by Vic Shayne
Like other Nazi officers I had the misfortune to know, Dr. Wichtmann was a special breed of family man. On “his” furniture were photographs of his wife and children taken in portrait studios somewhere in Austria. They were all dressed in their Sunday best: clean, sturdy, each of them fulfilling their roles as model Aryans. Over the course of several days, we would come to meet Mrs. Wichtmann, who now lived here with her husband. From what we could see, the doctor treated her and his maid kindly. And they served him well with quiet, unquestioning loyalty.
His face and his gestures suggested Dr. Wichtmann was a polite, kind man. His face and his eyes smiled and sparkled, but what did this mean? What was behind this façade? We found out that Dr. Wichtmann was, in his own domain, God and the Devil, suffering from the same sickness as the others—he could kiss his wife with affection in the morning, smile to his maid as he walked out the door, and ten minutes later order fifty Jews to death by blowing their brains out on the side of the road.
Dr. Wichtmann proudly and arrogantly wore his brown-gray uniform. He was a high ranking Nazi officer who belonged to a special class of murderers, an instrument of the Final Solution—the plan to rid the continent of all its Jews. Here, in Baranowicze, Dr. Wichtmann lived according to his own laws. He was the law, the arbiter of life and death. He dictated efficiently, oversaw the numbers, and decided fates. While people fell dead with bloated, bursting bellies from starvation a mile down the road, the doctor, with a single phone call, procured country ham, French wine, and cheese, bacon, farm-fresh eggs, and overflowing baskets of perfect fruit. Shmulek and I were his slaves. We had been added to Dr. Wichtmann’s list of assets. For now his only plan for us was to paint the inside of his house. Every order was given with politeness, sometimes even with a smile or pat on the back. Sometimes the order was given directly, and at other times through his maid or his wife or Grabowski, who was not only Wichtmann’s interpreter but also a manager of sorts. Wichtmann was certainly a friendly, orderly, polite, well-mannered murderer.
On the first day at the Wichtmann house, Grabowski showed Shmulek and me where we were to be working. On a quick tour, poking our heads through each doorway, we saw all the rooms, what furniture we would have to move, and the areas we had to prepare for painting. Knowing just what to do, Shmulek began the prep work; I followed along. We tried to pace ourselves. Maybe the longer we took, the safer we’d be. If we finished our job quickly, we’d be taken back to the ghetto for different work. Or worse. So Shmulek and I laid out drop cloths, lined up our paints, brushes, and scrapers against a wall and, with our putty knives, scraped down old paint and rough spots. We were meticulous in an effort to stall our fate.
At the end of the day, before dark, Grabowski, with rifle in hand, directed us back to the ghetto. When we returned, there were fewer people than when we left. Scores had been taken away never to be heard of again. The dead and dying were still strewn about the sidewalks. After spending a day in the cool breeze and hospital-clean interior of Wichtmann’s house, in the ghetto we became reacquainted with the odor of human decay.
Shmulek and I found a place to settle down for the evening then, like everyone else, fell asleep. Our arms and hands or shoes or shirts were our pillows; the cloudy sky was our ceiling; the streets or alleyways our latrines. We fell asleep to the sounds of others mumbling about death squads and Aktions—a German word we would never forget. It meant organized, planned killings. In an Aktion, a group was selected from among the Jews in the ghetto, taken to a field, and murdered on the spot—either mowed down with machine-gun fire or shot in the heads with pistols at close range. If by any chance there were babies brought in from a surrounding neighborhood, they were tossed into the air so that the soldiers could see who could shoot them before they fell into the pit. These things were happening all through Eastern Europe. And worse.
The selection from the Baranowicze ghetto was seemingly random and somewhat based on one’s inability to further serve the Germans. This wasn’t usually a choice. The old men, injured, weak, and helpless were the easiest targets, but there were others who were strong and vibrant who were called out as well. It was maddening. We lived on the edge of death but we never knew where the edge was. There was no sense to any of it. The most we could do was to try to make ourselves seem sprite and useful. We learned to lie with our expressions and forced ourselves to be alert.
