Dr. Jagoda stood in the doorway, carrying a package under his jacket. “It’s very warm here,” he said. “Warm outside, too.”
I could see that he wondered how I could stand being cooped up in this stifling room, but he did not say it. “You are pale, but beautiful,” he remarked, studying my face carefully. “Were you frightened by something?”
“I had an awful dream and it wrung me out emotionally. I hope nobody heard me screaming.”
He shook his head. “This building is vacant, there’s no one here—unless somebody passing the window might have heard you.” The doctor looked around to see if there were any containers to take away. He did not want to talk; apparently, he was depressed.
“Is anything wrong?” I ventured to ask.
“No,” he replied. He seemed disgusted with something. “But have courage, dear Hania!” He picked up the filled container and left without another word.
True to his promise, the doctor was doing all he could to help me, assuming the gravest risk. My admiration and wonder were as great as my gratitude.
Sighing, I poured some coffee over my hands in an effort to wash them. I dried my hands with a piece of paper in which the sausage had been wrapped. Today, I noticed, he also brought me a piece of cheese. The dark bread and cheese with coffee would make a good breakfast; the sausage and bread I would save for later.
June 6—there were still six days before I could leave this room. After I finished eating, I lay down on the cot. If only I could rest peacefully, stop thinking . . . ah, that would be so good! But this beautiful, sunny day brought back so many poignant memories of my home and of my beautiful past in Rohatyn.
Eventually, I slid off the cot and helped myself to a piece of sausage and bread. After having lost myself for a while in thoughts of the past, I now felt as though I had come back from another world—and in a sense, I had indeed. It occurred to me that I’d love to look into a mirror, just to see if I still resembled the former beautiful Sheva of happier days . . . It was difficult to believe that I was still the same person.
I watched the shadows gradually deepen in the corners of the room. Soon it would be night. Oh, if I could sleep the whole night through, I would feel better—but there were two fears which made sleep almost impossible: fear that I might cry aloud in my nightmarish dreams, and fear of my co-tenants, the rats. If they were to bite me, I’d be finished; if someone were to hear me cry out, I’d be done for, too. It was safer not to sleep, but to be constantly on the alert. When at last it was totally dark, I pulled down the package with the remaining bits of sausage and bread and ate all that was left. But the sausage was salty and made me thirsty. There was nothing to drink, so I tried to forget about it. I put the wrapping paper back on top of the closet, to make use even of that . . . I lay down on the cot, and after a while I dozed off.
I don’t know how long I slept, but it must have been late at night when I was awakened by the sounds of shooting. I jumped up and sat on the edge of the cot. No wonder the rats had not been molesting me—the shooting must have frightened them back into their holes. I wanted to look out of the window, but did not dare. So I sat there, shaking as though in a fever. I tried to guess what was behind the shooting. Various ideas suggested themselves to my mind. The most comforting, indeed miraculous, solution would be that there was some change in the war—perhaps the front had moved up closer to Lvov? But that would have been too good to be true. It was more likely that the shooting was taking place in the ghetto. Hadn’t I heard that ghettos were being liquidated everywhere? They were shooting the remnants of the Jews that still clung tenaciously to life—yes, that was the only answer. It seemed to me that the sounds were getting closer. I could hardly remain in one spot, but I dared not move. So I crawled under that dirty, smelly blanket and pulled it over my ears so that I would not hear the horrible staccato barking of dogs and of the Nazi guns. I impatiently waited for morning to come, so that I could get some news from Dr. Jagoda.
In such a time of dreadful fear and loneliness, it is easy to eat one’s heart out with reproaches of conscience. I was tormented by the thought that maybe I should have done thus and so, that maybe I had no right to leave the ghetto. Should I have remained with my loved ones? Should I have remained in Brody, taken that risk? That one word “maybe” drove me to despair.
