Their niece did not join us at the dinner table, having been invited to some friend’s house. The food was plain, but prepared tastefully and served in an attractive manner. Mrs. Tarashkewitz did not even let me help with the dishes—partly, I suppose, because she still regarded me as a guest, but mostly because she was afraid that someone might see me in the kitchen window. So I spent all the time in the small guest room, with the drapes and shades drawn. Time dragged. I could hardly wait for the next day, thinking that if I could get in touch with Mr. Kowalski, he would be able to help me, in return for money or jewelry. I went to bed right after supper. Just one more day, two at most, and I would not be here to complicate the lives of these good people. I lay awake for hours, making plans of one kind or another. Without hope, I could not exist.
But the next day, I found that my hopes were without foundation. I went to see Mr. Kowalski only to learn that he had been taken by the Gestapo, and I myself was almost taken captive by one of his housemates; the woman wanted me to wait, but I escaped. The day was a total waste. In the evening, Professor Tarashkewitz went out and brought me a newspaper. He showed me an advertisement for the state employment bureau; they wanted girls and young men for various kinds of work. He advised me to try the next morning.
So, armed with fresh courage and energy, I went there the next day, trying to forget that I was Jewish, that I was hiding under a false name. I tried only to think that I was Hanka Buczek, a Polish girl, and that I had every right to seek work and live like all the others. Holding my head high, I entered the building where the bureau was located. The waiting room was filled with people queued up in long lines. First, I quickly looked around, checking if by any chance there was someone I might have known from Rohatyn.
The woman behind the desk spoke to me in German, but I pretended I did not understand. Then she directed me to another clerk who asked if I spoke Polish or Ukrainian. “Yes,” I said, “either language.” We continued the interview in Ukrainian. I gave her my name, my place, and date of birth. “Show me your Kennkarte,” she demanded.
I tried to explain that I did not have it with me, because I only wanted to get information about job opportunities. “I did not think I’d need a Kennkarte for this,” I said, “but if necessary, I’ll go home and bring it.”
She eyed me up and down and then whispered something to a man who was standing near her desk. They talked in German—she repeated her conversation with me, thinking that I did not understand, but I did. After listening to her, the man went to a telephone, and I could hear him plainly tell someone at the other end that he has a suspicious character here. I knew immediately that he was telephoning the police station or the Gestapo. It was too late to run away, for I would have been caught at once. I feigned complete indifference and leaned over to ask the woman if I could go to the washroom. She pointed to a door at the end of the room and I went in that direction, but instead of going into the toilet I bolted out the door and into the street. Fortunately, because of the crowd of people in the employment bureau, my escape was not immediately noticed, and I reached the car stop and took the first tram that came along, not caring in which direction it was going. When the streetcar stopped near a park, I got out. I did not know where I was; I sat down on a bench. It didn’t matter. I had lots of time, and nowhere to go . . . I sat, totally resigned to my fate.
My musings were interrupted by sounds that beat like hammers on my consciousness—sounds of heavy, measured footsteps, sounds I had heard so many times before that I instantly knew what they were. I looked in their direction, and saw several Gestapo coming toward me. They seemed to be in a hurry. Were they looking for me? It made no difference now! But to my astonishment they did not even glance my way.
I remained on the park bench for several hours, until I was roused from my inertia by the sight of a Gestapo officer in the distance, dragging a young boy after him. The lad—I thought he was Jewish—tried to pull away and run, but the German simply gripped him harder. Suddenly, I heard a shot—and the boy’s dead body lay sprawled on the sidewalk. Even then, the Gestapo officer kicked him as though he wanted to push him off the sidewalk into the gutter. Then he left.
It all happened so quickly, without an outcry, without tears. If it were not for the shot, no one would have noticed the incident. A few passersby stopped for a second. Their whispers reached my ears: “He must have escaped from the ghetto,” they were saying. “A Jew, no doubt. He wanted to hide.”
