When the man had finished writing, he sent me to the one in the white jacket. They sat at the same table, but the table was long and there was a considerable space between them. The white-coated one picked up my card and started writing on another form, asking me (also in Polish) about my state of health. Did I ever have any serious illness? Operations? I told him that as far as I could recall, I had only measles as a child, and occasionally the grippe—but that was all. I did not mention that only recently I had been sick with the typhus. It might have increased their suspicions, because typhus was prevalent in the ghettos.
The doctor—for now I understood that that was who he was—asked me to step up closer. He looked into my eyes, looked me all over, and said, “I don’t think you will be able to work in Germany. You look anemic, too thin. It would be a shame to send you there, because they would not accept you. And I think you are running a temperature.”
While he was saying this, the other official kept looking both at him and at me. I tried to protest that I was healthy and strong, and that if I had a high temperature I would certainly know it. “I am just warm because it is a hot day and I’m dressed too heavily for it,” I said. “It was a long walk from the car stop. And saying goodbye to my aunt upset me. That’s all. I’m sure I am not running a temperature.”
But he insisted that he was right. Meanwhile, some young German Sonderdienst man came in and said something in German that I did not hear. He left a list on the table. That gave me a moment to catch my breath—though I almost stopped breathing at the sight of his hated uniform! After he left, the doctor said to me, “Take your suitcase and come with me to my office. It is next to the camp hospital and I have all my instruments there. I will give you a thorough examination.”
I followed him out of the building. Now I could see that he was quite tall, about thirty-five, and that he limped slightly. He walked slowly, as though pushing himself forward. I felt like I really was beginning to run a temperature. I did not know where he was taking me; if it had been any further, I’m afraid I would have fainted—black spots floated before my eyes. As through a mist I could see now how large the camp was. It was under the strict surveillance of German and Ukrainian military authorities. People were swarming all over the place. And to this place, I, Sheva Weiler, had to come! I came as though I had wanted to save them the trouble of hunting me down!
We stopped in front of a small building and he opened the door. Although it was a bright day, the interior was so dark and damp that he had to put on an electric light. The room was furnished with old equipment: a table, some chairs and benches, metal closets, files. A few doctor’s instruments were spread out on the table. He asked me to sit down, and I dropped into the nearest chair, for my legs would not hold me up any longer. He sat opposite me and seemed to be lost in thought. After a moment he opened the door to another room, looked inside, and closed it again. He asked me in a voice hardly above a whisper, “What is your name?”
“Hanka Buczek,” I replied suspiciously.
“Miss Hania,” he addressed me graciously, “you’ve come here to find help, but you’ve only succeeded in getting deeper into trouble—quite deep. I intentionally told you that you have a fever, because I wanted to get you out of that room—and, if possible, to help you get away from this place altogether.”
Listening to his unexpected words, I thought that my heart would stop beating. I knew now definitely that he recognized who I was. I was trapped! But I did not want to admit it. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Doctor,” I said in return. “I just don’t understand anything.”
He got up from the chair and went to the front door, opened it a crack, and closed it again. I thought, now he will go and report me—but he returned and sat down across from my chair. “Admit it,” he said gently, “I only want to help you. Many girls have tried to escape this way since the ghettos in Lvov and other towns have been liquidated. They try to escape to Germany to work, posing as Polish or Ukrainian girls. But the Ukrainian criminal police come here frequently, looking for Jews, and they catch them like flies. I cannot look on while they torture them and send them to the flames—I cannot stand it any longer. For God’s sake, Miss, believe me and go away from here!”
And yet I did not trust him completely. Who knows how much he was paid for each Jewish head he turned in? I knew that the Germans used various methods of catching us. I still thought that it was some sort of game he was playing, and I firmly refused to make the admission. If he really meant what he said, why was he working here—with those German murderers? But he kept on persuading, imploring me to believe him.
