The gynecologist liked to joke with the patients, and he was generally admired and respected. His visits usually lasted until about noon, and right after he left we served lunch to the patients. Our lunch was at one, then we had to wash the patient’s dishes. After that we took turns, both the sisters and the girls, at an hour of relaxation. These free hours we almost invariably spent in our rooms, because there was always something that needed to be washed or mended—some little chore to be done—before we could lie down and take a nap.
Right after the siesta we had to clean the bathroom and empty the bedpans. The worst chore for me was to clean the basins used by the post-surgical patients. The sisters performed this duty without wincing, just as though they were simply washing a dirty dinner plate, but my stomach turned over every time I had to do it. While we were busy at these tasks, visiting hours were open—and after that, we usually had to put the bouquets of flowers left behind in vases and straighten things up in the rooms. At three, we served coffee, bread, and preserves to the patients. Then, again, the cleaning of the corridors, the washing of the bloodstained sheets from the delivery room, and the cleaning of the main ward.
There were births occurring every day. Although almost all German males were in the army, the women went on having children just the same—as though nature could perform miracles of parthenogenesis by special indult in their case! Not a day passed without some new patients being admitted, while others were discharged with their “little bundles from heaven.”
Sister Maria Schumacher admitted the new patients, and she assigned them to a room and a bed. She also discharged them after the confinement, as she was head of this department. Her own office was next to the small kitchen where we prepared the patient’s trays. Sister’s office was a small but tastefully decorated room—with easy chairs, a sofa, a pretty table, curtains, and bookshelves. Sister had her afternoon coffee in this room, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of other sisters in our department.
As the days passed, I got to know my fellow workers better, and I talked with them more freely during work or during our coffee breaks. My liking for Marie Kraus grew, although she made fun of my zeal for work. “Do you expect to get a diploma after you serve your term? Or are you gathering merit for a heavenly reward?” she laughed. “Or are you by any chance a candidate for the religious life?”
I took her teasing with good grace, for I had a lot of sentiment for Marie. I found her very sensible, agreeable, and, above all, good. She reminded me of my sister by her appearance. Could she, I wondered, really know why I had so much ambition and was industrious to the point of folly? No, she did not even suspect my reasons—and though I knew that she had a great deal of compassion for foreigners, I could not reveal my secret to her. To disclose my secret might be my death sentence. I could only tell her that I was grateful that here I had good food, a clean bed, and that the sisters treated me with respect and appreciation because of my punctual and conscientious performance of the duties they assigned to me. Also, perhaps here I might at last find a cure for my painfully swollen legs. This much I could confide in her.
She asked why I did not turn to Sister Maria for advice on healing my legs. Indeed, why not? I decided to do so at the first opportunity. And once, just before I left the hospital building to go to my cottage, I stopped to speak with her about it. Sister suggested that I see a doctor, but I asked if she could help me herself. Sister Maria said that she was glad that I had confidence in her and came to her for advice. “Remember,” she said, “always come to me when you need help. I only wish the other girls were all like you!” She seemed relieved, for she thought that I was going to resign. She had noticed that I was doing my work with difficulty, and now that she knew the reason she appreciated my willingness and effort all the more. I was not lazy, like some others . . .
Sister took me to the bathroom in the maternity ward and gave me some powder to add to the water in which I was to bathe. Then I was to rub a salve into my legs, today and for at least several days to come.
Luxuriating in the bath, I was grateful to Sister Maria and thought of her fondly. She seemed to be older than my mother, but she reminded me of her—the same subtle and delicate features, the evenly white teeth when her lips parted in a warm and friendly smile.
I felt much better after taking daily baths. My legs were not as swollen as before, and they hurt me less. One evening, after taking my bath, I returned to my room and found Marie Kraus there, dressed and ready to go out. Though she was in a hurry, she took a few minutes to tell me how I should work—I shouldn’t take it so seriously, she said. “Du bist doch ein Dumkopf!” she continued, and added, laughing, “Do you want to become a sister? How foolish you are! If you continue to work so hard, they will never let you go. Do you want to be decorated with a medal? Sooner, you will destroy your health. I won’t be here very long. You’ll see, they will throw me out soon! I wish they’d do it now, I can hardly wait. Wake up, Hanka!” Still laughing, she ran down the hall—in a rush to go to the cinema, or maybe just for a walk. Who knows?