I thought: Who knows? In an hour, a few minutes maybe, a few days at most, this same fate can befall me. The sight of the dead boy sent a chill up my spine. I got up from the bench at last and, slowly, reached the streetcar stop. By the time I arrived at the Tarashkewitzes’ house, it was dark—and my stomach at last had started to protest against being starved all day. I had no sensation of hunger until then; fear had taken away all craving for food.
Piekarska Street was dark, quiet, and empty. The Tarashkewitzes were probably very worried about me by this time, and feeling a pang of conscience for having caused them this anxiety, I crept up the stairs like a thief. As soon as I knocked on the door, in the special way we had decided upon earlier as a signal, I heard Mrs. Tarashkewitz call out, “Hania! What happened?” She let me in, plying me with questions. “Did you work today? No? Then, where did you spend the whole day long? Did you eat?”
And when I shook my head negatively, she started to fuss about the kitchen, warming up some food for me. Her husband remained in the small living room—which had become “my” room—reading a paper, for he had already had his supper. When I entered and said “Good evening,” he put the newspaper aside and asked me to give him an account of how I had spent the day. As he listened, his face showed his disappointment.
When I was summoned by Mrs. Tarashkewitz to come to the kitchen, I sat down and ate everything she put before me. After I had had my fill, we returned to the small room and they both put the question to me: “What do you intend to do now? Where will you go?”
Three days had elapsed since my coming to Lvov, and I knew that I should register with the police. Even non-Jews had to register in the place where they intended to take up permanent residence. We sat up until late that night, discussing my situation, trying to make plans for the future. Even when at last I went to bed, I could not sleep. The events of that terrible evening finally came fully alive in my mind. I was aware of what was happening around me; I realized the precariousness of my existence. Where would I go tomorrow? Although I bit my lips until they bled, to keep from crying aloud, I could not hold back my sobs—even though I trembled in fear, knowing that the Tarashkewitzes’ niece was asleep in the next room. Louder and louder became my spasmodic cries, and at times I called out, “Mamma, O Mamma, help me!” I was absolutely unable to control myself.
Suddenly the door to my room opened and Mrs. Tarashkewitz came in. She took my hand and said gently, “Hania, Hania, try to be calm. What has happened? Please, stop crying.”
But instead of stopping, my cries became louder and more despairing. She placed her hand over my mouth and stroked my hair, which was as damp as if I had just come out of a bath. My nightclothes and the pillow were also wet with tears and perspiration. She gave me a glass of cold water, and I finally quieted down a little. I said nothing. I felt as weak as a fly. The emotional reaction to the events of the preceding day had at last taken their toll. Mrs. Tarashkewitz covered me with a blanket, signed my forehead with a cross, and left. I knew that she felt for me, but what could she do? To keep me in her home meant risking all their lives.
After a long and dismal night, I managed to get up, wash, get dressed, and eat breakfast. I was exhausted. I could not go anywhere that day. I read the newspaper carefully, noting places where I might apply for work. Then it occurred to me that I had the address of the German woman who had been transferred from Brody to a better position in Lvov. Hastily, I opened my suitcase and found her address. It was a spark of hope; perhaps she would take me to work for her as a s
ervant, simply for my food and lodging. But when I went by her apartment that day after lunch, she told me quite abruptly that she needed no help, and that she could not stop to converse. Once again, I felt sunk in despair.
Again, I turned to reading the newspaper ads for employment opportunities. The days passed, each one more dangerous than the last. Public notices, radio broadcasts, papers—from all sides one could hear only one cry: “Judenrein!” or “Judenfrei!” Get rid of the Jews! Now Professor Tarashkewitz bought several newspapers a day, all the papers he could get. At last we found one advertisement: Girls and young men (Gentile, naturally) were wanted for work in Germany. This seemed to fit our needs. We paused to analyze the pros and cons. I would have to apply at the camp on Janowska Street—the same street where a Jewish ghetto was located. On the other hand, once in Germany, I could try to lose myself, achieve some degree of anonymity. Germany was far from Lvov, or Rohatyn, or Brody. Ironically, that made it safer than remaining in Poland.
