There was a knock on the door and the serving woman came in to clear away the dishes. She turned on the light and saw me sitting there in my clothes, ready to leave. “You’re also well now?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead.
“Yes,” I replied shortly. “It’s late. I’m sleepy.” I half-closed my eyes and put my hand up to my head. “I have a headache,” I said to forestall further questions. I did not know what to tell her if she asked me anything more. She went out of the ward, leaving the light burning. I looked through the window. It was completely dark outside—but a summer night, clear and cloudless, is never really dark. At last I heard knocking at the door, and Dr. Jagoda entered. He was not wearing his white coat, but a dark civilian outfit.
My heart started beating like a hammer. “Are you ready?” he asked and I nodded my head.
He told me to go to a corner of the room where the clothes closets blocked off the view from the windows. There he took out a pass from his pocket. My hand shook as I took it from him, but I noticed his hand was shaking no less than mine. He also saw this and said, “Miss Hania, please try to control your nerves. You must go out of here feeling very sure of yourself, just as you were when you came here—otherwise it might look suspicious. Now, listen! You will leave by the main gate and show this pass to the guard or the militiaman on duty. Then, slowly, you will go to the right—in the direction from which you came the other day. Just before the end of the camp enclosure you will look around to make sure there is no one nearby. Then, carefully, very carefully, bending over, you will go around the camp to a spot where there are some bushes—there, making no noise, you will look for broken boards in the fence. When you push them apart, look out for sharp nails. You will get back in the camp area through that opening in the fence. Push your valise inside first, then crawl in yourself. I’ll be waiting at that spot. We will not walk together; it would look suspicious—but I’ll go ahead and you will follow me at a distance. The most important thing you must remember is that if a militiaman, or someone from the Sonderdienst, notices and stops you—you will say you lost your way. That’s all. It was dark, you will say, and on the way to the railway station you became confused and lost your way. That is the only explanation you can give. If I notice any danger, I will hide at first and then go away. You must promise me that you will not get me involved, because I would have to pay for it with my life, and I would not be able to help you anyway. We have no more time to lose. You understand everything?” I nodded my head. “Now I am going back to my office. Go with God, dear Hania,” he said.
“Thank you, doctor,” I whispered. I threw on my coat, took the suitcase, and with tears in my eyes left the room. It may have been about nine o’clock. Oh, God, what a dangerous undertaking! Oh, dear mother, if you are still alive—or wherever you are, pray for me and help me reach safety.
I walked out into the yard. There was a building to the left of the small hospital. I walked straight ahead, turned slightly to the right once and then again. The inmates of the main camp undoubtedly were asleep already. At the moment no one was to be seen. I trembled with fear, looking at that ominously dark building, the largest one in a row of low barracks—there were lights in some windows, but most were dark. I directed my steps toward the gate. It was a long way off, and I tried to gather my courage. I must have self-assurance, I told myself; I knew that already from past experience.
As I neared the gate, I made out the silhouettes of the guards and their rifles. A few steps away from them I drew the pass out of my pocket to have it ready. Again, there was a man from the Sonderdienst and one Ukrainian militiaman, though not the same that had admitted me to the camp. I held out the pass, wondering which one of them would take it. They simply stared at me. Finally, I turned to the Ukrainian and spoke to him—after all, I was not supposed to understand German, it would have seemed suspicious.
I spoke to the Ukrainian in Polish (both languages were understood in this part of the country) and he translated my words into broken German for the benefit of the Sonderdienst officer. Handing him my pass, I said that I was going home for the holidays. (Pentecost was ceremoniously observed in Poland.) I explained that it would seem a waste of time to wait in the camp for the next transport to Germany, when I could spend the next ten days with my nearby family. I would return after the holiday, I said, and added hastily that I must be off or I’d miss the train. He made a mark on my pass and gave it back to me. Straining for self-control, I smiled and said “Goodnight!”
They let me go. I walked out of the camp enclosure and still did not believe it. Was I foolish, or were they simply stupid? They believed me! Lying was now to become part of my existence . . . I went straight ahead, fighting down the impulse to look back to see whether they were following me. I did not hear any steps—and surely I would have heard the sound of their heavy boots if they were behind me. I dragged the heavy valise; it seemed heavier than it was, because I was so weak. After I had gone some distance, I stopped to rest. That was quite normal, I thought, and should not awaken their distrust. Standing still, I pretended to unbutton my coat and at the same time I turned around. I saw that I had covered quite a bit of the road. I saw no one; it was very quiet. In back of me stretched the huge camp, dark and ominous.
I picked up my valise and started walking again. I wished that I could be older by an hour, even half an hour, just to have this ordeal over with. Again I was risking my life . . . Fortunately, I saw that it could not be very far to the turn in the road. But suddenly I noticed someone—a civilian, but not Dr. Jagoda, for this man was of shorter stature and he did not walk with a limp. Fear paralyzed me—for a moment I imagined it might be a plainclothes agent. Oh God, help me! But the man kept on walking; he seemed to be in a big hurry and did not even see me. I was on the right side of the road—he on the left, walking in the opposite direction. I stepped off into the sandy shoulder, bending over as I held my suitcase. I was awfully uncomfortable, so I clutched the valise in both hands and held it in front of me. Already I could see the shrubbery near the fence; the summer had covered the branches with thick green foliage. Crouching low, I neared the fence to look for the broken boards. My knees were giving way. I shifted the valise from hand to hand, feeling its growing weight. At last I found the place and stopped.