I shrugged my shoulders, having heard her out patiently, and slowly sat down on the edge of my bed. Lena was already in her bed, resting. I noticed that she had already straightened out her side of the room; she was very neat and kept her things in meticulous order. I did not have that problem, for I had arrived here almost without any clothing. If I wanted to launder a slip, I had to go without the slip that day—or wait until it dried. I had to sleep in the same slip, because my nightgowns and pajamas were now adorning the figures of the wives of the Ukrainian police who had robbed me of nearly everything I possessed. But all this seemed insignificant to me now as long as I could save my life. Even rags would have been good enough if it meant survival.
My conversations with Lena were usually interesting, and sometimes even pleasant. She had a great deal of worldly knowledge, and she tried to be friendly. Her advice to me was, like Marie Kraus’s, not to remain here longer than necessary. In fact, she urged me to try to leave before I had to register with the local police. She told me, too, quite frankly, that she did not think that she could tolerate very long being wakened from sleep by my screams at night. Again I was having nightmares! That was at the bottom of her wishing me to leave, no doubt—but I could not blame her. I understood that, of course, and handled her as gently as if she were a soft-boiled egg. Lena was of a nervous, quick temperament, and once I realized how sensitive she was, I tried not to antagonize her. It was important for me to appeal to her compassion and pity so that she would not complain to the Sister Superior about me—or to the Herr Inspektor—for I did not want to be transferred to another room, or perhaps let go.
After a few days I was summoned to the Verwaltung, the administrative office. I ran downstairs with a beating heart, in such anxiety that I did not even wait for the elevator. Why were they calling me? What did they want?
When I entered the office, the same sister who had admitted me the first day told me that tomorrow morning I would have to go with Sister Maria to the Gestapo to be registered. There, she said, I would receive a work card and a personal identification card. This news, while not unexpected, stunned me. The system of registering with the police, of course, was practiced all over Europe, and I certainly did not expect them to suspend the rules for me—but the danger lay in the fact that I was not legally there. All that day I worried about it, and at night I could not sleep. I wondered if “they” would recognize me. Wouldn’t the sisters be surprised to find out who I was!
When I looked into the mirror the next morning, I saw the results of a sleepless night—I looked pale and frightened. My eyes betrayed what was going on in my heart. It seemed filled to overflowing with pain. After breakfast, Sister Maria (the “little” Maria who had brought me here from the Arbeitsamt) came over to me and, smiling, asked if I knew that we were going to the Gestapo. “Yes,” I said, “I am ready.”
Together we left the hospital, going down the steps that led through the
flowering garden to the street. I wondered if we would return together—or would she return alone with the news that “Hanka” was a Jewess and had been recognized as such by the police? I could imagine their astonished faces when the sisters and the girls heard that! Now Lena would understand why I screamed and cried at night . . .
Sister Maria noticed my silence as we walked along and she asked how I felt. Were my legs giving me trouble again? I told her that they were much better since I had started taking the baths, as Sister Maria had advised so kindly and helpfully.
The Gestapo was not far from the hospital and our conversation ceased when we stopped in front of a large building. The GESTAPO above the doorway sent a stab of pain through my heart. I begged God to give me strength and courage, and the right answers to all the questions. Entering the building, Sister knocked on a door and a gruff voice called out, “Herein!” She went in first and I followed. In almost a whisper, as though the words did not want to come out of her throat, Sister Maria said, “Heil, Hitler!” It was not the customary salutation of the sisters, but here in a government office she had to say it.