“I am a Pole,” he continued, “a former air force pilot. I was wounded in the leg at the outbreak of the war—and I’ll have this souvenir for the rest of my life. I have two brothers who were captains in the Polish army, but they are now in a German prisoner-of-war camp. Actually, I am a veterinarian, but I work here as a doctor-nurse.” As he spoke, he put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a Kennkarte, and showed it to me. “See, here’s my name, Dr. Jagoda, a Pole, from Kalisz.” Quickly, he took the card away from me and put it in his pocket. I was almost convinced, but not quite. I would not yet admit who I was.
“Do you think that I like working here?” he went on. “It costs me a lot in health and nerves to see the secret police take those girls and lead them to the camp at the other end of this street, on the hill, and cremate them. But before they are killed, these girls are tortured and raped. Some are thrown into the flames alive. These girls come here voluntarily to register for work—and that is the first thing that makes them suspect. And so did you, when you registered for work voluntarily—you aroused their suspicions.”
I knew the story was true. On the way from Brody to Lvov by train, I had heard about the camp on Janowska Street from the Ukrainian militia man who sat in my compartment. He had told me that the Germans try in every way to find out who produces the false passports and identity cards. They torture the Jewish suspects until they either confess who their contacts were or perish under the interrogations. All this corroborated what the doctor was telling me. I saw tears in his eyes as he spoke. I listened mutely, still undecided, for I could not understand why a stranger should want to help me at the risk of his life.
While I hesitated, he added: “The next transport will not leave before the Pentecost holidays, so you would have to remain here for ten days, at least. I feel sure that in that time you could not avoid being questioned. You do not look like a typical servant; you seem to be too young for that; certainly younger than the birth date given in your work card. Your appearance is too pretty and refined—and anyway, when they read the list and find the word ‘freiwillig’ next to your name, they will guess you are Jewish. Polish and Ukrainian girls try to run away when they’re brought here by force; they already know how hard they would have to work in Germany, for next to nothing, so they don’t want to go. You came of your free will. Now that the Judenfrei campaign is on and the ghettos are being liquidated, the Germans and the Ukrainian police are on the lookout for escaping Jews. I will give you a pass, you will go home for the holidays, and when you return—I will try to put you on the next transport to Germany. So now, go with God, Miss Hania. Believe me, and please trust me!”
After these words, tears started rolling down my face. Then I said, “Doctor, you know the truth about me. It’s useless to pretend further. But I have no place to go. Wherever I turn, I run the risk of death—no less than here.” In a few words, I told him everything—how I was recognized at Brody—everything. “Besides, I have no Kennkarte,” I concluded despairingly.
As I talked, I could see compassion in his face. He said, as if to himself, “This is a tragedy . . . I must think of some solution. We have been sitting here so long, it may look suspicious.”
He thought for a while, then got up energetically. “Come quickly into the next room. You will get undressed and get into bed. I will give you a pill that will make your temperature rise, and I’ll r
eport that you are sick. They do not have the right to come in to inspect my patients, and that will give me a little time to consider what would be best to do. You will find another in that room, she is a Polish patient—but don’t talk to her much. She is a real Pole. Besides, you will have a fever, so she will not be tempted to draw you into a conversation.” Taking some pills from his medicine cabinet, he gave me one with a glass of water. I swallowed it obediently.
“Now, go with God, Miss Hania!” he whispered and opened the door to the ward. In a louder voice he said, “You will be fed later. But you must stay in bed, and with such a temperature you will not be able to take much food.”
I entered the ward like a thief, unobtrusively. It was a large room with about ten beds arranged in a row along one wall. On the opposite side were benches. Ordinary, old wooden closets lined the third wall—it all looked like a third-rate, old-fashioned clinic. I noticed a young girl lying in a bed near the door—a pale, blond creature, with blue eyes. She smiled wanly.
The room was rather dark and damp; there were only two windows on one side. I began to undress, feeling that the pill was already beginning to take effect. Despite the dampness and chill, my body burned with heat. I decided to pick the bed furthest away from the girl.
