Janko did not want to go to bed—he wanted to stay awake until my departure—but at last sleep won out. Then his mother could speak to me more freely. “Hania,” she said, “every day I will think of you. Be careful. Try to find a good, safe place to stay. And after the war, write to us and come.”
“I am glad, really, that it happened this way,” I told her through my tears.
“Thank God, my conscience is clear,” she said. “I don’t regret for a moment that we took you in and sheltered you.” I knew that every word she said was true. She had done everything possible to keep me and help me, though it had placed their lives in danger. She loved me and I loved her.
“And I’m relieved that I shall no longer endanger you and your family by my presence. Now I have only myself to look out for.”
Mr. Krupka came in again. He went to see if my picture had by any chance gotten into the papers. He said that he had arranged with the superintendent to call for me later, before train time. He brought several cartons of cigarettes and gave them to me, saying, “These may be very useful sometime. They are hard to get.” I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, and for everything.
A girl we knew, Nechaika, had been the catalyst that suddenly solved the months-old problem of what I should do. But now, one unwary move and I could be lost. Finally, breaking our tense vigil, we heard the superintendent’s steps outside, and I began to say goodbye. There was so much that I wanted to say at that moment, but it seemed as though I could not utter a word, except once again: Thank you for everything!
Tears rolled down Mrs. Krupka’s cheeks. Mr. Krupka said, “I’m going with her to the station.” I understood why: He knew the police and all the authorities in the city, and in case of an inspection we would not be detained.
Quietly I opened the door to Janko’s room and whispered, “Goodnight, Janko. Goodbye!” But the child was already fast asleep.
The superintendent took my suitcase and the package. Mrs. Krupka said, with great intensity in her voice, “Hania, write me how your mother is—and if she is feeling better, come back right away.” She wanted to be sure that the words sank into the superintendent’s ears.
“Yes, yes. I will.” Once again I looked at her, putting my whole heart into that glance. I leaned over and patted Zeze; even the dog seemed to sense that something was wrong, and kept barking as I went down the creaking stairs. No one said a word.
We got into the horse-drawn wagon. Once more I looked at the house that had sheltered me so hospitably for six months. Mrs. Krupka stood in the window, waving at me. I waved back. The wagon started rattling along the cobbled street.
It was May 22, 1943, when I parted from the Krupka family and left Brody. It was the second parting, and the start of a second journey.
1. Sheva before the war, 1939.
2. Sheva by the river in Rohatyn, 1937.
3. Rose, Sheva’s older sister.
4. The Krupkas with Sheva and her husband in New York, April 1966.
5. The hospital where Sheva worked for two years, posing as a Catholic.
6. Sheva’s working card received from the Gestapo in Stuttgart.
7. The sisters at the hospital cared for and befriended Sheva.
8. Sheva’s first real birthday party, November 20, 1945, with Margie and her American husband. Three nuns from the hospital also attended.
9. Israel Lederman, Sheva’s husband.
10. Sheva, now Sylvia Lederman, 1987.
11. Monument, erected in 1947 in the Hebron Cemetery in Long Island, commemorating the people who were burned alive in the Rohatyn ghetto.
6
Into the Unknown, Alone
NOW THE SHOTS RANG OUT LOUDLY as we approached the railway station. From time to time, Gestapo passed us as we rode along unfamiliar streets. But the town of Brody had always been strange to me, and I a stranger within its boundaries. All I left behind were my tears and my fears; a poor legacy, indeed! The town was quiet except for the ghetto, where even during the darkness of the night the Nazis were exterminating the last traces of human habitation.
