My suitcase in one hand, the food package in the other, I marched along with a girl at my side. We exchanged hardly a word. After what I had been through here, what could I say to her or to anyone else? I would take my recollections of the Janowska Street camp and all my experiences there with me always, even to the grave. I felt a wave of pity for Dr. Jagoda, that he had to remain here, witnessing these scenes of misery and suffering, and only rarely able to help.
At the gate, the guards sized us up arrogantly. “Heil, Hitler!”—those words were the last I heard as I left the camp. It seemed to me that they were the same guards I had encountered on entering the camp. I lowered my head, hoping that they would not recognize me, and with the others I quickly made a right turn into the road. It was a long way to the station. The sun was hot, and the stone-paved road was tiring. My suitcase at least was not heavy now, for the jewelry and most of my other possessions were gone. At least they had left me the sport coat! I was glad of that, though the coat was badly wrinkled because I had slept in it during the time I was hidden in the shelter, to protect me from rat bites. Now it looked like a rag draped over my arm, but it might be useful yet.
It took us about half an hour to reach the railway station. The entire area swarmed with people. Life here seemed almost normal—passengers with packages and luggage, hurrying in different directions either to or from a train. The guard in charge of our group told us to wait at the gate to the trains, and he went to get our tickets. I sensed danger in every extra minute of waiting, and it seemed an eternity before he returned, holding the tickets in one hand. He told us to follow him. We went along the station platform, pushing our way through the milling throngs of people, until we reached the spot where we had to wait for our train.
Everyone was curious to know where we were going. We learned that we were bound for Vienna. As I looked around, carefully, trying not to attract attention, my heart suddenly skipped a beat. At a distance from us, in one of the entrances to the station platform, I noticed a girl from Rohatyn whom I knew quite well. We had been classmates in our schooldays. She was turned in profile to me, so that while I could study her features carefully, she could not see me. Quickly, I sat down on my suitcase and turned in the other direction. “Oh, how my feet hurt!” I said to the girl at my side. She smiled and also sat down on her suitcase. “You’ve got the right idea,” she said. I felt every nerve shaking in my body.
We had to wait a long time, but I did not look back again. I sat on my suitcase until we were ordered to move on. A train had pulled up to the station and we were told to board the open cars. This was a great shock and disappointment to us—usually such cars were used to transport cows and cattle—and we were supposed to ride in them ourselves! The commissioner who escorted us to the station now gave our tickets to the oldest of our group. Once more, as we boarded the train, he called out our names—there were eighteen of us. How strange it sounded in my ears when he called “Hanka Buczek!” I nodded my head, my heart pounding wildly. When he left, the sliding door of our car was closed. We heard the train whistle, and with a rumbling jolt, the cars began to move.
The barred openings of the car were placed high, so all we could see was a strip of sky. Now, as the day waned, the red rays of the setting sun penetrated the gloomy interior, as though to reassure me that Heaven was watching over us. With each turn of the wheels, the country and the towns that I knew began to recede into the distance. The town in which I was born and in which I had lived my whole life, where I left the memories of happy youth, would remain only in my memory now as the tomb of hundreds, thousands of corpses.
On this day in June, 1943, I was going out into the unknown—into the land of our murderers, our destroyers. There, ironically, I would try to find shelter and a haven among our enemies.
After a frugal meal, we talked a little among ourselves until it was too dark to see. With nightfall, there came a drop in temperature. I was glad they had not taken away my coat—I needed it now to keep warm. I wrapped it around me, huddled into a corner, and tried to sleep. Many others did likewise—they pulled out extra clothing from their suitcases to keep warm. But it was not easy to fall asleep surrounded by the noise of the locomotive and the rattle of the cars. Whenever we stopped at a station, there was an unearthly squeal of iron against steel and a conductor’s gruff voice announcing the name of the town.
