Never before in my life, not even when I was with the Krupkas in Brody, did I have to work as hard as I had to that day—peeling so many potatoes, scraping vegetables, lifting heavy cans and pots and then later scouring them. Oh, if my mother could have seen me—I thought—she would have wept. I was so lonely . . . I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, resting. Now I had to plan how I could get out of Vienna. Neither the city, nor the job, nor the prospect of living in a camp suited my needs.
My legs were now really a problem and I had no idea when the swelling would subside. As I sat pondering, the old lady called me to have some coffee. We sat at the table, not saying a word. She—with her gray hair pulled severely back, her sunken eyes, her lips so thin that one could not even see them (I knew that people with thin lips are mean)—resembled in some way the rats that ran over me in the shelter in the camp on Janowska Street. Her husband, too—a wizened, shrunken figure—looked at me, shifty-eyed, as though he did not trust me. Eh, those rats were more pleasant company!
The old couple drank that watery coffee and said nothing, but their glances were eloquent enough. Perhaps they thought that I was some secret agent, not to be trusted. I got up from the table and said, “Goodnight.” Lying in bed, as I tried to formulate my plans, some instinct urged me to get away from Vienna. At last I decided that during my lunch break the next day, I would ask the restaurant owner to let me go to the employment office. I would tell him that I had received a card from the employment bureau to report there, and if he wanted to see the card, I’d tell him that I left it at home. All night long I thought about my plan, trying it out in every which way—while I turned from side to side during those sleepless hours. I arose early in the morning, quietly, and tossed my few belongings into the suitcase. I did not want to have to rush at the last minute, because the pain in my legs was increasingly worse. Even putting my shoes on in the morning was a torture that made me almost faint. I never removed my stockings now, afraid that I would not be able to put them on again if I did.
Very quietly, like a mouse, I left the apartment and went downstairs. The street was empty and peaceful—the tall buildings seemed like sleeping giants guarding the thoroughfare. Once in a while someone would pass by, but no one paid any attention to me. I had to walk to work, for I had not a cent to my name.
When I arrived at the restaurant they wondered why I had arrived so early. Did they think that I loved my job so much? I, in turn, was amazed at the quantities of vegetables, onions, and potatoes that they had already prepared for me to scrape and clean and pare. After a quick breakfast, I set to work. I tried to keep my legs hidden behind a tall can so that no one would notice how they had expanded overnight. Pretty soon they would burst through my stockings, and then my shoes. Near me sat the Ukrainian girl, who tried to describe the life I would have in their camp. She said that she already had a boyfriend lined up for me. She talked on and on, while I was thinking my own thoughts. At last she noticed that I was not paying attention. Why? I explained that I had to report to the Arbeitsamt. I had to receive a card from the employment office, but had left it at home. Would she, since she speaks German so well, would she please talk to the boss and ask him to let me go there during my lunch period? It would save time if I could go then.
She agreed, and after we had worked together a few hours, she went with me to the employer and told him my story. I naturally understood every word of their conversation and knew that he was not pleased that I wanted to have time off from work. Perhaps he was afraid that he might lose one work horse—and it was not easy to get another. My Ukrainian friend, however, went on to say that the Arbeitsamt demanded my appearance to complete some formalities they had forgotten to take care of, and the boss would just have to comply and let me go. I saw his greasy, perspiring face twist into a grimace of displeasure, but he nodded and waved his hand. She turned to me and said it was all right. “Thank you,” I said. I knew that I had a friend in this girl, but I also knew that it would not last long.
I ate a hearty lunch, for I needed strength for this enterprise. The Ukrainian girl explained how to get to the employment office, adding that it was a good distance away. Thanking her again, I left. I had no money for the train, and had to walk far. Even with her directions, I had trouble finding my way. At last, I reached the Arbeitsamt. As I stood before the building, I sighed deeply. I must now consider well how I was to begin—otherwise I might fall into a trap of my own connivance. I only prayed that I would not run into anyone from my part of Poland—or my city—one could never be too sure of that. With beating heart, I entered. There were lines, but not too long, and in a little while I stood before one of the women clerks, explaining to her—more with gestures than with words, for I was still afraid to own up that I understood German—that I was a village girl, that Vienna was a big city and I was not used to city life. I was afraid of the tall buildings . . . She asked me my name, and hesitantly I gave it to her—Hanka Buczek . . . She obtained my dossier from another clerk, and after examining it, she said, “You will go to a camp, anyway, and won’t have to be in the city except to work.”
Desperately, I told her that my parents would be very dissatisfied when I wrote and told them that I was working in a big city. And as I spoke, my eyes filled with tears. She looked at me with some surprise, but said, “Wait, we shall see.”
Taking my file, she went to a man who seemed to be the chief. After talking to him, she returned and, to my amazement, asked where I would like to go. Still pretending not to understand German very well, I did not know what to answer. She took out a map and asked me a second time where I would like to go . . . Meanwhile, I felt that the people in line behind me were getting impatient. I said, “Klein, klein—a small town.” She mentioned the names of a few towns, among them Stuttgart, Munchen, and Frankfort am Main, but she added that Stuttgart—though it was far away in Germany—was a lovely town with many gardens, parks, and trees.