She spoke timidly: “Are you Ukrainian, or Polish?”
“Polish,” I answered. I gestured for her to understand that my head ached and I couldn’t talk.
“Oh, that’s good,” she said, disregarding my gesture. “I am also Polish. They brought me here several days ago and I sprained my ankle. Did they catch you, too?”
“Yes.” I put on my pajamas and put the rest of my things in a closet near my bed. I got under the covers quickly, for I felt really feverish now; my body shook, my cheeks burned, my whole head seemed afire. I heard a knock on the door; it was a woman, who brought us something to eat. The Polish girl ate greedily, but I could not touch the food. I could not even move. Either the pill was so potent, or my emotions were so tense, or it might have been a combination of both—but I lay there helpless. I heard the girl say, “She is running a temperature.”
The woman who had brought the trays must have been Polish or Ukrainian, for I heard her say, “Oh, she is a new one—and already sick.”
My head was bursting with pain. I wanted so much to sleep, but was unsuccessful. One thought tortured me: Why does this stranger—seeing me for the first time in his life—want to endanger his own life to help me? He knew very well that if anyone overheard our conversation, or saw him hiding me in the ward, he would be faced with death. I awaited that end every minute, as a final eventuality, but he was safe—he had a good position here—why should he take on this responsibility? Despite the pain and fever, my poor head could not leave the thought alone. Who is this Dr. Jagoda from Kalisz? Was he also, like myself, a Jew using Aryan papers? It was possible. Perhaps this doctor lost his family by the Germans, and now wants only to help others?
Another thought also bothered me: Was his attitude only a trick? Perhaps tomorrow the Ukrainian criminal police would come and take me to Janowska Street—to that hilltop where I would be burned alive? But my thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on the door. Dr. Jagoda came in at my bidding and approached my bed. He was wearing his white coat this time. He felt my forehead and said aloud so it could be overheard, “You have a high fever and you must remain in bed for several days.” He looked at me with great compassion. As our eyes met, he whispered, “Goodnight, dear child,” and went over to look at his other patient, Halina. He looked at her ankle and remarked that in a day or two she would be able to walk again. Before turning out the light, he turned toward us and said cheerfully, “Goodnight girls!” and left.
Outside the window the next morning was bright and sunny. This was June 3, 1943; the date was fresh in my mind, because only yesterday I had registered and filled out my application. Our room faced the north, so the sun did not come into our windows directly; the room consequently was still gloomy, but I was sure that the air must be warm and pleasant outdoors. I could hear the voices of passersby—men’s and women’s voices, laughing.
After a while the woman who had brought us food the night before came in with our breakfast. I must have looked rather awful, because as she approached my bed she gave a start of surprise and exclaimed, “You are really sick!”
“That’s for sure,” I replied with more spirit than I felt.
About an hour later, Dr. Jagoda came in. Until now the whole situation seemed fantastic to me, like a legendary happening. But now in the broad daylight I could see his face and study his features and convince myself that he was real. His eyes were large, dark, and expressive; his face rather flat and thin, its pallor bespeaking sufferings and yet, perhaps because of this, creating the impression of goodness, of great kindness. Yes, I knew I could trust him implicitly.
He took my pulse count and said, “You must stay in bed at least another day. Probably tomorrow you will feel better.” This he said aloud, then bent closer and very softly added, “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry, Hania.”
He went over to see the other patient and told Halina that she could get out of bed. She threw her coat over her shoulders and began to walk around a bit, limping slightly. He said that she should try to get out into the air for at least an hour each day. Now I knew that she was a Polish girl with her own, unforged and true, papers—for she expressed her delight at being able to visit the barracks where other members of her group were quartered, awaiting shipment to Germany.
Dr. Jagoda came to my bedside again, told me to try to regain my strength, and promised that he would drop in to see me again that day. “What an angel,” I thought, watching his receding figure. Though moving about was difficult for him because of his leg injury, he went on his round of duties, trying to help others, forgetting his own pain.