The railway station seethed with Gestapo officers and militia. Perhaps they were getting the cars ready to deport Jews from the ghetto. We could hear only the shots and commands, and we knew they were meant for the Jews. We took my things from the wagon and started for the platform and the train. The last farewells, words of gratitude, and I picked up my luggage and boarded the train. It was dark inside, but I could see the silhouetted officers in uniform, flashlights in their hands. I noticed that there was plenty of room in the train. Next to a window sat a Ukrainian policeman, alone; instantly I thought that this would be a good place for me to sit. And without any hesitation I went to him, asking him in perfect Ukrainian if I could sit beside him. Smilingly, he took my baggage and helped me to get settled comfortably, saying that I was a beautiful girl. A moment later the train jolted to a start.
The policeman was curious how I knew that he was Ukrainian. I said, “I can always tell my own kind, and I know the uniform anyway.” He seemed quite pleased with my remark. But, I thought, what will he say when the controlling officer asks to see my papers and my birth certificate shows that I am Polish? Well, then I would say that my mother was Polish and my father Ukrainian. It was a plausible explanation from a professional liar . . .
As the train picked up speed, our conversation became livelier and louder. I told him that I was going to visit my aunt and uncle in Lvov. It was my first trip to that city, I said, and I was curious to see the beautiful town.
At the end of the corridor I could see some Gestapo entering from another car. They shone their flashlights into the faces of the passengers, told them to open their luggage for inspection, and demanded that some show their identification papers.
I drew closer to the Ukrainian policeman—even hugged and kissed him—and tried to keep up a running conversation with him. A few minutes more, and it was my turn! I replied to the Gestapo officers’ questions with a smile, though my head was splitting and my blood pounding. When the light flashed into my eyes, I heard one of them say to the other: “Here’s a Ukrainian policeman with a girl—or maybe his wife. Heil, Hitler!” The Ukrainian replied, “Heil, Hitler!”—and I said it too. And they left.
God, it was a miracle! I couldn’t believe it! The Ukrainian kept on talking and I pretended to listen politely. But in my heart I was listening again to my mother’s voice, imploring God to watch over me, to help me survive . . .
The Ukrainian said, “The Germans are inspecting all the trains because they are liquidating the Jews, in Brody, everywhere—even in Lvov.” As dawn began to break we neared the city. The same Gestapo officers kept walking through the train all night, for it stopped at every station on the way. However, they paid no attention to me and the Ukrainian; whenever I saw them approach nearer, I tried to draw my chance companion into animated conversation. Through the opened windows came fresh, warm breezes, and now that the sun was rising, we could hear notes of birdsongs.
And then another sound—people singing, very faintly, in the distance. I heard what seemed like music—but not an orchestra, nor a military band. As we came to the station, I looked out and saw men in what looked like striped pajamas, standing in rows. Some of them had musical instruments and they were singing a Jewish song. I was so astonished that I almost said something to my Ukrainian companion, but bit my tongue just in time and tried to control my emotions. I had to be doubly careful, for it was daylight now and he could see the expression on my face. Breaking through my silence, he said, “Those are Jews. No doubt they are being taken to the place of execution where they will be shot. They are commanded to sing and dance before they die.”
It wasn’t necessary for him to have explained the scene to me. I had witnessed similar scenes and knew what was going on. I felt that dizziness come over me. I held on to the window frame, for I thought I would faint.
The group of men—there may have been a hundred at most—marched slowly. The trai
n also slowed down, more and more. In the distance I could see a dragon of fire and I heard shooting. “That is Janowska Street,” the Ukrainian said. “That’s where they burn the Jews.”
As we pulled into the station, more people came to look out of the windows, but not one expressed a word of pity. They all seemed to enjoy the tragic spectacle before them on the station platform—they were smiling scornfully, obviously amused. Now the passengers were getting ready to leave the train. The Ukrainian’s words still drummed upon my brain: “They’re burning the Jews,” he had said, happily.
“Lvov!” thundered the voice of the conductor. The policeman courteously took my baggage off the rack and helped me down the steps. We left together. I kept close to him, for the station in Lvov, as in Brody, was surrounded by Gestapo—only this, being a larger station, had a larger number of Nazis. I saw that my companion was in a hurry and I tried to hold him back, at least until we could leave the station together and reach the street.