I lay in a pool of sweat, perspiring copiously from fear as well as from the warmth of the covers. After a while, everything was quiet again outside. Slowly, I pushed the blanket away from my face. It was beginning to dawn . . . I counted the days off my fingers; yes, my third day in this shelter. I waited impatiently to hear the tune of “La Paloma” sung outside my door; for it was to me not only a password, but a paean of hope in this cage. As if to mock me, the golden rays of a summer sun that filtered through the dusty windowpanes reminded me of the beautiful day outdoors and of other days, days of blessed freedom, that I no longer knew.
I could hear voices outside, but at a distance. I could also hear the sound of heavy, measured steps—booted steps of the Sonderdienst and the Ukrainian militia. There seemed to be more noise and commotion than usual. Was it because of the shooting last night? Soon I would be able to satisfy my curiosity. I was counting each minute toward the arrival of Dr. Jagoda, but he did not come. Time went by so slowly . . . My stomach demanded some food, something warm; my throat was parched and dry. I was sure it was already past the hour when the doctor was supposed to come—but I saw nothing, heard nothing. Waiting made me very restless; I was sure now that something must have happened. I curled up on the cot, afraid to move, and hours seemed to roll like a heavy wave over my head. It surely must have been noon! I should have kept some of the food for today, instead of eating it all the night before. But how could I have known? In my thoughts I tried to talk to God and to convince Him that I did not merit this misery.
Suddenly, the silence was rent with cries. They became louder and louder, and reminded me of the cries that I had heard in the ghetto during the akcjas.
A woman was shrieking, “Nein, nein!” No, no!
My teeth began to chatter. At that moment I forgot about my hunger and thirst. Something must be happening, something dreadful . . . Did the woman’s cries have anything to do with Dr. Jagoda? Why hadn’t he shown up yet today? The woman’s cries stopped, but loud sobbing went on for quite a while.
My hole of a room was almost dark now. I remained on the cot, afraid to stir. Even when nature urged, I did not get up. I think this day was the worst in my life. When it became totally dark, I slowly, quietly crept to a corner of the room and relieved myself—I could not help that. Then I went back to the cot. Somehow I fell asleep and when I opened my eyes again it was daylight.
What would this new day bring? Each day had its own variety of fears and dangers. I felt my nerves were fraying and I was afraid that I would suffer a collapse. If I lost my will to live, I might do something rash, so I tried to bolster my own spirits as much as I could. The hours passed. My hunger pains gave me a terrible headache. If only I could do something, busy myself with something, I might forget that I was so hungry—but now I had only idle time in which to think about it. What a long day it seemed to me—and again the doctor did not appear. Now I felt certain that he would never come. What could I do? Where could I go? And I was locked in—how could I get out of here?
Darkness was again descending upon the earth when I suddenly heard the melody of “La Paloma” sung very, very quietly. As the voice grew louder, however, I realized that it was not Dr. Jagoda—nor were the footsteps his. Though at first I had sprung forward eagerly, now I hesitated, for certainly it was not he. My heart began to pound. They must have discovered my hiding place! Perhaps they had tortured the doctor into disclosing our song . . . Now the voice was right at my door. Should I try to hide? And where? Or should I jump out of the window? There was no time for anything. I heard a light rap on the door. Someone in a low voice said, “I am a friend of Dr. Jagoda.”
I heard the key t
urn in the lock and the man stood before me. He was of medium height, middle-aged, and pale from fright. He carried a package under his arm. He said that the doctor had had to go to Przemysl for a day; he had wanted to come see me yesterday and bring the package, but it had not been safe. They had caught two Jewish girls that had escaped from the ghetto and had come here to apply for work in Germany under assumed papers. They were taken to the Gestapo by the Ukrainian police.
Just hearing the news took away from me all desire to eat. My expression must have reflected my feelings, for the man said, “Don’t be afraid of me. I will not betray you. I am the doctor’s friend. He will be here tomorrow.” The man had a kind face and was very polite towards me. I believed him, thanked him—and he left immediately.