On the wall behind the desk hung a huge picture of Hitler. It was the first thing one noticed on entering. “Heil, Hitler!” came the response, loud, brisk, and energetic, from one of the policemen. The room was very large. Several uniformed policemen sat at various desks; to me they looked like SS men. I could not tell their rank, but Germans in uniform all looked like storm troopers to me—Gestapo men, murderers. Sister Maria gave my name and said that I was a new worker at the hospital. She also mentioned the date I had arrived there and gave them my Arbeitsamt card, issued by the employment bureau. The policeman opened a big book and, muttering to himself, began writing: Hanka Buczek, born in Poland—then the year of my supposed birth. I just nodded my head affirmatively, thinking that this would be all. But now he started the interrogation: “Ihr Vaters und Mutters Namen?” I narrowed my eyes, as though I did not quite understand. The room seemed to move, revolving around me, and I felt my face turning red as a beet—but, I thought wryly, that makes me look more like a peasant girl. Sister Maria tried to explain that I did not understand German well, and she repeated his question for me.
I wanted this to be over quickly, so I replied, “Stefan and Olga,” giving the names of Mr. and Mrs. Krupka. I did not even stop to think of the consequences—and why should I worry about a more remote future, when the next morning was uncertain?
Again, the Gestapo asked my parents’ dates of birth and again Sister Maria repeated his question because I did not answer—while again I felt the blood rush to my face. I had to think quickly and take into consideration Hanka Buczek’s age, as actually she was much older than I. The days and months were perhaps not so important, but I had to make the years fit—and I needed time to collect my senses to calculate my fictitious parents’ birth dates. The Gestapo seemed in a hurry and with an ironical smile he said to Sister, “What? Doesn’t she know her own parents’ dates of birth? She must have understood my question.”
I pretended to ignore this aside, and talking to myself in Polish I tried to jog my memory, as it were. Then I gave my answer to Sister Maria and she, in her gentle voice, repeated it in proper German. While this went on, I saw that the policeman was observing me closely. I did not know whether his suspicions were aroused or whether he was simply looking at me with contempt, thinking perhaps that I came from a people of very low culture, indeed, if I did not know my parents’ birth dates. Then he asked what my father did for a living, and after Sister Maria explained, I replied that he was a village farmer. Then he asked me if I had any other relatives. “I have a sister,” I replied, “who helps on the farm.”
Then he asked if somebody in my family was Jewish—my father, my mother, my grandfather or grandmother—and I answered no. I could not know whether he believed my answers, but if he decided to verify them I knew that I was lost. But this was not yet the end. The policeman picked out a form and started to fill it out, demanding an identification photo of me. Sister Maria forestalled my reply, taking me by the hand and saying, “We’ll be right back. I’ll take her to have a photograph made in the studio next to the station.”
On the way Sister explained to me, as if I didn’t know, that the Kennkarte and the work card must have identification photos, so that in case of loss or theft nobody else could make use of these documents.
After the photograph was supplied, the policeman asked me to sign. I thought, Now Sheva, don’t sign “Sheva Weiler” . . . My hands shook as I wrote “Hanka Buczek,” my adopted name. And still I was not finished! They sent me to another desk to be fingerprinted. I tried to control myself, but my fingers did not obey my will; they shook like aspen leaves. It was a wonder that they could be printed at all, for I could not press down on the paper. Sister Maria looked at me sadly, thinking perhaps that my nervousness was due to excessive shyness. She must have thought, Poor girl! Never saw anything outside her village. All this frightens her.
At last the Arbeitskarte—my work card, on buff paper, with my photograph and fingerprints—was signed and stamped with the swastika and the German eagle! The sister thanked the Gestapo for me, but it was still not finished—yet. The second officer indicated that I must go to still another desk. Here, another Gestapo thrust out his hand for the document and read aloud—“Polen!” He opened his desk drawer. What was he looking for? A revolver to put a bullet through my head? But, to my amazement, he pulled out an alphabet of letters cut from cloth—he picked out some twenty or twenty-five large Ps and said to Sister, “Since she comes from Poland, she must sew one of these on each of her dresses, coats, whatever she has to wear. Just like the girls from Russia wear the letters OST, Polish girls must be marked with a P—without that mark she would have to pay a fine or be punished. As a Polish girl, she has no right to be on the streets after eight in the evening,” he recited the rules by rote, “she has no right to go to the cinema, to a wine hall, to a restaurant or nightclub, or to any public place. If she does, she will be punished.”