We tried somehow to live through the night. Our first stop was to be Krakow, where we were to change trains in the early hours of the morning. From time to time someone snored. The train made frequent stops, some of long duration. The day was already whitening the sky when we heard “Krakow!” in Polish and in German. Now we had to gather our things together and leave the train. We would have to wait several hours at the station, they said, for other connections to Vienna. As I got up, I felt as though I were collecting all my broken bones into a unified whole. Everything ached, every nerve still felt the hard boards of the car, every muscle twinged from the rough jolting of the wheels. We stood up and stretched, but our leader began to urge us to hurry, as this train was pulling out very soon and we had to be quick to all get out in time.
One by one, we began to scramble down to the station platform. There were very few people in the station, considerably fewer than at Lvov. The railway station in Krakow was very old and neglected, and looked as though it had seen a war.
When we returned to the station after a long walking tour of the city—where again I saw the signs JEWS AND DOGS FORBIDDEN—we were astonished to see that the train was already waiting for us. We quickly picked up our things and boarded the car that was reserved for us. To our relief, we saw there were two long benches in our car, and we sat down to rest our tired feet. The train was soon moving on towards Vienna. Whether it was the fault of the track bed or the construction of the cars, this train gave us a more uncomfortable ride than the first; it felt as though we were sitting directly on the wheels. Soon the shadows of evening hid the landscape from our eyes. We huddled as best as we could upon the floor of the car and began to open our food sacks. Though it was but bread and sausage, we ate hungrily, then talked a while and finally bedded down. Some of us quietly said prayers, and I joined in.
Next morning, we were told that we had passed the border and were now in Austria. My head felt dizzy from having been bounced around all night long. As we took in the situation and looked at one another, we began to make fun of our disheveled appearances. Though my body ached all over, I felt a constant pain in my legs—I looked down and saw that my feet were so swollen that my stockings seemed ready to burst.
This was the first time in my life that my feet had swollen up. I was afraid—but even more afraid to say anything about it, because I might be sent back as unfit to work. And, after all, I had no home—no place that I could be sent back to! The Germans wanted only young and healthy people for work.
We looked forward impatiently to our arrival in Vienna. We ate our evening meal without washing our hands (we had no water), spreading our provisions out on the dirty benches. Afterward we spent some time straightening out our clothes; what we were wearing looked like wrinkled, untidy rags. The girls began to comb their hair, trying to make themselves appear attractive—probably hoping that they would get better employment if they looked neat.
Our train slowed down as we approached the Vienna depot. I could not believe that I actually succeeded in coming such a long distance, that I was here. Maybe here at last I would be able to live through the rest of the war quietly . . .
The doors were rolled back on one side of our car, and when the train came to a full stop we began to jump down to the station platform. One by one, we were counted—like cattle. As we entered the station, we were surrounded on all sides by German sounds—the language grated in my ears. The station was rather quiet, however. We saw mostly military uniforms, with only a sprinkling of civilians and a few women. What irritated me almost beyond endurance was the martial step of army boots and the continuous salutation, “He
il, Hitler!”
Our leader, after a quick consultation with the conductor, ordered us to follow him and we fell into step, two by two, like sheep. Some wanted to know where he was taking us and he replied, “To the employment bureau—the Arbeitsamt.” We were so tired that we dragged our feet; we must have looked to passersby like tramps.
My legs seemed to have turned into numb posts—my feet ached with every step. My God, I thought with alarm, what is happening to me? If they noticed my swollen legs at the Arbeitsamt they might turn me down and send me back “home.” I sighed with relief when we reached the office: it was staffed mainly by German women seated at desks in the large hall. One of them looked up as soon as we came in and greeted us with a sardonic smile. The others exchanged mocking glances. Then began the questioning: name, date and place of birth, and so forth. Because none of our group spoke German, I also pretended not to understand the language. Our leader tried to help out in these interrogations, though he himself spoke only broken German.
When the registration was completed, they began to allot us places where we were to stay temporarily and to assign us various jobs. Some of the group requested to be sent to the same place together, but I did not ask for that. I preferred to be alone—that was safer. They told us that in a few days we would be sent to residence camps for foreigners; this news did not please me one bit, for who knows whom I might run into in such a place—and whether I would be recognized. But, of course, I had no choice.