“Please,” I asked him, “show me how I can get to Piekarska Street. What streetcar should I take?” He said that he could not go with me because he was going to see his wife in the hospital so I suggested that he speak to one of the Gestapo officers to help me. He agreed. Although the idea of seeking help from Gestapo sent shivers down my spine, I felt it would, perversely, give me greater security.
After an enthusiastic exchange of “Heil, Hitler!” the Ukrainian explained, in broken German, that I wanted to get to Piekarska Street, but did not know how to get there—and, he added, I did not know any German. Of course, for me to use it would provoke suspicion. The Gestapo officer obligingly directed me to the tramway, and he told the conductor where to let me off. I thanked him in Ukrainian, using expressive gestures to denote my grateful feelings. So I escaped inspection, thanks to the presence of the Ukrainian policeman, and I did not have to show identification papers! Had I acted timidly and tried to avoid contact with the authorities, I would have been caught. But since I put myself alongside a man of authority, a policeman, no one suspected that I was Jewish . . . one of those whom they were hunting.
I paid for my tram ticket and sat down. I was tired and hungry. The streetcar made frequent stops, though the hour was very early and there were not many people aboard. Everything here was strange to me. The city seemed cold, indifferent. I felt only loneliness and fear . . . My thoughts were interrupted by the conductor calling out the name of the street. As though awakening from sleep, I picked up my suitcase and package, thanked the conductor in Ukrainian, and got off. At the last moment I turned and asked him in which direction I should go, and he politely showed me the way.
My baggage seemed to weigh more heavily, but it was only because I felt so weak and tired. At last I found the house where Mrs. Krupka’s sister and brother-in-law lived.
Mr. Tarashkewitz was a retired professor, and they had no children; that was all I knew about them. The hour was still early, and I wondered whether or not to ring their bell. On the other hand, I did not want to stand out in the street. I made my way slowly up to the second floor and looked for their name on the doors. I could imagine how surprised they would be to see such an uninvited, unnecessary, and dangerous visitor. I rang one, timidly, and waited. When no one answered, I rang again, this time pressing the button harder.
A frightened voice asked through the door, “Who is there?”
I waited till the door opened a crack. “Mrs. Tarashkewitz?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Hania. Hania from Brody.”
They knew about me, who I was. Mrs. Tarashkewitz said nothing, but let me in. For a while, she appeared dumbfounded. What to do? What has happened? I could see that I had gotten her out of bed, for she was still wearing her nightgown; her husband was still asleep. She brought me into a small room and told me to sit down. She did not resemble her sister, Mrs. Krupka, at all. She was tall, rather stout, with a full, round face and a deep voice. But the kind expression on her face reminded me of her sister. We spoke in whispers, so as not to awaken anyone. Besides her husband, her niece—a student at the Lvov Polytechnic Institute—also made her home with them; she was still asleep, for it was a Sunday morning.
I told her that I was very sorry that I had disturbed their sleep so early, and I tried to find words to explain my visit there in such a way as not to cause her alarm. I started by telling her that I brought a package from her sister—Mrs. Krupka thought they could use the extra supplies of food. Then, in a whisper, I told her what happened to me in Brody—my meeting with the Nechaika girl . . .
As I talked, I watched the expression on Mrs. Tarashkewitz’s face and saw that she was frightened and groping for the right thing to say to me. Tears welled up into my eyes as I begged her to let me stay for a few days, or even for a day or two. After a short silence, Mrs. Tarashkewitz remarked that it was a great problem, indeed—that along the streets everywhere there were posters announcing that whoever gives shelter to a Jew will be punished by death. Especially now that the ghetto was being liquidated in Lvov and in other cities, every strange person was suspected. Even the neighbors, as soon as they saw a stranger, could—and very willingly did—report it to the Germans, for they were rewarded for it. She said that lately she and her husband had tried to go out as infrequently as possible and to preserve the quiet of their lives.
