being Adolf Hitler.

  Winter 1939 came and passed and in its wake there was left a tide of dishonoured promissory notes. Financially, this was alarming and I found myself travelling once more through the backwaters of eastern Poland carrying a large briefcase with defaulted promissory notes. My journey coincided with the rape of Czechoslovakia and Chamberlain’s ensuing trip culminating in his seemingly triumphal return to England. The newspapers carried what was to become an historic picture showing Chamberlain alighting from his aircraft with an umbrella in one hand and waving a slip of paper with the other. I was stunned into disbelief. When shortly after the Molotov-Ribbentrop agreement was announced, no room was left for illusion. Germany had secured for themselves untrammelled freedom of action in Poland with the end result being to carve up the country for itself and its new-found ally in Russia.

  The die was cast. On a bright August morning, I saw at the train-station of Siedlce the first batch of conscripted youths being farewelled by their parents, this same scene being re-enacted at every station I passed. Returning to Bialystok, I saw details of civilians carrying spades on their shoulders to dig defensive trenches.

  In due course, war, as anticipated, came. That first day of northern autumn, September 1939, was a fine and clear one in Bialystok. The day before, heavy troop concentrations on the Polish-German border had been reported. At 4.30 a.m., they crossed into Poland. By the time we rose that day, the war was two hours old. Ours was a bizarre feeling. Though we had prepared for war for so long, when it came we were at a loss as to how we should act. Nothing could be the same again, and yet for the moment everything around us seemed to be continuing normally, except that people everywhere clustered around radios to listen to official government communiqués even as they knew that these had to be taken with certain reserve. At 9.00 a.m. precisely, the city’s sirens began wailing. Shortly after, standing in the courtyard of our home, we saw the first aeroplanes flying overhead in the direction of the railway station followed by explosions that shattered the quiet. Every fresh explosion struck terror into us. It took time to become accustomed to the sound, while with every bomb we saw released from the aeroplane carriage, we could not but ask whether any of them were meant for us. That first raid did not last long. Kupiecka Street was not part of the German itinerary that morning. Their brief was to demolish railway junctions, disrupt communications, and destroy certain stores.

  When the all-clear was sounded, certain duties became clearly apparent. We took to stic
king strips of paper across windows to save them from shattering and covered them further to ensure total nocturnal blackout. Food was bought and stocked, while at a neighbourhood civil defence meeting which I attended, arm-bands were distributed and duties allocated. These consisted primarily of night-guard duty with special attention being given to inadequately covered windows. With the descent of night, an eerie feeling enveloped the city. To walk in darkness under normal circumstances was a haunting experience; to do so in a state of heightened tension caused the imagination to run to fear.

  On the first day of the war, news was scanty. Rumour-mongering had not yet had time to crank its motors. The only thing that interested us now was: how would Britain respond? The news over radio told of the British Cabinet sitting in urgent session and we expected important news to be issued very soon. And indeed, by the end of the second day, Britain declared war on Germany. That announcement proved energising. In our eyes, Great Britain was still an empire, a mighty power, and we were ready to credit her with the strength and capacity to assert her will in a way that befitted an empire. Surely Poland would now find the resolve to be a match for Germany.

  On the third day of the war, it was announced that the Chief of the British General Staff, General Ironside, was coming forthwith to Poland to consult with the Polish government. There was muted jubilation. Such a visit, undertaken so quickly, must have meant the imminent infusion of requisite military materials. We knew by then that Germany was advancing with a wall of tanks that destroyed everything in its path, while the Polish army had pitted its magnificent cavalry to meet the onslaught. The disequilibrium was patently obvious, but if one were to add a British commitment to help, then Poland would attain to a position to resist. The Polish army was “regrouping”; so was the nation told.

  In the meantime, a new development took place in Bialystok. Jews from the western borders of Poland reached our city as refugees. First they were a trickle; then they swelled to a flood. Families could be seen on the pavements, dejected, homeless. The month being September, the days and nights were becoming cooler. It struck the residents of Bialystok that they had neither the time nor the luxury to feel sorry for themselves. Into their midst had come Jews whose needs were greater than their own. Within two weeks of the beginning of the war, Jewish Bialystok had tripled in number. These added folk had to be sheltered and fed, but to do so effectively was beyond the official Kehilla’s capacity to cope. Every family had to contribute to this necessary effort.