In the morning, Shmulek and I found ourselves again near the gate, waiting. Then we heard Grabowski yell out, “Shmulek! Shmulek!” Again we were singled out for work at Dr. Wichtmann’s house. The next day it was Dr. Wichtmann’s maid who came for us, also calling for Shmulek. Day after day they called for us. I can still hear them yelling over the din, “Shmulek! Shmulek!”
When I sat down to write this book, I had for years forgotten Shmulek Bachrach’s first name. “It will come to me. Maybe it will come to me,” I’d say. A year went by, and then I had a dream. I dreamt I was standing in a field and looking at the Bachrach’s daughter. She was yelling, “Shmulek! Shmulek!” She asked me if I had seen her brother. I awoke with a start and shook. I wept uncontrollably. In the middle of the night, shaking, I turned on the light on my night table and scratched down his name on a piece of paper. In the morning I had not forgotten.
Wichtmann’s maid stood by the ghetto fence and called, “Shmulek!” and we reported for work. We were taken away from the dying ghetto to Dr. Wichtmann’s sunny, lively residence. On the way down the dusty road, we would pass by the familiar team of Russian prisoners of war working in the doctor’s fields. These Russians, for the time being, were among the lucky ones. Blistered, with sunken faces, under the summer sun, they cleared away weeds, dug drainage trenches, and planted seeds. German soldiers, always on patrol throughout Baranowicze, were never too far off to track them down and shoot them if they tried to escape.
Shmulek and I realized that as long as there was work for us at Dr. Wichtmann’s house, we would stay alive. At least we were fed and given water. Dr. Wichtmann’s wife, especially, seemed not to understand that we were the inferior race, and I had the feeling she was sneaking us food or feeding us more than her husband would have allowed. When Shmulek and I spoke to one another, always in Yiddish, Mrs. Wichtmann would watch us out of the corner of her eye. I could never tell if it was hate or curiosity. Was she suspicious or distrustful? I thought maybe she was, like us but to a lesser extent, trapped as well, beyond her control, fulfilling the role of wife, living a life not of choice but of temporary convenience.
For now we were safe, a mile down the road from death, fed and working indoors—out of the sun, out of the dirt, away from the shouts and insults and fear of being shot without notice. The work groups out of the ghetto, meanwhile, continued to decay from hopelessness and a well-founded fear of death. Even those who were fed on work details were burning up far more calories than they were fed. It was only a matter of time before they were worked to death or deemed unfit to work, taken away forever.
One day, after many hours of work at Wichtmann’s house, Shmulek and I returned to the ghetto to widespread panic manifested in whispered tones and the insane pacing of caged animals. Word was spreading that there would be an Aktion in the morning. One person heard it from another who was tipped off by another, and so on down the line. An Aktion was coming. Few were able to sleep through the night, myself included. When you hear rumors, you try to tell yourself they’re not true. Exaggerations; ears festering to words. But nothing can stop your heart from pounding and your mind from straining in vain for solutions. You’re looking at rooftops and basement windows for exits and hiding places. You think of ways to make yourself useful. You plead your case in your head. You try to think about what you have of value to exchange for your life. You stick out your chest and try not to look the way you feel inside, full of dread and fear.
When morning came, I began to study the faces all around me in more detail—the hundreds of people milling about were individuals rapidly losing their identities. Unshaven, sunken cheeks; dried
-up mouths with swollen lips. Clothing started to hang cheaply over their bodies, ill-fitting and uncultured. Pants, now too loose, were tied at the waist with makeshift belts of rope or wire. Dirt clung to skin; beneath fingernails, more dirt. Hands of violinists and farmers looked the same. The teachers had all been shot, the doctors lost among the unhealthy and diseased. Faces without smiles and eyes that wanted for nothing but food. Numb minds. Hopeless glances. Vacant expressions.
As the sun came up, those who could rose to their feet—a show of vitality to fool death. Then at the gate, Dr. Wichtmann appeared, clean-shaven, his cologne ever wafting away to the sky. His white shirt, pressed and crisp, hugged his chest and arms beneath his woolen jacket bearing the black SD insignia on his left forearm sleeve. Dr. Wichtmann calmly squinted against the rising sun. He was slightly annoyed by the sun’s heat as he scanned the mass of men pushing toward the gate until at last his eyes fell upon Shmulek and me. He stared at us for a moment. No smile today; no pleasantries. He waved us over then took us back to his house. Shmulek and I weren’t sure that we would ever return. We had grown to rely on that smile, as false as it may have been. We were afraid of change. Were we being selected? We followed him with trepidation. We tried to read his demeanor. He seemed agitated, more stern than usual. Maybe he was through with us.