I saw that not even the package of food was any inducement to Mrs. Tarashkewitz to keep me, but I saw so much kindness in her face that I felt that she would not turn me away in spite of her fears. I said that if she would only let me stay for a day or two, it would give me a chance to look around for a place to live. My latest experiences in Brody made it imperative for me to leave that town. And here I was, a frightened, small slip of a girl . . . In a big world, among millions of people, alone and without a roof over my head. Whom should I ask? Who would answer my plea? If my mother had only known . . .
Quietly, Mrs. Tarashkewitz went into the kitchen and made fresh coffee. The wonderful aroma filled the entire apartment. She also gave me something more substantial to eat, setting the breakfast before me in the small guest room. I noticed her hands were shaking.
The room I was sitting in had heavy drapes on the window, and it was impossible for anyone to notice me from the street below. After some time we heard soft footsteps in the adjoining room. Mrs. Tarashkewitz motioned for me not to speak. She went out, closing the door after her. “She’s just like her sister,” I said to myself. “Always trying to smooth things out, to present a problem in its rosiest aspects.” I could hear whispers in the kitchen. She was telling her husband about the unexpected guest. No doubt they were deliberating what to do with me, I thought. Then suddenly the door opened and they both entered the small room.
The words of explanation and apology for having intruded on their household so early in the morning, for causing them so much trouble and anxiety, died on my lips when I saw Professor Tarashkewitz—for I knew he understood completely. When I was introduced, he greeted me with a kind smile. I liked him at once. He was of medium height, slight of build, very gracious—in manner and appearance every inch an educated, cultured gentleman. What a wonderful feeling it gave me when I saw their mutual willingness to help me and to understand and sympathize!
They asked me not to disclose to their niece my real identity or my reason for coming. When she awoke, they would tell her that I was some distant relative—their families were widely branched out. Besides, she was so busy preparing for exams that she would probably not even stop to think about me. They did not suspect that she would denounce me if she knew the truth, but it was best for her to know nothing. (Incidentally, that niece is now living in the United States, with a highly responsible position—and when I met her recently at the Krupka’s house and reminded her of this incident in Lvov, she laughed heartily and confessed she had no idea then that I was not really her relative, but a Jewish refugee.)
The Tarashkewitzes occupied a large and comfortable apartment—it was so spa
cious, in fact, that there were several rooms I never entered. I used only one entrance that led directly to the kitchen, and from there to the small room, where I found temporary shelter.
They had only so much food as they could receive on their ration cards; I knew that they could not afford to overeat, and now they would also have to share their meager rations with me. Fortunately, I had brought plenty of food with me, donated by Mrs. Krupka, and it would last a week or maybe two. A larger problem was how to preserve me from falling into a trap—and drawing them into it along with me. Each new arrival in town had to be registered within three days and had to obtain a ration card. For this, one needed personal documents—a passport or identity card. Since the ghetto in Lvov was liquidated, numerous rumors had circulated that the authorities would go from house to house, checking on possible Jewish stowaways.
And here were these two quiet, elderly people who until now had lived peacefully, though with limited means. They had tried until now not to transgress any laws so as to not get into trouble. And suddenly I had appeared, destroying their peace! I fervently hoped I would not have to stay at their home longer than just a few days . . .
After breakfast, they went to church and asked me not to answer if I heard a knock on the door or someone calling. I remained sitting on a chair, all alone in the room, a prey to my thoughts.
My light dreams were not interrupted until the return of the Tarashkewitzes from church. Mrs. Tarashkewitz went into the kitchen to start dinner. Her husband came into the guest room and talked a while with me. With sympathetic understanding, he advised me to look in the newspaper for job openings. I told him that tomorrow I would look up Mr. Kowalski, whose address had been given me at Rohatyn—he might be able to place me somewhere.
Sheva's Promise Page 13