Sister Maria listened and nodded her head. I understood everything that he said, of course, but kept silent. From time to time the sister looked at me pityingly because my freedom would be so limited. The Gestapo added, “Because the Poles fought against Germany and resisted our armies, they must submit to the same restrictions as the Russians.”
Little did he, or did Sister for that matter, realize that it meant little to me right now. The letter P was my justification, my right to a safe haven. I took the pieces of cloth and said, “Danke schön.” He shouted, “Heil, Hitler!” until it echoed in the large room and I said it too. But now we knew that the interview was over and we could leave. “Heil, Hitler!” Sister repeated quietly and started toward the door, leading me after her.
In silence we left the building. No doubt Sister was also relieved that the formalities were finished. I had passed one of the most important tests of my young life. The Kennkarte that I held in my hand was my guarantee of life; it was the most valuable thing I could possess in the whole world. For no money could I have legally bought it—not even for millions—as Sheva Weiler, a Jewess. The swastika seal under my identification photo, over my false signature—what a mockery! And yet I was tortured by the thought, Will I, at last, now have complete peace? Or will they perchance write to Rudy, to Poland, and discover that everything I have said is false?
Suddenly breaking her silence, Sister Maria said, “Nastya and Katerina also received such cloth marks, theirs were OST, and they also have to wear them on their clothing. But in the hospital we don’t insist on it. Only when they sometimes go out on Sundays they sew them on—just in case they are controlled by the police.”
I said, “I’ll wear mine, I am a Pole and I don’t see why I should not wear the letter P. I am proud to be a Pole. It is true we fought against the Germans and lost, but we fought!” And a deep sigh escaped me.
In the evening I sewed one of the letters onto my dress. They must hav
e thought at the Gestapo station that I came with a full wardrobe of clothes; they gave me such a supply of Ps. When Lena saw me she laughed. “They could not make me do that even if they stood on their heads,” she said.
The days of seemingly endless work went on. I lived in my little cage, occupied with my own problems, and my thoughts went round and round in my head like a carousel. During my work hours, and after work, everything that I lived through thus far accompanied me constantly like a shadow. I thought about the ghetto, about my family, my escape, about the Krupka family that befriended me, and Lvov—and about the present. If I dared look forward, I thought of what the next moment, hour, or day could bring.
And yet, I was afraid to write to the Krupkas or to the Tarashkewitzes. But I felt that it was my duty to write to Dr. Jagoda and to thank him for the help he had given me, of his own free will, at the risk of his life, during my stay in the camp on Janowska Street. Should I write—should I not? Many days passed before I made up my mind about it: I finally decided that I would write to him.
I asked Sister Maria for some correspondence paper, and one evening, when Lena was out, I sat down to write. Every word brought out tears. I read the letter over several times, trying to determine whether—if anyone at the camp were to find it or open it by mistake—anything in it seemed suspicious. But I think that I composed it well, and I thought that only one who knew my whole story could possibly read into its hidden meaning. And as I read, I wept for a long time, unable to contain my emotion. Then, feeling somewhat relieved I addressed the envelope and sealed it. The following morning I ran out to the mail box on Hohenheimerstrasse and mailed it.
As the days, weeks, months passed I became quite used to my work, even in spite of myself. I liked the sisters and they returned my affection, treating me with respect and kindness. I grew to like my roommate Lena, and Marie Kraus, and whenever the opportunity arose I also enjoyed my chats with Nastya and Katerina. They worked as I did, but in other wards, so we did not meet very frequently. As for the other girls, I kept aloof from them—especially the Germans who were staunch Hitlerites.
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