From a distance I could see a tall figure silhouetted against the sapphire night—Dr. Jagoda. Every moment was precious and important; I must quicken my steps, not keep him waiting there. More and more rapidly I approached the fence. I put the suitcase on the ground, and, like a cat, I crawled through the opening. Luckily I was slim. I gathered up the coat in front, so as not to tear it, and got back inside the camp. Dr. Jagoda stood at a distance, watching. When he moved forward, I followed him.
It was quiet. No one was stirring. Apparently, the nearest buildings were empty—there were no lights anywhere. Reaching a left turn, he stopped to be sure that I would not lose the way. I saw him enter a building—and now quickly I entered after him. A long, dark hallway led from the door to the interior of the building. There was a musty smell, as if it had not been inhabited by anyone for a long time. Once inside, Dr. Jagoda gave me his hand and we walked in silence until we reached another door. He took a key out of his pocket and opened it.
As we entered, he did not turn on the light. The room was small. One window, covered by an old rag, let in just a glimmer of moonlight, and in the darkness I could discern the shape of a table. I felt around me and touched a metal clothes closet; there was a single chair, and also what seemed to be an army cot covered with a rough blanket.
Dr. Jagoda started to give me instructions, keeping his voice down to a whisper. I must try to remain seated in one place as much as possible, so as not to make even the slightest noise. There was always the possibility that someone might come around and hear and guess that there was a stowaway in this room. I must never make a light. If anyone should knock or call, I must not answer. “I will take the key,” he said, “and I will try to come here every da
y to bring you something to eat, but not more than once a day. So that you will know it is I, I will hum the “La Palona” as I approach the door.”
I asked the good doctor if it wasn’t too big a responsibility that he was taking on himself, risking his life for a stranger. Wouldn’t it be better if I just returned to the ghetto in Rohatyn? At least there I would be with my mother and sister. I just did not feel that I had the right to leave them and try to survive without them.
He replied, “Stop torturing yourself now, Hania dear. You must think of life, not death. In these times one must fight for life as long as possible. Somebody has to survive—and you will, even if only to be a witness to these crimes, or to tell the world how the Germans destroyed innocent people and children. So, you try—for those that went to death already.” He began to hurry, and he told me he did not live at the camp but in Lvov. “Goodnight, dear Hania. Good luck! I will see you tomorrow.” And he went out, locking the door after him, leaving me in the darkness, alone.
7
A Perilous Refuge
FOR A FEW MINUTES I remained standing in a state of utter confusion and shock. I could only wonder why Dr. Jagoda was risking his life for me. I was a total stranger—yet he had inexplicably decided to help me.
I sat down on the cot and folded my hands tightly, trying to steady my shaking body. Would I be able to live through this war? How I longed for my dear ones—my home—the normal life we once knew!
I could not control my emotions any longer and began to cry bitterly. I covered my mouth with my hands to stifle the sobs; I was choking . . . but I had to cry. I was very, very tired. Without removing my clothes, I crawled under the blanket and tried at last to sleep. The pillow was hard, as if stuffed with rocks. No doubt it was filled with straw or chopped feathers; it hurt my aching head. I wanted so much to sleep, but was afraid that I might cry out in my dreams of terror. However, weariness took its toll, and after some time I must have fallen asleep in spite of my caution. A squealing noise wakened me; I shook with fear, for I felt something creeping along the blanket (the cot on which I slept was quite low, almost touching the floor). I was afraid to turn on the light—if there indeed was a light in this room. I could now feel that something was jumping all over the cot. I drew up my legs till they touched my chin; I wanted to cry out but suppressed my screams.
When my eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, I could make out some small creatures—rats! Yes, rats! Oh, God, how would I live through this night? Why did I agree to come to this awful shelter? I slid out of bed and in the darkness I felt around until I found the chair—from the chair I jumped onto the table. Curled up into a ball, I covered myself with my coat, pulled the collar over my head, and in this fashion spent the rest of the night. Oh, if my mother should see me suffering so in this black hole infested with rats!
I could not get used to the sound of those squealing rats, even though I pulled the coat collar tighter about my ears. In a wave of hysteria I thought I would start screaming so loudly that the whole world would hear me. Why must I suffer only because I’m Jewish? It was stifling hot in the hole—the window was closed and curtained, I was completely dressed and perspiring from excitement, unable to catch my breath. And I was afraid to stir . . . Oh, if only day would come! As soon as it grew light outside the rats would disappear. Crouched atop the table, at last I saw the pale light of dawn breaking through the heavy rag-like drape that covered the window—after what was surely the longest night that I had ever known. The squeals quieted down—the rats ran back to their holes as soon as they saw the light. It must have still been very early. Somehow the date remains clear in my memory: June 5, 1943.