I looked inside the package. There was the usual sausage and bread. I broke off a piece, but could not force it down my throat; so I wrapped up the food again and covered it with the blanket, to prevent the rats from nibbling at it. I lay down and waited, thinking about what the man had told me. Yesterday they had caught those two; tomorrow, or the day after, they would catch me. What the doctor said was true: I should run away from here, as he had advised. Struggling with these thoughts, I dozed a while until a squealing woke me up. I had gotten used to the rats by this time, however, and was not afraid of them.
It must have been about the middle of the night—I had no idea of the exact hour. I sat on the edge of the cot and began to eat. The rats stopped squealing. I put away about half of the food for the next day, and having satiated my hunger, I fell asleep again. When I awoke it was daylight. I wanted to drink. The shelter was hot and evil smelling. My only comforting thought was perhaps today Dr. Jagoda would come. Maybe he would have some good news for me? Perhaps at last there was some hope of a change for the better?
I never knew what hour it was, but when it grew darker I knew the day was almost over. And after a night, there was another day. True, I had Mamma’s watch on a gold chain, packed away with the other things in my suitcase, but I did not want even to touch it.
This was my eighth day in the shelter. If all went well, in two days I should be able to leave it and report officially at the work camp. This day I thought so intently about Dr. Jagoda that I must have drawn him, for at last I heard his voice singing “La Paloma”—and his characteristic walk, one firm step and one light and shuffling, as he pulled his crippled leg after the good one. He opened the door and entered, smiling encouragingly. My eyes fell to the package he held, covered with a white coat, and I noticed he had brought me something to drink. Thinking that I was very hungry, he urged me to eat right away, but I pointed to the package his friend had brought yesterday, still only half-touched, lying atop the closet. However, I opened the bag and pulled out a container of coffee—I began to drink eagerly, until there was none left.
We talked in whispers—almost, one might say, in gestures and signs—rather than words. He said that he had to go to Przemysl on business. The news that he brought back, though not unexpected, hit me like a bombshell; the Nazis had liquidated all the ghettos and had announced the Judenfrei—the successful extermination of the Jews—in all Polish cities. “That means in Rohatyn too?” I asked.
“Everywhere!”
“And what did they do with them?”
He did not reply to this question, but looked at me wonderingly, as if I had dropped out of another world. It was a foolish question, for did I not know what the Nazis did with the Jews? “They burn them alive, or take them to the concentration camps . . . The methods might differ in some cases,” the doctor said, “but officially Jews have no right to live, to exist.”
He got up, looked around, and noticing the container in the corner of the room, picked it up and hid it under his white coat. “Goodbye,” he whispered, “until tomorrow, Hania dear.” As he left, he seemed more than usually depressed. I could see that he took the situation very much to heart, as a man of conscience. There were not many like him . . .
Now my thoughts centered about the ghetto in my native town. Were my dear ones still alive? And, if so, did they know that I was alive—did they have faith in my return? Would I ever see them again? Though my imagination painted all sorts of pictures, I could do nothing but sit quietly and wait—and I cried and cried . . .
So I lived through yet another day and night, and saw another dawn. Now I counted the hours until I would again hear “La Paloma” hummed outside the door. (That melody will remain forever in my mind.) Then again, I heard it, and when the door opened, there was Dr. Jagoda as usual with his package. Yet his face was a picture of tragedy! My face probably reflected a similar attitude.
His voice lowered to a whisper, he started to give me directions and instructions for tomorrow’s departure. I felt cold waves going over my body as I listened carefully. Dr. Jagoda said that the next day at ten o’clock in the morning I was to leave the shelter. It would have been better to do so at night, he remarked, but then it might look strange. He took everything into consideration and reasoned it out. If I were to leave the shelter at night, I would have to spend the rest of the night hidden in some bushes nearby—and that would be dangerous. On the other hand, in the morning everyone was busy about some task, and so the probability of my being noticed would be lessened; besides, the window, being on the side of the house away from the barracks, was not observed and the building was quite empty. Also, the way I was to go was not visible to the office or other buildings in the center of the camp. It still was risky business, of course, but I had to take that chance. There were no half-measures, no mercy. He left, saying, “Good luck! And be ready for tomorrow, dear Hania.”
