The dining room was huge, with windows on two sides; long tables lined three of the walls. There was a silence. After a few minutes a gentleman came in and took his place at the upper end of the hall at the Sister Superior’s table. He was of medium height, middle-aged, with a round, genial face, and was dressed like a civilian. The Sister Superior at his side looked older than most of the others and she appeared different, for she was wearing a black uniform, whereas the others were in dark blue with blue-and-white checkered aprons. We sat down and they all folded their hands in prayer. I, too, lowered my eyes and whispered some words.
The food was served in large platters and bowls, and everyone could take as much as they desired. I helped myself to only a small portion, for although I was hungry I felt choked up inside and could hardly swallow. Besides, I was ashamed to eat too much the first day—I wanted them to see that I had some manners.
My companion on one side looked like a German girl; the girl on the other impressed me as being either Polish or Ukrainian. During the meal, however, no one talked. Everyone ate with good appetites and the bowls were soon empty. My neighbor on the left must have realized that I was a newcomer and she whispered, “Why aren’t you eating?” From her weak attempt at German I guessed that she must be one of the Ukrainian or Russian girls that the sister had mentioned. I replied that I had lost my appetite.
“You must be homesick,” she sympathized. “During my first days here I also could not eat or sleep, but I got used to it. It will pass.” (I later learned that she was Nastya, a Ukrainian, who spent a great deal of time with another Ukrainian girl named Katerina.)
My neighbor on the right was a tall and strongly built German girl who occasionally made some remark to the girl alongside of her, looking askance in my direction. She smacked her thin lips over the food as she ate greedily. First, there was soup—I understood that it was made of bread and vegetables—then a potato salad with meat loaf, and a pudding for dessert.
When dinner was finished, the gentleman at the Sister Superior’s table arose and again they folded their hands and prayed. Afterwards, he announced in a gentle, well-modulated voice, “We have been given a new coworker today, assigned to us by the Arbeitsamt, who comes from Poland. She will work with us in the hospital.”
At these words, everyone looked in my direction. I thought that I would faint; I trembled all over and my eyes filled with tears. I must have looked like a corpse, for I felt the blood ebbing from my face, but I clenched my fingers, digging my nails into my palms so as not to collapse. If I could just hold on a few moments more!
He continued: “Her name is Hanka Buczek, and she will be assigned as an aide to Sister Maria at the Wochenstation, the lying-in ward on the second floor. We hope she will be happy here.” Then he told me to get up. I don’t know how I managed to stand on my feet, for I swayed feebly—but somehow I arose, nodded, and sat down.
The room was filled with the clatter of some sixty or seventy chairs being moved back at once—thirty nuns, and the rest working girls like me. As the sisters filed out of the dining hall, each one gave me a kind look and a smile. I waited on the side for the “Little” Sister Maria (so called to distinguish her from the other Sister Maria, to whom I had just been assigned), but instead a taller sister came up to me. She was of about middle age and very pretty, and I thought that she looked like an angel, for she reminded me of someone close and dear to me—my mother.
Extending her hand to me, she said, “I am Sister Maria Schumacher from the Wochenstation, and you have been assigned to work with me there.” Her handclasp was warm and sincere; I don’t know why, but the long-held tears started coursing down my cheeks. Her eyes, I noticed, were also moist with sympathetic understanding. Where we waited for the elevator, the gentleman who had introduced me to the entire group now introduced himself as the inspector of the hospital. He said, “You look sad; but this is only the first day, and you feel strange here. Soon you will feel at home among us.” He smiled and again wished me good luck.
His words made me thoughtful. How could it be that he was a German and yet so kind? Would he still treat me with kindness if he knew that I was a Jewess? Or would he become like the other Germans who had persecuted and murdered us?
Sister Maria noticed my pensive mood and said, “Your name is Hanka, yes?” I nodded in reply. “Hanka, at this moment your thoughts were very far away. Maybe you did not hear what the Herr Inspektor just said?”
“Yes, I heard. He is a very kind gentleman,” And again, for no apparent reason, I burst into tears.
“Herr Inspektor is a Lutheran minister,” she explained. Then she said, “Probably you are missing your father. The minister can be like another father to you if you want to tell him what’s in your heart.”
I loved this Sister Maria from that moment and I felt that I would find in her not just a supervisor of my work but a maternal and protective friend in need.
The sister took me to her department. Each floor had a small kitchen adjoining the wards and the patients’ rooms. There she introduced me to a group of girls who worked on her floor and also to some sisters who were on duty at that time. One of the girls in this group was from France; she was older and not very pretty. Another was from Alsace, a vivacious brunette named Elsa. And the third was a German, Marie, from München—short but shapely, a pretty blonde with blue eyes.
Here I met Sister Gertrude again, and some eight or ten other sisters who were just changing their shifts of duty. I was told that my duties would include cleaning, making beds, feeding the patients, taking temperatures, and in general assisting the patients whenever they wanted anything (which they signaled by a light over the door). If a sister did not notice the light, we were to answer it, or at least to look into the room to see what was needed. We also had to give bedpans and help wash the patients; in short, we were nurse’s aides.