We read further. What would I need? A work card, of course; clothing, and a certificate of good health—they did not want sick people. My problem was how to obtain a work card. Where? From Brody? I had submitted my papers there, at the city hall; that was the only place. We had had no news from the Krupka family. Though the Tarashkewitzes were saddled with me, they did not want to take the risk of writing to Brody; but the letter could not be put off any longer. They would have to write—very obliquely and diplomatically of course—and yet so that the Krupkas would understand. The Professor helped compose that important letter. After many tries we finished it and sent it off. Now we impatiently waited for a reply. Meanwhile, I did not look for employment, for we had decided it would be safest for me to make an application to the work camp and to leave these parts of the country for good. So I became a guest of the Tarashkewitzes, not for a day or two as I had expected and as they had hoped but for a considerably longer time. I was really sorry for these people who, because of my presence in their home, had to live in mortal fear.
At last the month of May drew to a close. Each day we looked for the mailman to bring a reply from the Krupka family, but in vain. Our fears increased; we supposed any number of evil things might have happened, for this silence was disturbing, and in such critical times one could only look for the worst.
At last, I asked them to send a telegram to Brody. I gave the Professor some money to cover the cost of the wire, and he went to the post office to take care of it. Just a few words: WORK PAPERS NEEDED URGENTLY, followed by the Professor’s name as the sender. I hoped that this telegram would bring quick results.
Three days after sending out the telegram, much to our relief, a letter came from Mr. Krupka in Brody. Enclosed was a card showing that I was officially registered for work and checked out from Brody. Our faces shone with joy! We passed the small card from hand to hand—it was about the size of an ordinary postcard, maybe smaller. Just an Arbeitskarte, a work card, but it was the card of salvation. It saved the Tarashkewitzes more of this strain, and it saved me especially—it was my hope for a future! I pressed the card to my heart as though it were a precious treasure, as indeed it was.
I began to get ready. My suitcase had, except for a change of clothes, remained packed since my arrival in Lvov. I decided to wear my dark green suit and the blouse that my mother had made me—it might bring me luck. While I was repacking my things, the Tarashkewitzes held a conference in the kitchen; they were worried about how I would get to the work camp. It was finally decided that Mrs. Tarashkewitz would accompany me there. I thanked them for this lovely gesture, and accepted her kind offer, though it would still be risky. Suppose someone should recognize me?
How good it was of Mr. Krupka to send me the work card! No doubt he had had plenty of trouble getting it. I guessed that he had used his influence in obtaining this document for me. But, in any case, he must have assumed a great risk. I wished that I could show my gratitude . . .
When I threw the last things into the suitcase, I came across the small packet of jewelry, and an idea came to my mind. I opened the packet and considered what I should leave for Mr. Krupka. They had shown me so much kindness—thanks to them, I was still alive. They took care of me, nursed me through a siege of typhus—without any compensation. Fear and troubles were their only reward. I looked through my valuables and picked the gold watch that had once been my father’s. It was many years since my father was killed in World War I, and although the remembrance was precious, I felt I could part with the watch. And I wanted to hold on to my mother’s jewelry as long as possible—maybe someday I might be able to return it to her.
When Mrs. Tarashkewitz called me, I went to the kitchen and placed my father’s large gold watch in the center of the table. I saw the amazement in their eyes as they exchanged looks across the table. Perhaps they thought that I meant it as a gift for them; perhaps not. I asked them to be good enough to give the watch to Mr. Krupka if he comes, as a token of gratitude. I was sorry, I said, that I could not give them anything now, but in the future I might be able to express my thanks better. They guessed that I had a few things left, but they also knew that the road ahead of me was long. As a matter of fact, I did not know for certain whether I would get anything to eat when I reported at the work camp. I said goodbye to the Professor, who blessed me like a father, and said that he wished I could come back to visit them after the war and tell them about all the experiences still ahead of me. I thanked them for the shelter they had provided me, and asked them to forgive me for causing so much anxiety and trouble.
Now I left with Mrs. Tarashkewitz, talking with her in Ukrainian so as not to draw any attention if someone should meet us in the hall. Armed with the work card, I felt more sure of myself. We waited at the car stop.