As it turned out, the beginning of this day was no different from the others for us. But we knew what we were leaving behind. We believed the rumors that there was to be an Aktion. And on our return, fewer souls would be left to greet us with blank stares.
As usual, Shmulek and I set to work with diligence. We spread drop cloths on the floor of Dr. Wichtmann’s living room and, with a damp rag, dusted off the window sills and wooden molding where we were to paint. It was still early in the morning, but Dr. Wichtmann had already had his breakfast hours earlier. On this day, he left the house immediately after dropping us off. We slowed our pace. Through the window, I saw the doctor strut away down the street, his hat tilted slightly and his heavy, jack-booted feet stomping away at a determined pace. A breeze picked up and the weeds bowed to the Nazi officer as he passed by and the dirt dared not blow onto his shiny boots.
As I was painting the hallway, Dr. Wichtmann’s wife, still in her nightgown, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the bedroom, locking the door behind her. This was the first time I had looked directly at the woman. She made me look at her face and eyes. She was pretty but stress had left its mark on her. Maybe it was fear, or even disdain for the life she was forced to live far from her family in Germany. Nervously, she sat on the bed in front of me and chose her words carefully but quickly. To me they were a riddle; my mind could not immediately understand what they meant. I stared at her full lips, caked with red-orange lipstick, and her perfect teeth. I was trying to read her words.
She said, “There are many Jews still in hiding in Berlin.” Tears were forming in her eyes. She got up, went to the door, peeked out into the living room, and said, “Now you can go,” and left the room.
I stood there for a moment trying to understand what she was saying to me. I had the feeling even that she may have been Jewish herself, as she seemed so interested whenever Shmulek and I spoke to each other in Yiddish. Waiting for a moment or so, mulling her words over and over in my head, I left the bedroom and continued my work in the living room. The rest of the day, her words weighed heavy on my mind like a riddle from the Talmud.
Shmulek and I worked until an hour before sunset, having neatly and expertly painted a new coat of off-white onto the living room walls and a glossy coat onto the doors, baseboards, and window trim. After we cleaned our brushes with paint thinner and carefully stored away the materials, Dr. Wichtmann returned through the front door. He held his hat under his arm and combed his fingers through his hair. We didn’t look directly at him as we went outside where Grabowski was waiting to take us back to the ghetto. Dr. Wichtmann stepped out onto the front porch and sternly instructed Grabowski, “Tonight, don’t take them back.” Shmulek and I were told that we would be staying the night on Dr. Wichtmann’s property.
“Tell them,” Dr. Wichtmann instructed Grabowski, “that next morning there will be an Aktion.” It would be inconvenient for us to die and leave Dr. Wichtmann’s house unpainted, so that night Shmulek and I slept under the stars. We were relieved that our lives were spared, but it was clear to us that it would only be a matter of time before we too would be killed.
The Aktion that next morning in Baranowicze, like all the rest, was a planned mass murder. We found ourselves in a kind of insane world of premeditated murder—wherein people were killed not in the act of self-defense, or even as casualties of war. Neither man nor God intervened.
Our days were numbered.
I lived in a state of constant uncertainty. As each day came, I didn’t know whether it would be my turn to face an Aktion or whether I would live to see another sunset. When our work at Dr. Wichtmann’s house was finished, so were we.
Never did I stop wondering, even in fear for myself, what my parents and my sisters were doing. There was, of course, no news, no communication. I hoped and prayed that Tamara Ulashik was still bringing them food and water. I hoped that the violence in Maitchet had run its course. I was worried sick.
At times, when I spent the day tediously painting the walls, my mind would drift. My mother’s cholent was on my lips; Zayde’s voice rang in my head. I missed Papa, Elka, and Peshia. I wondered if the ugly crowd had had enough and if life had gone back to the way it was in pre-war Maitchet. Maybe the Poles thought they had taught the Jews a lesson. Maybe it was over. Maybe life returned to normal. I’m sure my family was worried about me, but I also feared for them to no end.