Among the duties, Sister explained, was assisting in moving the patients from the operating room to their ward. Sometimes we would change dressings. Sister Maria assured me that she knew it would be hard for me in the beginning, especially (she smiled) when I would have to scrub the floor with a coarse brush. “But you will get used to it,” she consoled me, “and I will try to make things easier for you.”
Each girl had her own pail and broom, scouring brushes, mop, and large gray rag. We had to report for work at six sharp each morning, and our own rooms had to be in perfect order before we left them—for if the Sister Superior found anything to criticize she would do so openly, in the dining hall, before everyone assembled. I shuddered at the prospect!
Our workday did not end until eight in the evening, with one hour off in the afternoon. During the week, on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, we were given half a day free—and a Sunday every two weeks.
That first day I worked only a few hours, but my legs increased in size—and I heard the sisters and the girls remark that unless the swelling went down I would not be able to do a full day’s work. I still tried to put the blame for the swelling on the rigors of the long trip, assuring them that it would pass soon. But I was really worried. I could hardly wait until the evening when I could retire to my room. We were given a coffee break at three o’clock—coffee and bread with marmalade—in a small kitchen where the girls from my floor gathered and chatted. I took an instant liking to Marie Kraus, who, although she was a German, was a warm and friendly person.
After the break, she showed me how to arrange trays for the patients. The food was sent up to our floor by a dumbwaiter in the kitchen wall. At a given hour, when the bell rang we had to pull it up, tugging on the heavy rope. Her instructions were clear and simple, but my head was still confused and I doubt if I got things straight the first time. At six o’clock we were to serve supper trays to the patients; we would eat at seven. Before suppertime, however, we had to look in on the patients and help them wash up or bring them something to drink.
Before I retired for the night, Sister Maria reminded me that we started work at six in t
he morning. Should I happen to oversleep, Lena would wake me—she was already going on her second year at the hospital and knew the routine. When I went to our room, Lena, my rather noisy roommate whom I’d met at the break, was not there yet, so I lay down on my bed and gave my thoughts free rein. My brain was still hyperactive, always caught up in the web of having to scheme, lie, pretend to be someone I was not—just to keep alive. Was my life worth so much trouble? I really did not know the answer.
When Lena came in, her full, round face showed signs of great fatigue. Frowning, she removed her glasses and wiped the perspiration from her forehead, cursing the Germans, the hospital, and her job. She looked at me sharply. “You think maybe I’m cracked? What?” she said gruffly. Without the glasses her eyes squinted even more. “You speak German?”
“Yes,” I answered. Her whole attitude was so strange that, in spite of all my troubles, I felt like laughing—but I bit my lip. As we prepared for bed, she plied me with questions, asking me why I had come, where I had come from, and so forth. When I pulled off my stockings, she screamed when she saw how red my legs were. “Why didn’t you show them your legs?” she shouted. “Maybe those beasts would not have sent you here.”
“But my legs were perfectly normal then,” I said. “They were slender and shapely. They just swelled up on the way from Poland.”
“Don’t tell me such stories,” she insisted. “You must have had such legs all your life!”
I didn’t say another word, but got into bed and pulled the covers over me and tried to sleep. It was a long time before my nerves could relax, and even when I did fall asleep, I had horrible dreams. In the morning, Lena asked more questions. “What happened—what was wrong with you last night?” she said. “I could not sleep all night because of you. You were calling, ‘Mamma, Mamma, Gestapo!’ You were crying. It’s not enough that I must put up with many things during the day, you have to keep me awake during the night as well! I could not shut an eye. You talked in so many languages that I don’t know now where you come from and what tongue you really speak. I’ll go to Sister Superior today and ask her to put you with some other girl. I must have my rest and peace at night. I work in the kitchen and it is hard work.”
So I had another problem! I told Lena that I didn’t usually have nightmares like that; it was because I was so exhausted from the day before. It brought back, subconsciously, the memories of that time when I was hunted on the street—and how my family lamented over me. After all, I was still new here—it would pass. “You say you are an Auslănder yourself,” I tried to plead with her, “so why not have some understanding for me—a foreigner here just like yourself. Why can’t we live in friendship? You yourself said that the Germans hate us, so—if I get assigned to a room with a German girl, you know how hard it will be on me!” I begged her to have patience, and if it should happen again, she should wake me. Somehow I must have reached her compassionate sense, for she promised to give me another chance. She must have seen that I was on the verge of tears and she stopped her tirade.
We began to dress, and she noticed my suitcase. “Is that all you brought with you?” she said. “After a few months you will be going around naked. You will ruin all your clothes here. For this kind of work we should have dresses of iron, not cloth”—and since I looked at her oddly, she thought I did not understand. “Iron!” she repeated, and hit the radiator with her hand. “They won’t give you a thing, though. Only the Germans get clothes.” She was talking so loudly that I began to tremble. Every word pierced my aching head, but I kept silent. I was used now to keeping silent. I was only afraid that someone might hear her ranting.
“It is getting late,” I reminded her, trying to interrupt her stream of words. I had heard enough to know how she hated the Germans from the depths of her being—but I certainly did not want to get into trouble because of her.