“Good,” I said, “it will be like a village.” I agreed. The fact that it was far away was all the better, I thought. She gave me a referral slip to the Arbeitsamt at Stuttgart and also a pass that entitled me to a free railroad ticket to that town. I was to leave tomorrow morning. I thanked the clerk effusively. The stares of the impatient people lined up in back of me stabbed me like knives, but I did not care now. I left in a state of elation.
Outside on the street I looked through the papers she had given me and I was content. I felt that I had done well, and it gave me great moral satisfaction to know that I had lied to them and that they had believed me completely. I was proud of myself.
I said my goodbyes to the people in the restaurant and to the unpleasant elderly couple. The next morning I took my suitcase and went quickly to the station, where I exchanged my pass for a ticket. There was no trouble; the ticket seller handled the matter efficiently and courteously. My self-confidence increased with every moment. Now I had official papers with me—like a legal citizen!
Then suddenly a voice boomed, “Nach Stuttgart—Württemberg!” I picked up my suitcase and boarded the train, choosing a seat near the window. It was another lonely, sunny morning. I removed my coat and tried to make myself comfortable in the compartment. Soon we were on our way. There were few people on that train—a clean, comfortable train. Looking out of the window, I felt that the further away I travelled from home the lonelier I would be, the more my heart would ache. And where was I now going? Into Germany, paradoxically to hide from Nazi hatred! It seemed to be the only way—to go as far away from people who knew me . . . I closed my eyes and thought, Someday perhaps I shall return, and then Mamma and Rose will run out to greet me with joy. They will cry, “Sheva! Sheva is alive—she has come back to us!” Will this ever come true? Though I doubted it, I still tried to find comfort in this hope.
Many hours passed, but I did not mind. The train arrived at Stuttgart before nightfall. As soon as I left the train I found a different world. At the station one could hear many languages: French, Ukrai
nian, Czech, Polish—and many others I could not understand. A large sign proclaimed Stuttgart to be “The City of Foreigners” and it seemed to be just that!
I left the station and, with some difficulty, found the employment office and entered. They told me to report to a camp and to return the next morning. When I did so, the clerk in the office said that I had a choice of working in a factory, a private home, or a hospital with thirty nuns. To give myself time to think, I began to repeat slowly what she just told me, as though I did not understand it. I decided that a hospital would be the safest choice, so I told her, “Krankenhaus.” She motioned me to wait on the side, while she telephoned the hospital to send someone over to fetch me.
After a considerable time, a nun entered the room, and the clerk at the desk introduced her to me as Sister Maria. She was of rather short stature, her slight figure garbed in a religious dress of royal blue and a white cap. She smiled at me, the smile lighting up her delicate features from within, and immediately she picked up my suitcase, saying, “Let’s go.” Although I protested, she insisted upon carrying it. We nodded pleasantly to the clerk and left the Arbeitsamt.
Outside on the street, Sister Maria told me that it was quite a distance to the hospital and that we’d have to take a trolley. I was sorry that I did not have any money to pay my fare, and in broken German I explained my situation to her. She smiled and said, “Don’t worry. You are now in our care.” What a wonderful feeling it was! I began to live again in this aura of confidence and security. On the way to the car stop, we chatted in a friendly fashion. It was not long before she noticed the swollen condition of my legs and wondered how I could stand it, for the work at the hospital would require me to be on my feet all day. But I tried to assure her that it was only as the result of my long train trip that my legs had swelled up so badly.
Sister Maria asked me to repeat my name. I said, “Hanka. Hanka Buczek—but at home they call me Hania.” Now she wanted to know where I came from and if I had left any family at home. I replied simply that I came from Poland, from a village called Rudy, and that I had left behind my parents and one sister. I lied constantly.
We caught the trolley, and it left us at Hohenheimerstrasse. A little distance up the street, after we had passed several houses, the sister pointed to a building on the top of the hill in a well-kept garden surrounded by an iron fence. One entered by a small gate on the left; there were wide stone steps and above them, in the wall, a plaque with the words: Albrecht Krankenhaus, Hohenheimerstr. 21. It was a luxurious hospital.
The sister said, “This hospital was always called Bethesda Hospital—a biblical name—but since our Führer came to power we had to change it, for he did not favor the religious connotation.”
Inside the gate there was a winding staircase leading to a higher level of the garden and orchard. It was truly beautiful. A few more steps and we found ourselves in one of the hospital corridors. For me, it was like the entrance to Paradise in the company of an angel. Everything had a dreamlike quality; I could not believe that it was all real.
The corridor was wide and stretched a long distance. As soon as we entered, I was assailed by the odor of disinfectants. Sister Maria explained that on the left-hand side was the surgery room, on the right the admissions office; an X-ray room was located near the surgery, and the doorway beyond led to the office of the Oberschwester, the Superior. The stairway opposite the entrance took one up to the other floors, as did the nearby elevator. There was absolute silence in the corridor, though from time to time some door opened and a smiling sister appeared, hurrying on her errands. I noticed that some of the sisters wore white gowns and white aprons, of a style that in Poland used to be called “cobbler’s aprons.” I guessed, and later was told, that these sister-nurses were assigned to the operating rooms.