Some of our group were assigned to work in restaurant kitchens; that was my lot. And for the next few days I was to live with an old German couple and pay them out of my earning for room and board. Since the clerk was not sure whether these people were at home, she had to get in touch with them first. It turned out that I could not go there until evening, and I had the rest of the day at my disposal, it seemed. They led me and a few others into another room where we could leave our things. We were doled out the usual sausage and bread, but to our amazement we were also given cake and coffee and some cups to share. We were so thirsty that we set to drink like wild animals. The coffee was freshly made and good, but even if it had been vile it would have tasted wonderful to us. We had eaten only dry food for such a long time that something hot to drink was indescribably delicious. After we had sated our thirst and hunger, we started to compare the addresses—where we were to work and live. They all promised to visit whenever possible and to try to be assigned to the same camp later. I could not be the exception; I also promised to keep in touch.
What would we do now with our remaining hours of “freedom?” One of the group had heard about a beautiful park and palace called Schönbrun and proposed that we go there. We decided to follow his suggestion, especially as our leader said that he would get information about the place and accompany us on the tour. Although I was glad of the opportunity to see something new, the condition of my legs made walking a painful experience; nevertheless, I could not hold back from the group. I tried to cover my legs as much as possible by wearing my tan sport coat, saying by way of explanation that it might be cool by the time we returned in the evening.
It was a warm—no, it was a hot day. My legs burned like fire. When I looked down, I saw with mounting fear that they were as red as beets. I would have taken off my stockings, but then my swollen legs would have been conspicuous. So I gritted my teeth and marched on in silence.
The park was indeed beautiful, but I was glad to begin the walk back that afternoon. My legs felt as though they did not belong to me . . . On the way everyone exclaimed over the beauty of the park and exchanged promises to meet there whenever they could. But then, all at once, one of the group noticed that I was hardly able to walk.
“For God’s sake!” she screamed. “What happened to your legs?”
They came to a quick halt, thinking that I had been bitten by some insect. I smilingly assured them that it was nothing—my legs were like that normally; it was nothing new.
“And they took you for work—with such legs?” They could not believe it.
Our leader overheard the conversation. He wrinkled his forehead and began to examine my legs. “All over her body she is thin,” he muttered as though to himself, “but her legs are like an elephant’s.”
“And they’re so red!” one girl exclaimed.
“That’s because I was in the sun all day,” I tried to explain. “Besides, I’m not used to wearing stockings—that’s why.”
The girl nodded her head as if to say, “If you’re not complaining, why should we bother?”
And so, talking and laughing, we reached the Arbeitsamt. We were late; they were waiting for us so that they could close the office. Each one took his belongings. I picked up my suitcase, exchanged a few addresses with the girls, writing down my own new address in a shaky peasant (or so I hoped) scribble. They instructed us in which direction to go, and we left.
Walking slowly, with my suitcase in my hand, I passed many streets and back alleys before I found the house where I would stay for a few days. It was a large apartment building, four stories high. The street was quiet. With pounding heart I pushed open the heavy door leading to the main hall. I took out the slip of paper on which the name of the family was written and compared it with the names on the mail boxes. I found it—on the fourth floor. There was no elevator, so I started the climb up the stairs, dragging my suitcase after me. I felt my legs swelling up more and more. The staircase was filled with the aroma of cooking, probably from the restaurant nearby. I wondered if I would get something to eat; despite my condition, I was hungry.
At last I stood before the door of the apartment and rang the bell. An elderly gentleman opened the door. His face was pale and emaciated and his hand shook as he read the paper the Arbeitsamt had given me. With a grimace of displeasure, he let me in, calling out to his wife in German, “Already they have sent someone to us.”