A little before six we left our room and walked through the garden and down the steps to the hospital building. On the way I inhaled great draughts of the pure morning air, rejoicing in the beauty of the flowers and sunshine. It was still quiet in the building. I went along the corridor until I reached the kitchen, where I found a sister just going off night duty. In a few minutes the other girls, as well as the sisters, came in. I said “Good morning” to all, but perhaps in a special way to Marie Kraus and Sister Maria.
Sister Maria asked how I had slept, and I said, “Just wonderfully!”
My legs were hurting terribly. I felt as though they did not belong to me, but I tried to believe that this would pass. Again, the girls instructed me on how to arrange the trays for breakfast, and Sister Maria took me by the hand and showed me which rooms were my special care and where I had to clean. She added that if I had any questions I should come to her and she would be happy to explain in detail.
Thus began my first full day of work at the hospital. At seven, after I had cleaned the washrooms and corridor assigned to me, I helped bring basins of water to the patients. Then I had to take their temperatures, help some of them down from bed, change the linens. They were served their breakfast trays meanwhile, and at about eight we—the girls and sisters—went to the dining hall for breakfast.
Again, a prayer. For breakfast we had the usual coffee and bread with jam or preserves. A short prayer, and off to work—cleaning the rooms and wards, cleaning the rest of the corridors. In some of the wards there were only three or four beds, and some semiprivate rooms had two. Private rooms were occupied by very special patients. Then, there was a large nursery for the newborn infants, a large delivery room, and a smaller labor room for the expectant mothers. Since we were in the obstetric department, our patients were women only. As we busied ourselves around their beds, each one tried to ask us questions or to air her complaints. The common gripe seemed to be that their husbands were in the army or with the SS forces or Gestapo in other countries, and could not be with them when their time came—an understandable complaint. Each patient had her own special story to tell, and I listened whenever I could, for I was curious. Here I had the opportunity, in my free moments, to hear from them what they thought of the war. Did they share Hitler’s ideas? Or was what was happening to the Jews entirely his doing? Did the German people consent willingly to his crimes? Naturally, I had to seek their opinions very discreetly and carefully. It took time and a certain degree of cold-bloodedness. In no way did I want to betray my real identity.
There was a practical side to my curiosity. Whatever I could learn in this way might someday be useful, I thought.
The patients in our department were discharged usually at the end of a week, unless there were complications; that was the reason it was called “Wochenstation.” All the patients realized immediately that I was a foreigner, because of my accent. I knew that the Germans were arrogant and looked down upon all foreigners; with their slogan, “Deutschland über alles,” they regarded themselves as a superior race. Consequently, the attitude of most of the patients toward me and the other foreign girls was rather unpleasant. They knew me to be Polish, and they had a grudge against Poland because that country had the effrontery to fight back when invaded by their armies at the beginning of the war.
On the other hand, since the patients needed my help, they had to accept me. After a while, they even began to like me. I tried to speak German brokenly to them, so they would not suspect I knew the language fluently, which might very well have seemed suspicious to them. I told them that I thought I must have some German blood in me, thinking that this would make me appear more acceptable in their eyes. They often nodded, saying that I looked like a German girl, and adding that in a short time I would be speaking German as fluently as they.
It was far from easy to continue this play-acting on my part. I had to watch every word and to keep myself under control at every moment. It wasn’t enough that others watched me constantly—I also had to watch myself! I could not forget, ever, who I was—though I did try to be “Hanka,” and to live and think the way a Polish peasant girl
would. For I knew that my assumed identity would not be just for a day, a week, a month—but it would have to endure until the end of war, at least. It was not easy to survive, but it was my duty.
9
Hanka, the Nurse’s Aide
THE WORK WAS HARD, requiring a great deal of physical strength and energy. I was not used to scrubbing, waxing, and polishing floors until they shone like glass. This had to be done day after day. Then, there was a routine of making up beds and going from room to room to see what the patients needed. Frequently they would throw up when recovering from anesthesia, sometimes into our hands, but we had to perform even the most unpleasant duties without a murmur. From early morning till evening, we lived with one eye on the red light above the door of each ward. If it flashed, we had to quickly see what some patient wanted.
To satisfy the sisters, I worked intensively, applying myself to each task with complete absorption. I knew that Germans were exact and they insisted on cleanliness, especially in a hospital. And so I kept the wards assigned to me spotlessly clean. The sisters were perfectionists. They expected it not only of their workers but also of themselves—giving of themselves conscientiously to every duty and service.
The wards had to be in meticulous order before eleven o’clock in the morning, when the doctor made his rounds of the patients. The doctor in charge of our wing was a gynecologist—tall, stout, deep-voiced, but with a quick smile. When he said “Guten Morgen, Hanka!” the walls seemed to shake with the vibrations of his voice. He was always accompanied by his assistant, a petite blond woman physician who looked like a small poodle trotting at his side—a likeness further intensified by her short, curly hair. When the gynecologist appeared at the end of a corridor, all the sisters stood at attention—or ran to the wards under their care. He would stop to read each patient’s chart, and the sisters would always add something of their latest personal observations.
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