Whether my reply satisfied them or not, or whether they actually believed me, I did not know. Trying to avoid further questions, I nodded to the guards pleasantly and went on inside the camp, following the sandy path—shimmering now in the hot sun—that led to the main office. I still anxiously pondered the meaning of the Ukrainian militiaman’s expression. Maybe he just let me in, I thought, because he knows that in here I’ll be trapped. I could not help but feel that he was suspicious of me. But there was now no alternative; I must be patient and be prepared for anything. Wrestling with these poisonous thoughts, I reached the office.
There was the same man who had registered me the first day. I gave him my pass, and he directed me to the main building, where all those who were to be sent to work in Germany were gathered. I did not see Dr. Jagoda anywhere—not in the office, nor in the yard outside. He might have been hiding someplace, so as not to be a witness in case I was caught.
I crossed the courtyard and turned left towards the building that housed the workers. It stood next to the hospital where I had spent the first few days, but was considerably larger. To go inside was a dangerous step, for here I might meet someone from my part of the country, perhaps even from Rohatyn. But I pushed open the door—a large, heavy door, like a gateway to a fortress—and went inside.
The eyes of those who did not happen to be busy with something at the moment all turned in my direction. It’s easier for me to write of this experience now than it was to live it. At first glance I could not discern all the faces and could not see whether there were any there whom I knew or who could recognize me. There seemed to be a lot of girls and boys in that large room. It gave me such a strange feeling, as though I were a child just learning to walk and not knowing in which direction it might be safer to turn, ready to fall out of fear and uncertainty.
It was a very large room, or hall, with cots lining two walls. In the center stood long tables with benches. It was dark and gloomy; only two windows illuminated the room—and these were at the further end. I approached the nearest bench and put down my valise, sat down, and waited for someone to speak to me.
It was not long before one, and then another girl came up to me—followed by some young boys, mostly Ukrainians—to find out where I came from and how I got caught. They did not even guess that I was a voluntary victim, over whom the death penalty hung if I was discovered—trying to find help here. Looking around, I wondered myself how I could expect to find help in this place, among people from so many districts and localities. My eyes searched the faces to see if there might be someone I knew from Rohatyn—but they were so far all strangers to me. Thank God for that! But they kept plying me with questions, and I had to answer them. Where did I come from? From Brody. Where was I caught? On the street. Again, I lied like a professional.
When they heard the name of the town I supposedly came from, they began to look around to see if there was anyone else from Brody—but there was none. They could not know that I did not know Brody, that someone from Brody would not know me any better than they did. My fear was not that I would meet a Brody inhabitant, after all!
I could see that almost all the girls here were wearing peasant skirts. Some had kerchiefs, and some wore their hair in braids falling down their back or wound atop their head. They were walking around barefoot, having taken off their boots to be more comfortable, and they seemed gay. The boys also looked as if they had come straight from the village. They were joking, singing—most of them in Ukrainian. I listened more than I talked, avoiding all the conversation I could.
I hoped that I would be able to sleep that night. My constant fear was that I might cry out in my dreams, and that some harm might come to me from my strange companions. I had to be very careful not to give my identity away. I had to be careful also in my lies—for it was not at all easy to have to live a lie twenty-four hours a day.
The noisy chatter quieted down when two ladies came in, bringing our lunch. Everybody reached for a bowl and a spoon and tried to get a portion of the food. I was also handed a bowl and spoon. It was very plain food, but now that was not important: soup, some kind of pudding, black bread, and tea. Some voiced their complaints, others cursed—but all the bowls were emptied. With the addition of a few jokes, even this miserable food tasted better.
The cans were soon emptied. We threw in the bowls and spoons for them to take away to be washed. Now came the tea. That was best; it was for me a real luxury and delicacy. There was still plenty of time after dinner before we turned in—too many hours, indeed, in which I might be questioned and studied. I trembled to think that each moment in this crowd was potentially dangerous. Yet I tried to appear in the best of humor. I forced myself to believe that I was really that Hanka Buczek, caught by Germans on the street and taken to this work camp. I was beginning a new life.