I wondered what the Krupka family was doing now—and how little Janko was. Oh, if they could see how I spent this miserable ten days in hiding! I missed Mrs. Krupka, for she had shared my troubles with me. Here, I had to struggle with my problems all by myself.
At least the rats would be happy when I left. Just one night more, and I would have to retrace the dangerous route and stand again before a new and unknown danger when I reported back to the camp. A few hours more; eager as I was to leave this place, I trembled with fear at the thought.
I looked down at myself; even without a mirror I could see that I was a fright. So many days without washing, without changing my clothes. I decided at least to change my dress, for the one I had on was like a rag, crumpled and soiled—it adhered to my body and disgusted me. I put on my green suit-dress, cleaned myself up as best I could, and again sat down on the edge of the cot and waited.
Next day, at last, the moment arrived. For the last time I heard the melody of “La Paloma”—a melody that had become to me a sort of battle-hymn, a call to courage and hope in a hopeless existence. And I heard the doctor’s steps, a little faster today than before, betraying his nervous excitement. The door opened and my savior stood before me. He looked anxious and pale, but he had kept his promise and came at the appointed time. And again I heard the same words: “Are you ready, dear Hania?”
“Ready,” I answered.
“Dear Hania,” he said, “if someone were to catch you on the way to the camp now, or during your stay in the camp, remember—not a word about me. Hold your head up high and have courage. That is very important.”
Tears came to my eyes, but this was no time for sentiment. I merely said, “Thank you, Doctor Jagoda.”
Gently he said, “Go with God, Hania!”
For the last time I looked around at my shelter. True, it was an awful place, but it had protected me during these tense and endless ten days. I clambered up on the cot and reached for the window above it. Carefully I pushed aside the curtain, thickly powdered with dust, and stole a quick look outside. Everything was quiet. I saw no one. Then, slowly, I opened the window. My heart started to beat rapidly and I felt as though someone had stuck a knife into my side, but I managed to slide through the open frame and pull the valise after me, which the doctor handed to me from below. I did not look back. I knew Dr. Jagoda would clos
e the window once I was on the other side. When my feet touched the ground, I walked quickly in the direction from which I had come to this place ten days before.
The sun’s hot rays were piercing. I felt pain in my eyes, unaccustomed to such bright light. I hastened my steps, not looking back—I did not know, nor did I want to know what was happening behind me. Yet all was quiet. When I reached the broken fence-boards and squeezed through to the other side, I took off my coat. It was hot and I would have looked strange wearing a heavy coat in June, and a crumpled and soiled coat like that, besides. Now it was easier to walk, and I went faster and faster until I came to the other side of the camp. In my thoughts I thanked God for helping me get out, and now asked Him not to abandon me but to stay with me in this tragic situation, to give me the strength to survive, to put the right words in my mouth, and to lead me along a safe and sure path. As I walked on, I told myself that there must be some Power leading me; Someone with me. This gave me comfort. And perhaps my mother was watching me . . .
Now I had circled the camp and I saw from a distance the guards at the gate. I had to greet them with a smile—to prove that I came back willingly! I quickly took the pass from my pocket; it was somewhat creased, but that did not matter. Assuming an artificial gaiety, I handed them the card, saying—in Ukrainian, to the Ukrainian policeman—that I had come back after spending the holidays with my family. These were not the same guards who had seen me leave the camp, but that was perhaps all the better. The militiaman narrowed his eyes after scanning the pass, then returned it to me, saying—partly to me, and partly to the Sonderdienst officer—“After the holidays she looks like hell!” Then, turning to me, he asked, “Were you sick? What’s the matter with you?”
I sized up the situation quickly and replied, “During the holidays the whole family got together, ate, drank, and—I’m afraid my stomach had to pay the consequences. I worried whether I’d be able to get back here in time, but now I feel better.”
Sheva's Promise Page 17