As for my work, I could claim that it was exceptional—and the sisters acknowledged it. They trusted me. They said openly that I was one of their best workers. Sister Maria, the head of my department, was like a mother to me; she was my mainstay and refuge. She tried to help me whenever she could and to make things easier for me.
And so, the lovely warm days of summer gave way to autumn. The flowers and leaves began to fade, to turn yellow and brown. Each day the sun’s rays were weaker and shorter. But, on the other hand, it was easier to remain inside the hospital, not to long after the beauties of nature outdoors. And yet, the sad days of autumn brought to mind that somewhere, far away, someone was counting on me to help—someone dear was waiting for my return.
Each morning I looked to see whether the mail brought me a reply from Dr. Jagoda—but alas, it never came. I wondered what might have happened to my letter, or to the doctor. I did not know where to turn for advice or help. Sometimes I thought of taking Marie Kraus into my confidence, yet I hesitated to do that. By one inadvertent word I could forfeit my life . . .
Sister Maria was happy that her suggestion for treating the swelling in my legs brought such good results. They were now back to their normal size. She often asked me about my health, and tried to get me to tell her more about myself—where I came from, what my family was like, and so forth. Often she gave me cakes and fruits that were given to her by the patients; she even invited me to have coffee with her in her room. All this, I felt, she did because she wanted to get to know me better, to be able to help me. Perhaps she could read from my face that I was experiencing a deep spiritual torment. Perhaps she wondered why my family never wrote to me, or why I had no contacts with anyone outside the hospital.
Unfortunately, I could not bring myself to tell Sister Maria the truth. Did she guess that my answers were all lies? I had long forgotten what it meant to tell the truth—yes, for almost a year; since I had left the ghetto, since I had become the counterfeit Hanka Buczek, in order to save my life I had had to resort to lies. Yet my conscience worried me that I had to lie to Sister Maria, who was so good. Would she still be good to me, if she knew the truth?
In a sense I was an enigma to everyone, including the sisters. Why didn’t I go anywhere? I realized that I must at last change this situation. Deciding to take the first step, I asked Sister Maria, my superior, if she would send me to the post office to get the mail for the hospital, at least sometimes, or to expedite packages and perform similar errands. I knew that other girls were sent to the post office; why shouldn’t I go occasionally? Sister willingly gave me permission, though she seemed to think that I was too delicate for the job. She said that she thought that I would not like to pull the little delivery wagon through the streets of Stuttgart, but since I had asked for this myself, she would agree gladly.
The following morning Sister Maria told me to go to the Verwaltung office to get the little wagon. I was off to fetch the mail! The wagon was somewhat clumsy to pull, until the sister in the Verwaltung office showed me how. Its wheels bounced with a loud noise off the edges of the stone steps as I turned into Hohenheimerstrasse. It was a cool morning, but pleasant, the air clean and pure. Stuttgart—a beautiful city, almost one huge garden—seemed to be enjoying normal times. One would not guess that a war was going on. The streetcars were running, making stops at regular intervals to let off or take on passengers. As I passed restaurants, I could see people sitting by the little tables, chatting agreeably. They were all dressed quite well.
Indeed, thus far Stuttgart had known no war. The houses stood intact. The German citizens who were serving in the army at the front or in occupied countries had been replaced by hundreds and thousands of foreigners, so that one did not notice a depletion in numbers of population. I had to pull my wagon through the roadway, for fear that on the sidewalk I might run into somebody or get into someone’s way. It was safer all around—for I did not want to be suddenly confronted, eye-to-eye, with a person who could recognize me.
Hohenheimerstrasse descended from the hill where the hospital stood to what the Germans called the Gradaus and then to the Schlossplatz. Here in the large, tree-lined square one could see the real signs of autumn. The entire Schlossplatz seemed covered with a golden pall, and the fallen leaves formed a carpet for the feet of passersby. On the benches where a few straggling rays of sunlight lent some illusion of warmth, some people sat reading newspapers. Perhaps they, too, were looking for the words that would announce the end of the war. Most of them looked like foreigners—their features did not seem Germanic, at least not to me. Beyond the square I had to turn right in the direction of the railway depot to reach the post office. In a nearby kiosk I bought a package of writing paper, and later, in the post office, I purchased some stamps.
I picked up a few packages for the hospital, loaded them onto the wagon, and started on the way back to my “dog house.” The little wagon had a mind of its own and refused to go the way I pulled it, so I tried pushing it ahead of me. Now I had a chance to look around, to get out of my shell. Tonight I would sit down and write a letter to myself. Everyone wondered why I received no mail; I had to put a stop to it. Even if they happened to notice that the letter bore a Stuttgart postal stamp on the envelope, I’d explain that it was sent from Poland to someone I knew here and she forwarded the letter to me as a favor to my family.