I shoved my suitcase under the cot and mixed with the crowd, taking part in their jokes. I talked mostly in Ukrainian, because most of the youth here were Ukrainians. They did not know that I was posing as a Polish girl—they would not see my identification papers. They were here in the same category as I, I thought. If they knew that I was supposed to be Polish they might want to avoid me, because Ukrainians did not like the Poles. I knew Ukrainian perfectly. Why shouldn’t I be able to pass for a Ukrainian in this camp?
I talked with everyone that came my way. Some were swapping funny stories, others were singing, still others were playing chess or cards. It was a pleasant, congenial atmosphere. At last someone started to play his mandolin and a group formed around him to sing. I knew all the songs, so I joined my voice to theirs. There were moments when I really forgot about everything; I felt one with them. I suggested some songs of my own—“Houtzulka Ksenia” and “Loneliness.” The words were suited to this place and time. A few around me knew the songs. Some of the girls had tears in their eyes as they listened. Now I felt no longer alone; I had others to share my tears. The singing helped to assuage my pain somewhat; it was like a balm to my shattered nerves.
Our singing and merrymaking was interrupted by suppertime. Again, we had a thin soup, like dishwater, some sausage, and bread. But our humor was improved and even our appetite was keener. I was surprised, and—I will confess—pleased that some of my companions were actually concerned about Hania. “Here’s soup for Hania, here’s some sausage, here’s bread for Hania!” I was the prettiest and they gave me compliments. I did not know whether to take it as a good or an evil omen, but for the present, everything was going smoothly.
After our coffee, we got up from the bench, feeling quite pleased. The cans and dishes were cleared away, and we returned to our little groups. Everyone seemed to feel as though we had known each other for a long time, and many expressed the wish that they might be sent to the same city in Germany. Of course, Hania must go with them!
“I hope we’ll stay together,” I said, but in my thoughts I prayed that it would be otherwise. My plan was to get lost somehow in Germany, to go it alone. If I stayed with these Ukrainians, sooner or later they would discover who I really was. And I knew how their friendly attitude would change suddenly toward “Hania” if they knew who she really was . . . a Jew! The Ukrainians were the real murderers, and these happy youth would be the same . . .
It was dark, about nine o’clock, when the guard came to tell us to put out the lights and go to sleep. Slowly, we broke up our groups. As I lay down, I did as I saw the others do—I made the sign of the cross and whispered a prayer. My prayer was different from theirs. I asked God to perform a miracle, to show the world that He had not forsaken me and my people. “Send down a curse on these Germans,” I prayed, “and free us from their clutches. Give me strength and confidence to see that moment. Save those who are still alive . . . Thank you, God, for protecting me until now—for I could have fallen into a trap many times. But I am not alone, there are still thousands, thousands asking You for help—even my Mamma and my sister Rose, if they are yet alive.” Such was my prayer and petition. Tears were r
olling down my cheeks, but it was dark and no one could see my crying.
The night passed slowly. Light was beginning to come through the window before people began crawling out of their cots. Everybody seemed to have a complaint. Amidst complaints, I heard a voice quoting an old Ukrainian proverb: Ne chotily Zydy manujisty, naj hiwno jidat—The Jews did not want to eat manna, let them eat crap! To this fairly common proverb, someone else replied mockingly, “The Jews aren’t even eating crap any longer—they don’t exist anymore. They’ve been turned into manure—and the Germans were smart to do it! Who needs the Jews?”
There remarks caught me by surprise. I knew that sooner or later the subject of the Jews had to come up, but this happened so quickly that I was stunned. The night passed away in the morning.
Luckily, the breakfast was brought in just then, and they did not talk about Jews any longer. But the incident was just another stab at my heart. I had been present before during such scenes of Jew-hatred . . .