His wife, also well on in years, looked me over from head to toes and guided me to a small room furnished with a bed, table, chair, and wardrobe. “This is your place,” she said and went away. I took stock of my surroundings; from what I could see of the apartment it seemed large, but gloomy, neglected, and poor. I took off my coat and shoes and sat down on the chair. Oh, how I wished that I could bathe or just wash myself, cleanse my feet of the dust and dirt of the streets. They ached so! My hunger was growing more intense, but I guessed that I would have to wait. I did not dare ask for anything. I could read from their faces that I was not a welcome guest; they took me only because the authorities had forced them.
However, in a little while, the old lady came in and asked if I wanted some coffee. “Yes, thank you!” I replied and followed her into the living room, in the center of which stood a huge table with equally large-looking chairs. She gave me coffee and a few slices of bread with marmalade. I had appetite enough to eat it all, but I saw that it was meant for three people. I sipped my coffee slowly—it tasted as if it had been boiled several times. At least it was hot and helped wash down the bread—for once, bread without sausage.
I hesitated, wondering if I should let them know that I understood German—they might feel more kindly disposed towards me if I did. On the other hand, it might be dangerous, especially if the leader of our group came here to check on me and discovered that I knew German.
Somehow they tried to make me understand that they were living on a retirement pension and that they found it hard to exist. All food was rationed. Gathering up courage, I asked if I could wash myself. The woman took me by the hand and showed me where the bathroom was, and she also gave me a clean though threadbare towel. Nothing could have made me feel better! Now I could at last wash my swollen legs and soak my feet in a basin. Afterward I felt like I could sleep soundly for not one night or two but rather a whole week without a break. But the woman had told me that she would serve supper later on, so I went to my room and waited.
Somehow I lived through the miserable meal and through the following night. Getting up very early, I le
ft my sleeping hosts and eventually found my way to my place of work—a restaurant in a side street. Entering, I handed my employment card to a man who presumably was the owner. He told me to follow him. In the kitchen he introduced me to a girl and a boy who also worked there—Ukrainians from the Lvov area. They set me at once to peeling potatoes, and I was told that later I would wash dishes and pots and clean up the kitchen.
We worked through the day. As I was leaving, the girl—who had taken a liking to me when I told her I was Ukrainian—assured me that in two or three days I would be transferred to a camp where only Ukrainians and Poles lived. Little did she know that this was the last thing that I wanted to have happen! Thus far, my goal had been simply to cross the boundary—to lose myself in a foreign country where no one would know me, no one could recognize me, and where at last I could find some rest and quiet until the war’s end. But as it happened, from what I learned at the Arbeitsamt and from my coworkers in the restaurant, in a few days I would now have to go to a camp where I would live among people from Poland. That again would place me in danger. Living with the others, I would have to go with them to church, pray with them, observe their holidays—and although I knew all the prayers and traditions, there was always the chance that among so many people there might be one who might recognize me. And another thing: living among these people, I would have to be constantly on guard—especially at night. I would be afraid to fall asleep lest I begin talking aloud—it had happened before—and someone might understand something of my wild ranting. Now I had to consider well what I ought to do . . . and again, as usual, I had no one whose advice I could seek. I was alone, and whatever I decided, it had to be at my own risk; it had to be thought out with my own intelligence.
After finishing a hard day’s work, I barely managed to walk “home,” for my legs were swollen even worse than before. With difficulty I climbed up to the fourth floor. My legs did not seem to belong to me anymore; they refused to obey. If I still had some remnants of energy and the desire to live, my legs did not share it—they seemed to be in rebellion against me. I knocked on the door, and the old lady opened it, greeting me with her by-now-familiar hostile expression. If the world hated me, she must have hated me the most, even without knowing who I really was . . . The atmosphere of their apartment was like that of a cemetery. Her husband sat in an easy chair in a dark corner and seemed to be muttering to himself—though I had the impression that he was cursing me. I could understand German well enough, but I did not know all the swear words—they did not teach me those in college. With lowered head I had to slink past him into my “doghouse.” I was tired, very tired.
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