Halina lay down to rest before dinner. Our “dinner” was some watered-down soup, a piece of sausage, and tea. But it was enough for me. Food no longer seemed very important; besides, in my feverish condition I was afraid to eat heavily. I drank the tea eagerly, though it was only colored water—I was thirsty, and this brought me some relief. We rested all afternoon. My companion tried to keep up a conversation, but I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. But I could hardly contain my impatience, counting the hours until evening when Dr. Jagoda would come in to see me.
Since the days in June are long, I reckoned that it must have been already nearly nine o’clock before it got dark outdoors. At last Dr. Jagoda came! He stopped to look at Halina’s foot, then came and took my pulse and put his hand on my forehead. I looked at him with astonishment. I would have liked to ask him where I would go tomorrow, if I left the sick bay, but I did not dare say anything before a witness. However, from his expression I felt that he had already reached some decision. I must be patient, I thought, and wait till tomorrow.
“Goodnight, girls,” he waved to us as he left.
I thought that the doctor seemed a bit nervous, but how could I know his reasons and plans? My companion bubbled with joy that she would be able to rejoin the others in the main building tomorrow, for she disliked loneliness and enjoyed their company and laughter. I said “Goodnight!” and put out the light near my bed. I desperately tried to sleep. Who knows where I would have to go, or what plans Dr. Jagoda had for me?
After breakfast the next day, we waited for the doctor to come—but he did not. I worried whether something had happened to him; my existence depended entirely upon him now and on the success of his plans. I tossed with impatience, but stayed in bed. Halina had gotten up, dressed, and gone out. She did not return until lunchtime; she said that it was beautifully warm outdoors. After lunch, she started to pack her things into a suitcase. She asked me why I did not get ready—we were supposed to go to camp barracks today, weren’t we? But I answered that I would wait until the doctor checked me out of the ward. She shrugged her shoulders. We waited. It might have been around three o’clock when
at last I heard the doctor’s footsteps in the first room, between his office and the ward. Dr. Jagoda knocked and entered our room. He saw one of us already packed and ready to leave—so he asked Halina to come with him to his office where he would give her a check-out card. She gaily waved to me, picked up her valise, and left. After a few moments, the doctor returned, giving me a sign not to speak loudly. He looked up and down the hall, to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then whispered, “I have a place for you. It is a small room, very simple, but for a week it will do. It is in one of the buildings. When I check you out, I’ll say you are going home for the holidays and will return later. Since you registered as a volunteer worker, I can do this; they know that you will return. When it gets darker, you will leave by the main gate and show this pass to the guards on duty there. Then you will go to the left of the camp until you find a place where the fence boards are broken and loose, back of some shrubbery. I broke them. Crawl in through the openings and I’ll wait for you there and take you to this room. But you must be very, very careful. Just a moment—I’ll come back with your check-out card.”
Dr. Jagoda left and I remained alone in the ward—alone with my thoughts. After a while, there was a knock on the door and the serving woman came in with my supper. I thanked her and she left. There was rice boiled in water, and bread with tea. I tried to eat all of it, for who knew when I would get another meal? For that matter, it might very well be my last . . . Now, with beating heart, I began to get dressed for the transfer to my shelter. The ward was cold, and in my excited state I felt chills shaking my body. Though it was the fourth day of June, summery and warm outside, I put on a woolen dress with short sleeves—I remember it was a sapphire blue, my favorite color, with a flared skirt; I chose it because the free cut of the skirt would permit easy running or jumping over fences or bushes. I got ready my brown sport coat, which was dark and would not be visible at night. I pulled out my suitcase from the closet and felt around to see if the precious packet with my mother’s jewelry was there intact—my only treasure salvaged from a happier past. I packed away the rest of my things and waited. It was still light outdoors. I could hear muffled voices. Oh, how nervously I waited for the evening to come! I cannot attempt to describe how long each minute of waiting seemed to me.
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