When we got up from breakfast, I noticed how awful we looked. Our clothes were crumpled, like rags. We looked at each other, seeing ourselves as in a mirror. Someone quipped that when we arrived in Germany we’d receive complete new wardrobes and that our pockets would be filled with money. Someone else added, “And all the boys will get a German blonde!” Then, seeing how the Ukrainian girls were listening to this talk with frowns on their faces, a boy said: “To hell with German girls! We have our own.”
As the day went on, some played chess, others cards. One group just sat and complained about everything. Some listened to a mandolin player—this was the quietest group, perhaps the most cultured—and I joined them. But they did not remain still for long. Someone noticed that at another table sat a middle-aged woman, rather stout and wearing a flowered kerchief on her head, who was telling fortunes from cards. Two or three girls had gathered around her at first, but the group grew larger as more people became interested. Everybody was eager to have his or her fortune told—and when she told them the truth as she saw it in the cards, they often exclaimed in surprise or embarrassment.
The woman seemed to have the gift of guessing everything about a person’s past and future. Soon people were whispering about her talents, saying that she was no fake. And so the line grew; they swarmed around her like ants, sat down for a while, listened, and walked away dazed. But at last there were no more volunteers. Shortly after, I noticed the fortune teller was going around to the bashful ones, offering to read the cards for them in private. When they shook their heads, she insisted until she had convinced them. This made me wonder if she was not some sort of spy—maybe the Germans or the Ukrainian police had planted her among us purposely to pry some information out of us. A lot would depend on my decision now. If I remained the only one who refused to have a fortune told, it would look suspicious, but if I let her read my cards—if she really had the gift of mind-reading or foretelling the future—she would learn too much about me. No matter what, it was a bad spot for me.
She came up to me, and—because I simply could not avoid her, or perhaps because I was really curious to know what lay in the future—I agreed to let her read the cards, but somewhere in a corner privately. It would be false to say that I was indifferent to the outcome of this sitting. But just as I was about to walk over with her to a quiet corner, we suddenly heard loud cries and weeping, growing louder and louder each moment. Everyone jumped up. The same question was on all lips: What’s going on? Without thinking, everyone pushed toward the door to see what was happening. There I saw a scene of horror that made me wish that I had died sooner than witness it.
A tall girl with loosened braids was being dragged along by two Ukrainians, one grasping her hand and the other pulling her lovely blonde hair, while she struggled with them and cried to high heaven. She was barefoot and wore a torn dress that exposed a breast. Her face had a wild expression; saliva dribbled from her mouth in a thin froth. Then I noticed that one of the men—a policeman—had a revolver in his hand . . . Like a trapped animal she struggled, her cheeks inflamed, her eyes bulging with terror . . . I shall never forget the sight!
Some of my companions looked on in silence; others whispered guesses that she must be a Jewess. “She deserves it,” they said. We turned away slowly. When dinner came, I tried to eat, but it was almost impossible. While sitting at the table, I heard some remarks about a similar incident that happened here a week ago; apparently, it made little impression on them. I did not doubt that the girl I had seen was Jewish, but I wondered where they had caught her—and where were they taking her now?
After dinner, I cleared away the dishes from the table. Again the fortune teller came up to me and diverted my thoughts. She pulled me toward a corner. She apparently was more interested in my future than I . . . with beating heart I sat down. She studied my expression and observed me so intently that I expected her to lay down the cards and say, “You are Jewish!” After all, Dr. Jagoda must have uncovered my identity at our first interview. Now she could see my features close up—just as I could study her face, too—though to tell the truth, her facial characteristics were more Semitic than mine.
Narrowing her eyes, she compressed her lips and began to lay out the cards with energetic gestures of her hands. When they were spread out on the table, she again looked at me. I did not like this whole procedure, but I sat quietly, trying to conceal my impatience, wondering why it took her so long to get started. Somehow she seemed to need time for inspiration in my special case. Her expression became very serious as she began to shuffle the cards, then she told me to divide the pack into two halves—and she began to lay them out, one by one, shaking her head. I was really worried now, and thought, What kind of a devil is this?