At last I could look around and see where I was. The room looked as though no one had occupied it for a long time—there was much dust on the furniture and cobwebs hung from the ceiling and walls like lace curtains. The floor was strewn with empty bottles, and an unwashed soldier’s mess tin lay under the table. It was the first container that I could use—and I availed myself of it.
Quietly I returned to the cot, lay down, and drew the blanket over me. I hoped that I could sleep even for an hour, and I shut my eyes and lay still—but sleep would not come. It was so hot in the room. Quietly, I brushed off the dust that settled on the coat when I was huddled atop the table. I could hear footsteps outside, and voices, so I lay back again on the cot and remained motionless. Though the window was covered, the cot stood directly under it, and I had to be careful. I lay there and waited. Who knew when Dr. Jagoda would come—or whether he would? I wanted badly to wash myself. Whatever I touched smelled of rats.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps—one step slower than the other—in the corridor. I guessed that it must be Dr. Jagoda. Then I heard a low singing outside my door: the melody of “La Paloma.” Then a very soft knock, the key turned in the door, and—with my heart beating rapidly with joy—I saw Dr. Jagoda. He had a jacket thrown over one arm, hiding something he had brought me. He placed a warning finger to his lips, and put the food on the table—the table had already been cleared of dust by my coat during the night. He had brought me coffee, bread, some sausage, and biscuits.
Taking the chair, he sat down. I noticed that he was very pale. I told him about the frightful night I had. Compassion was visible in his eyes, but he could not find a word of comfort. I drank the coffee and ate a piece of bread, leaving the rest for later. The doctor noticed the bottles and the tin mess can on the floor. “I’ll take these,” he said quietly, though he must have seen my grimace of embarrassment. He listened a moment at the door, then went out, taking the filled utensils with him. “There’s no lack of empty containers here,” he said, looking back at me with a smile. Obviously he wanted to make me feel more at ease. “Until tomorrow,” he whispered, shutting the door after him. “Be brave, dear Hania!”
I took the rest of the food and put it on top of the high metal closet, then lay down again on the cot. The rays of sunshine managed to steal into the room a few at a time, reminding me that it must be a beautiful, warm day outside, a time for flowers and joy. Ruefully, I thought that my solitary confinement here would be easier to endure if the weather outdoors were nasty; this brilliantly sunny day made it hard to take my imprisonment patiently. I had to resign myself to a terrifying boredom. Was it time to eat again? I felt hungry, but at the sight of all the dirt around me in this horrible room I could have thrown up in disgust.
Outside I heard footsteps, firm and heavy—they must have belonged to a Sonderdienst man in military boots, one of the young Germans who were employed in this camp. If he only suspected that a Jewish girl was hidden here! In my imagination I could see his face contorted with hate, with revenge . . . Oh God, help me! Very quietly I reached up for the food package on top of the closet and broke off a morsel of bread and dry sausage. I ate, chewing the food slowly, not caring whether I enjoyed the taste or not—I ate simply to keep alive. Then I put what was left back on the closet top; I would finish it a little later—or else my roommates the rats would finish it themselves!
There was nothing else to do but wait. Lying on the cot, I tried to sleep, to forget everything. I don’t know how long I slept, but I dreamed that something horrible was happening in the Rohatyn ghetto. I was standing on the Aryan side, screaming from a distance, seeing them murdering the Jews. Don’t kill them! I called out: Mamma! Rose! The Gestapo were holding me back. Then I heard my own cries and woke up; I was bathed in perspiration. Something jumped scarily near the cot. At first, I could not remember where I was. I began to look around me. Then I wiped my forehead and realized that I had had an awful dream. God only knows whether someone at that moment had heard my scream! And that scurrying, that must have been a rat frightened at the sound of my voice, running back to his hole. My head ached like an open wound. I felt extremely weak; there was a sharp pain in the region of my heart. I thought that I could see Mamma, her long hair streaming down her back, as she struggled to free herself from the hands of the G
estapo. In spite of the struggle, she seemed as beautiful as always, in a tragic sort of way. I wanted to go help her—I cried “Mamma!” But there was no sound—and at last I broke out in spasmodic weeping.
The morning dawned at last, and again I wished that I could wash myself—a bit of water would have done me so much good. But I could only dream of such luxury. When the doctor had come to visit me the day before, I did not have the temerity to ask him to bring me a bottle of water—I thought it would really be too demanding on my part. But I hoped that he would think of it himself and bring me some today. I waited as patiently as I could—not so much because of the food but because he might bring me some news. Anyway, it would be good to chat with the doctor even for a few minutes. My loneliness was driving me mad. I liked human companionship—and here I had only myself to talk to, yet even that was forbidden.
It was full daylight when again I heard the almost-whispered singing of “La Paloma.” It startled me only because I had not heard the doctor’s footsteps in the corridor; he must have walked in very, very quietly.
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