The streetcar, when it came, was almost full, but we managed to find seats. We said little, looking out of the window at the passing throng. It was a warm, beautiful day—the second of June—and I was somewhat too heavily dressed. I felt like I was melting, but in my case it was not just the temperature but rather my nervous reaction to this new adventure that made me perspire uncomfortably. For here I was again setting out into the unknown, risking everything, not knowing what the morrow might bring. To give myself courage, I repeated my mother’s parting blessing—“O God, give her strength, watch over her!” and I prayed to my father.
Gradually the character of the streets changed, grew shabbier, and after a long ride we came to the last stop outside the city limits. We still had a distance to walk to reach the work camp on Janowska Street. We had to cross railway tracks and follow an unpaved, sandy road, frequently stubbing our shoes on the protruding stones. I changed my suitcase from one hand to the other as I grew tired; it hit against my legs, and I often had to stop and rest. The sun was very hot, and I was wearing a coat.
We hardly met a soul on the way to the camp; once we saw someone crossing the railroad tracks in the distance. I pitied my companion, for she was bathed in perspiration and her clothes were covered in dust. This was no pleasant promenade for an older, stout person! But at last we discerned the gates of the camp; it was surrounded by a wooden board fence, quite high, and guards were posted at the gates. The camp was big.
At the gate stood a Ukrainian policeman and a Sonderdienst man. With pounding heart, I gave them my name and said I was reporting for work in Germany. They took my work card, showing I had been registered in Brody, and told me to go inside the building. They showed me in which direction to turn to find the right office. I parted from Mrs. Tarashkewitz at the gate, telling her in a loud voice—so the guards would hear—that I would write, and asking her to give my regards to “everyone.” With tears in our eyes, we embraced and kissed, but tried to keep our emotions under control. We couldn’t let the sobs that shook us inside burst out and betray our deep fears.
Now I was alone . . . I walked toward the large building straight ahead, carrying my suitcase. The camp was composed of several such buildings, some frame and some bri
ck, in a desolate area outside the city. I saw signs in three languages above the door where I was to enter; Application Office, Medical Commission. As I looked around, I saw people going in and coming out of the various buildings—civilians and militia. Before I pushed the door open, I wondered if this might be my last step . . . The whole camp and its surroundings did not portend anything good to my mind. There were too many “authorities” in this camp; the whole air seemed to smell of danger. But there was nothing I could do now. My knock on the door was answered with a gruff “jawohl.” I entered.
At that moment I felt like I must have been made of iron, indeed, and my heart of stone—otherwise, I could not have stood up on my own legs and faced the two men behind the desk. One of them was wearing a white coat, like a doctor, and the other was in civilian clothes. The civilian asked whether I spoke German. “No, I speak Polish.” And he continued his questioning in that language, asking my name, birth date, occupation. I showed him my card; on it was stated that I was a servant, from Brody. “How did you happen to come here?” he asked. I told him that I came of my own free will. That must have aroused his suspicion. Who ever came here voluntarily? Though he kept on writing, he constantly looked up and observed me. The other man, while he was busy looking through some files, kept an eye on me, and his ears seemed to be ready to catch every word. It wasn’t often that I had to lie about my identity or occupation, but this was a matter of life or death for me. I had no other choice but to resort to lies.
When the interrogator wrote on my application “freiwillig”—volunteer—I noticed that the other man was singularly impressed. He stopped going through his files and looked at me from head to foot. Well, that one word, at least, was not a lie: I was a volunteer . . . And yet, it was a dangerous word, for no Polish or Ukrainian girls volunteered to go to Germany as workers. On the contrary, the Germans had to hunt them down and catch them, either in their homes or on the streets, to send them to Germany. Yet here, supposedly, was a Polish girl volunteering for work! Instantly they must have thought that I was Jewish, that I was trying to escape from the ghetto this way, to find shelter. But it was too late to go back. And even if I tried, what could I do? Where would I go? I stood there, trembling, yet anxious to look calm, waiting for further questions.
Sheva's Promise Page 14