The sister took me to the Verwaltung, the administrative office. In response to our knock, a gentle but firm voice answered, “Herein!” We entered. I saw a sister seated behind a desk, a woman a little older than Sister Maria. I was introduced as Hanka Buczek and I felt her keen eyes observing me. The sister in Verwaltung said that I looked very tired, and Sister Maria quickly explained that I had been on a long and wearying journey. She added, “I think Hanka is homesick.” She stroked my hair and left, leaving me with the sister in Verwaltung. She asked my name and wrote it down in a file, along with the place and date of my birth, and where I had come from. I gave the sister the card I had received from the Arbeitsamt. She noted everything and let me sign the paper on the line next to the date of my admission for work in the hospital: June 22, 1943.
She then put a few more questions to me: Was I regular in church attendance? The sisters, she said, were very strict on that point; they expected us to go to church every Sunday at least. The sister mentioned that Nastya and Katerina, the two Russian girls who worked in the hospital, also went to church and that I’d be able to go with them; I would find them good friends to have. However, she was assigning me to a room with a girl from Holland, whose name was Lena. I must do my share to keep the room in neat condition, for the Sister Superior often inspected our quarters. I would have to rise at 5 A.M., because punctually at six I would have to be at my work station and would need at least an hour to get myself ready and my room in order.
Glancing at the signature I had just affixed to the paper, the sister complimented me on my fine handwriting. “It’s much neater than Nastya’s or Katerina’s,” she added. Then, as an afterthought, she asked if I had left any relatives behind in Poland. “My parents and a sister,” I replied.
“That is all the information we need,” she said quietly, “but in three days you will go with one of the sisters to the police station to be registered there. They will fingerprint you and give you a work card.”
This last piece of news startled me a little, but I should have expected some such formality would be required. The sister now reached for a bunch of keys and told me to follow her—she would show me to my room. We went out of the hospital building, crossed the big, beautiful garden and up a few steps to a small house or villa, like a pretty summer cottage set on a slightly higher hill among trees. The view was breathtakingly lovely from this point. My room, however, down the end of a corridor, was rather small and disappointingly gloomy. There were two beds at right angles to each other along the walls, a plain oak wardrobe, two chairs, a dresser, and a small table. A mirror hung on one of the walls. Two windows let in the pale daylight, filtered through the dense foliage of the trees outside.
Sister said, “Lena, the Dutch girl, occupies the bed on the left; the other bed is yours. You will share with her the use of the dresser and clothes-closet.” Then she showed me a sink in the corridor just outside the room where I could wash myself. Under wartime conditions, and especially in my situation, this seemed like a palace. I could not believe my good fortune. I felt that I could stay here contentedly until the end of the war, if they would let me.
Sister told me to remain in my room until I heard the dinner bell; I would have until about one o’clock to wash up and rest. She pointed through the window in which direction I should go to reach the dining hall, and she started to leave but, turning around at the door, said, “I hope you will be satisfied with us here.”
“Danke schön,” I smiled, and thanked her sincerely. Oh, may this be my last stop indeed, I thought. I felt now that I had made a good and fitting decision in choosing this place to work. In my circumstances I could not have done better.
I looked around the room, then went out into the hall to wash myself. What a luxury—hot and cold water from the faucets! I soon returned to the room, where I was briefly visited by a Sister Gertrude, who wished me luck. I then took a short nap.
My rest was broken by the short, quick rings of the dinner bell. I had to get up and find the dining hall, as the sister told me. I smoothed my hair and changed into a dark blue skirt. What a shame that my legs didn’t match the skirt’s slenderness! I could hear steps now in the corridor. I waite
d until the others had left their rooms, for I did not want to be the first to answer the bell. Pushing open the heavy entrance door, I went slowly down the stone steps into the garden. The midday sun blazed above, bathing the idyllic landscape with golden light. The sight of so much beauty brought tears to my eyes. Reaching the main hospital building, I entered by way of a glass door, and immediately caught a strong odor of iodine and disinfectants coming from the second floor.
The dining hall was on a lower level, and when I reached the end of the corridor I had to descend some stairs to the first floor. I let the sisters around me all go in ahead and waited at the door for Sister Maria, the one who had brought me from the Arbeitsamt that morning, for I did not know at which table I should sit. One of the sisters approached me and asked if I was waiting for someone. I told her.
“Oh, you’re waiting for Sister Maria!” she laughed, and pointed her out to me as she was coming out of an elevator nearby. In a few moments Sister Maria was at my side and took my hand. It seemed that everyone had a special seat at the tables, and she guided me to mine. My place was on the left of the entrance, the third chair from the end, facing the room—so that I could see everyone and in turn everyone could see me. I felt as though hundreds of eyes focused in my direction.
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