What was my life now? Why was I being punished? I was lucky to be a painter out of thousands who were suffering with other chores. But this was not luck; I was not free. When would my time come? At the end of the day, I didn’t know whether I would be sleeping in the street alongside dying people or whether I would be called for more work at Dr. Wichtmann’s house. Each time he sent for us, we were spared another day. But each time we returned to the ghetto, there were fewer and fewer men. They were evaporating in the early summer. When I was first brought to Baranowicze, the buildings of the ghetto were overflowing with people. I couldn’t find a place to rest under a roof. Now, at the end of the day, the buildings were half full; those remaining on the street at night were the dead and others too weak to move.
On one day, as Shmulek and I were painting one of the bedrooms, Dr. Wichtmann came to us with an explicit warning. He spoke to us like he was talking to children. Grabowski interpreted for him, but he looked directly at us, staring down at us, glaring at us. I could understand most of what he was saying, his German being so similar to Yiddish. The doctor’s face was serious and his eyes burned. He said he was going away for a short while, but in no case should we ever go near the small house to the rear of his residence. Under no circumstances, verstehst du? He said anyone going near that structure was to be shot without question.
Within an hour, a German staff car pulled up to the front of the house and Dr. Wichtmann climbed in. Through the front window of the living room, I watched him drive away. Then Shmulek and I began painting the baseboards of the living room with a glossy white paint. In one hand I held my paintbrush and in the other a rag soaked in turpentine to remove any spills or drips that went onto the polished wooden floor. Shmulek showed me how to hold the paintbrush at a certain angle, using just enough paint for coverage but not too much to cause a run. I became quite a neat and efficient painter, but we purposefully worked very slowly. Each brushstroke brought us closer to our own demise.
I waited another hour or so before I decided to take a break. I put my paintbrush down, cleaned off my hands, then looked out the window again. Except for the breeze blowing the curtains and some far-off buzzing of truck motors, all was quiet. Grabowski was not on the property. We were left alone, with the maid in the house. I walked out the front d
oor, stretched, then looked over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching me from inside the house. Shmulek was lost in his painting. I stepped down off the front porch and snuck around to the little forbidden house in the back. Not far off, in the fields, the Russian prisoners were working; they took no notice of me as I made my way to a small window on the side of the one-room cottage, determined to peek inside. My heart was beating fast and my mouth went dry with anticipation. I didn’t know the reason it was forbidden territory. Maybe there was money inside, or stolen goods. I placed my hands on the window ledge and put my face to the window. I was not prepared for what was inside and at first sight, I could not find words to interpret what I was looking at . . .
When I realized what I was seeing through the window, my stomach turned inside-out. I put my hand to my mouth, as if trying to muffle my own outburst. I nearly vomited. Now, more than sixty years later, I still cannot erase the vivid, terrible image from my mind. I felt like I was bursting inside and at the same time I wanted to run far away. But there was nowhere to run. Inside this structure, in a little room, sat a young boy of eleven or twelve, strapped to a chair so he could not move. Above him was suspended a mechanized hammer that every few seconds came down upon his head. The boy had been driven insane by the torture. Over and over and over, this hammer came down upon his head; it was inhuman. Dr. Wichtmann, the tall, fair-haired family man who, not too many days before, generously saved us from an Aktion, kept this boy alive to be tortured slowly, endlessly, mercilessly. Tears running down his cheeks, his face red and swollen, his eyes mere slits, his moaning was reduced to a dying, wounded animal’s whimper. I dropped to my knees in sickness and disgust and I trembled.
I heard a noise somewhere. Someone was coming. I pulled myself together and left the area immediately, making my way back to the house, praying that I hadn’t been seen. When I stepped inside, I must have been white as a ghost; the blood had drained away from my face and my hands were twitching on their own. I kept my head down as Mrs. Wichtmann walked by. I pretended to be wiping paint from my fingers. My mind was filled with the image of a kind of cruelty that the Germans alone seem to have mastered.