When I went down to Hohenheimerstrasse with an empty wagon it had seemed easy, but pulling the loaded wagon after me was quite a task. But I took my time, and after a while I stopped to rest a bit. Passersby looked at me queerly, but I learned later that they liked my wearing the letter P with brave unconcern. I started to pull the wagon again but it would not budge. Bending over, I noticed that a nail was about to fall out of one of the wheels. I started to work on it, but only succeeded in breaking the nail off completely. I removed the wheel and placed it on top of the packages, and somehow managed to pull the wagon as far as the hospital garden. Thank heaven it was not too distant! Fortunately, one of the sisters happened to see my predicament and quickly ran out to help me. Together we got the wagon up the stone stairs and into the building. As soon as we entered the office, I snatched my writing paper and took it up to my room. I did not want anyone to see it.
I could be excused for a few minutes, I knew, to go hide the paper in my room. Then I returned to my station and told Sister Maria about my experience. She was sorry that I had had trouble with the wagon, and on the first time out, but she said not to worry. The repairs would be done quickly. I thanked Sister and resumed my task of cleaning the ward. I could hardly wait for the evening to come so that I could write the letter. But that evening, as if to spite me, Lena stayed in our room and I had to postpone writing until some night when she would go out. Several days went by before Lena at last decided to visit her friends. Dressing for the occasion, she tried again to persuade me to remove the letter P from my clothing and go with her, but I said that I would wait until I received a package of clothes from home.
“Before you receive the package,” she sputtered, “the Germans will have removed the best things from it!”
As soon as she left, I took out the paper. Disguising my handwriting, I began:
“Dear Hania—We thank you for your letter and are glad that you are satisfied with your job and the place where you are staying. We miss you very much. Since you left the house seems very empty. We see you everywhere we turn, but of course you are not here. Write to us oftener . . .” and so on and on. I drenched the letter with my own tears before I put it in the envelope, which I had addressed to myself—but with no return address, only an illegible scrawl on the reverse side. I sealed it and put it aside, intending to mail it the next day. I had written it just as I felt my own mother or family would have written, thinking lovingly of me so far away.
At last a letter came in the mail for me—and no one was wise to the fact that I had written it myself to myself. They did not even notice the Stuttgart postal seal. I made a point, however
, of telling everyone that I had received a letter from home and now I would send them a gift. I inquired where I could buy Christmas tree ornaments—for the Krupkas, for Janko—and the next free afternoon I had I went to buy them. This time I took a streetcar, for I had a little money at my disposal, and went downtown. I found the shop and had a wonderful time picking out all sorts of glistening baubles for Janko. At that moment I really felt like Hanka Buczek, buying presents for her Ukrainian friends! It gave me great satisfaction to take the package to the post office—it was a large package, but light, and did not require much postage. I had not felt so content in a long time! It made me so happy to be able to surprise the Krupkas with a little gift.
Inside the package was a letter that I had prepared the night before. In it I wished the Krupkas Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, of course, adding to that my sincere thanks for all they had done for me. I asked them, if possible, to send me the winter clothing that I had left there, because I received nothing here in the way of clothes, and winter was close at hand. Did they know that I had lost everything in Lvov? I knew that they would understand that I had been robbed, for they knew that I had been arrested by the Ukrainian police. If they could, would they send my neighbors my greetings—to their whole family? I knew they would understand that I meant my own family. When writing the letter, I prayed it would reach them safely—and that I might receive a reply as soon as possible.
When I told the girls at the hospital that I had mailed a package to my family back home, they laughed and Marie Kraus said, “If you were smart, you’d have packed yourself inside that box and gotten out of this work!” We joked about it, good-naturedly, while enjoying our coffee break. I felt so much better now, I could laugh.
The administration of the hospital tried to make things pleasant for the girls. To my great surprise, they remembered my birthday—something, of course, I did not remember. But it was Hanka Buczek’s birthday, October 10, that we celebrated in the dining room when one of the sisters from the Verwaltung announced it. Everyone, including the Herr Inspektor, expressed their good wishes to me, and the Superior handed me a present. Such a surprise, normally, would have been very delightful—but I cannot begin to describe how I felt. The tears welled up from my heart, though no one thought it strange, for they explained my emotion simply as a longing for home, and they wished me that the next year would see me celebrating my birthday with my family again.
My present consisted of a white apron, hand embroidered, and five marks. Also, Sister Maria gave me some handkerchiefs—and Marie Kraus brought various pastries and cookies that she had received from home. All this would have made me very happy, but even my birthday was a lie—it didn’t belong to me, it belonged to the real Hanka. My own birthday would be November 20, that I remembered; I would never forget it, for it was also the day I left home, escaping from the ghetto, the day of parting from my mother and sister, from my loved ones. How could I ever forget?
But time passed, weeks went by and I still waited for a reply from the Krupka family, or from Dr. Jagoda—though as for the latter, I was becoming resigned to the inevitable. My letter had not been returned. Who knows what happened? And yet I waited hopefully.
The days went by slowly in an unending routine of chores that at last I grew accustomed to doing. The only task that I still could not perform without suffering a fit of nausea was washing out with my hands the blood-stained sheets after the deliveries.