At last she stopped, and fixing me in her gaze, she said, “You are living through a great deal. You had an important decision to make before you came here. You wanted to volunteer, and yet you did not want to . . .”
I nodded my head, and interrupted her. “They caught me. No one wants to volunteer to go to Germany.”
But she motioned me with her hand not to disturb her. “Your thoughts are back home with your family. I see something here that is not very clear—but something is burning, maybe a house; there are screams, people, some great misfortune, fire, fire most certainly—or maybe somebody is critically ill, somebody will die.”
I felt my whole body freeze. I noticed that people were observing us from a distance—so many eyes turned in my direction! From time to time, someone would come up to our table, but she would wave them away. This experience was surely an unnecessary supplement to all my adventures! Was this to be the last move, the last play?
She continued to speak: “Don’t go back there. They are in danger. I see something red—like blood. Don’t go back,” she repeated. “Nothing good awaits you there.” I knew that, of course, but did she really know, or was she only trying to draw me out? Was she playing a game, a terrible game with me? Trying to divert her, I asked, “Maybe they are also catching members of my family to send to work in Germany?”
“No,” she answered, “not for work. I don’t want to distress you, but I see death. A terrible death, fire, a burning house—and someone in the house. It isn’t very clear, but I see fire and death. People are in a fire.”
I felt like I would faint. I must have been very pale, for she remarked about my changed expression and tried to quiet me. “Don’t take it so hard,” she said, comfortingly. “Sometimes the cards can be mistaken. Or maybe the fire is only in the neighborhood of your home. Maybe your family lives near the Jewish ghetto? For you know they are liquidating ghettos everywhere . . . the Judenfrei . . .”
This was the final blow, the final thrust to the heart. “No,” I answered, trying again to appear calm, “we live outside the city, in a village. Maybe the fire was in the village—maybe a barn burned down?” But she did not even listen to my reply.
She kept on saying that what she saw was very interesting. “You will go through a lot ye
t in this camp. You have some valuables with you; I don’t know exactly what, but some money and something else of value, jewelry. They will take that away from you. I don’t know exactly who, but you will have trouble—I see the authorities, the authorities,” she repeated and again looked significantly at me.
“I don’t have anything with me,” I said brazenly, “except a few rags.” Yet I thought that she must know what she was talking about; I still had the jewelry and money. Now I believed that she knew everything. I would have gotten away from this woman if I could, but she seemed completely engrossed in what she saw. “You will get out of here. You will go abroad with much trouble—but you will go,” she said, “but you will not have your valuables with you. You will find many difficulties en route, too—I cannot tell clearly just what.” She paused for a while, then continued. “There is a change; afterwards it will be well, very well for you. You will work with women. I see a large building and many women there, almost nobody but women, many of them in uniforms, and yet you will feel very lonely. Yes. Loneliness will be your constant companion, despite everything. You will work hard; work, work, work. You will be worried, sad—but you will be all right. People will like and respect you.”
The woman was so involved in telling my fortune that the tears coursing down my cheeks and falling upon her cards did not distract her. I tried with all my might not to cry, but I was not made of iron. I felt like I wanted to hug her for this good fortune she saw in my future. There would be a tomorrow for me, after all! It was a faint spark of hope. I waited for her to tell me more, but she was mumbling to herself—I could not understand a word. “What is it?” I finally asked. “What do you see now?”
“It’s good,” she said, “but nothing very gay. Work, loneliness. You will feel all alone.”
“Maybe I’ll go back home? Maybe I’ll be given a vacation?”
“No,” she replied firmly. Then she looked at me and asked, “What do you think about all this that I have told you?”
Sheva's Promise Page 18