Somewhere about this time Marie Kraus was discharged for neglecting her work. I heard that the Arbeitsamt transferred her to a private home. I missed her so much that I almost decided to ask for a transfer, too. Perhaps I should have a talk with Sister Maria, I thought—perhaps I would be happier to work in another department of the hospital? Something new; a lighter kind of work? I knew that occasionally the girls were changed to other tasks, usually after spending several months in a particular assignment, so why shouldn’t I try? It was getting close to Christmas, however, and Sister Maria was very busy, but she promised to give my request her consideration after the holidays. She could not conceal her astonishment that I wanted to ask for a transfer. Why? I did not want to admit that it was because of Marie Kraus.
After the Christmas and New Year holidays, the winter made us feel its harshness—cold, icy winds, snow. More work, more dirt brought into the hospital on snow boots, mostly in the lower halls nearest the entrances. Sometimes we had to shovel the snow from the stone steps—and we did this without warm clothing or gloves. In place of gloves that I did not have I pulled some old black stockings, discharged by one of the sisters, over my hands. It was not cold inside the hospital, but the winter gloom prevailed everywhere. Everyone was nervous and irritable. Now I felt all the more that I must change my employment. When Marie Kraus left, I lost interest in the department where we had formerly worked together. True, I was attached to Sister Maria, but I had nothing in common with the other girls. Marie Kraus had given me her new address before she left and had asked me to keep in touch. I had promised that I would visit her at the first opportunity, for I wanted to remain her friend.
Sister Maria at last arranged for Sister Superior to have me changed to the Neustube, the sewing room where the sisters’ habits, aprons, and the hospital sheets were sewn or repaired. She thought that there I would be able to rest a while and revive from an illness I had after the holidays in different surroundings. The sewing room was located also on the third floor. Sister Maria’s own sister, not a deaconess, but an older, unmarried woman—was in charge. I had seen her on previous occasions, and perhaps that was why Sister Maria had me transferred there temporarily. There were several machines in the room and a large cutting table. None of the girls worked there, only sisters well on in years.
After two weeks I was told to report to the second floor, where Sister Marta was in charge. This was a smaller ward, on the same floor as the dining room and kitchens. The main kitchen occupied a large corner room; it was considerably larger than the kitchen next to the Wochenstation, because here the dishes from the dining room were washed as well as the patients’ dishes. To the left of the dining room was a six-bed ward with a large balcony, and beyond that, two smaller rooms. Two girls worked in this department: one tall, thin German girl named Mary, and another Mary who sat opposite me at meals in the dining room. I was assigned to this group. Here the work entailed the usual cleaning chores, and with the thin Mary I also had to wash the dishes when they returned from the dining room. And then there were also the patients’ dishes to wash. Though Sister Marta helped us as well as she could, there was more than enough to do.
I had been working here already for more than six months, and I knew practically everyone in the hospital. I had acquired a fluent command of German—to those who did not know my past, it seemed almost miraculous. I was considered one of the best workers, and now I knew that they needed me more than I needed them. I could find other work in Stuttgart if I wanted to, and that gave me added confidence.
With the passing days, however, I felt that I had accomplished little, except for my work. My conscience troubled me, though I was beginning to think that the end of the war was no closer now than before I had arrived at the hospital. As for my lot, I was quite resigned to it. I tried not to think that I might still be in some danger of being discovered as a Jewess.
Lena went out more frequently now, leaving me to spend the long, lonely evenings in our room. This hopeless waiting dragged on. My shoes were worn thin: when I went outside to clear the snow from the walks, my feet became soaked and chilled to the marrow. My two dresses were already beyond repair. I had no stockings or underwear, and as an Ausländer I was given nothing. I hoped that I would hear from the Krupka family and perhaps I hoped so fervently that my thoughts drew a response from them, for one morning I was summoned to the Verwaltung office and was told that there was a package at the post office for me, weighing approximately ten kilograms. I took the delivery wagon and hastened to fetch it—I threw my sport coat over
my ragged dress, pulled the collar up high, and ran on joyful wings! The postal notice indicated that the package was sent by the Krupkas. I told the sisters that it was from my family back home; no one asked me further questions.
I dashed down to the post office and back with the little wagon, and burst up the stairs to the first floor. When I saw Sister Maria I gave a little shout, and she told me to open the package right away—she wanted to see, too! She clapped her hands excitedly while I undid the wrappings—just one more string and the box was open!
There was something black on top. I started pulling out the contents, one by one. First, a black skirt, and then a black jacket that completed the suit. Sister watched curiously, but then, remembering that she was sterilizing some instrument on the stove, turned away. Now I pulled out a pair of black shoes, black stockings, a belt . . . Sister Maria threw a question over her shoulder, but I did not reply. I picked up the jacket again and almost instinctively put my hand into a pocket, pulling out a small sheet of note paper. It was a letter, written in Ukrainian. Unfolding it, I read:
“Dear Hania,
We received your package. Thank you. Almost all the Christmas ornaments were broken. We are sending your things and I added some of my own. You will find use for them, and also a white armband. Don’t write anymore, it is very dangerous. There was a big fire at the neighbors’ and everything was destroyed. We are very sorry. Take care of yourself . . . Oh, yes, our little dog Zeze was killed by a car.
Many kisses,
Mrs. Krupka
I understood that my family had been burned alive. The words blurred before my eyes. I could hardly see—and then everything went black. I began to scream and wail. No, no!
Sheva's Promise Page 24