It was not very long before Herr Inspektor returned. His face reflected such astonishment that we could not tell what news he brought. “God be thanked,” were his first words. We sighed with relief. Then he went on, “The hospital is intact, but . . .” Tears came to his eyes.
It turned out that the residential villa, the cottage where the sisters and we lived, was completely gone. One could not even see where it had once stood; only earth and sky remained. A disbelieving murmur went around from all of those gathered in the shelter.
I started as though suddenly wakened from a nightmare. “Lena, Lena!” I cried. “Our cottage, our home is gone!”
Lena, who was usually indifferent and unemotional, put her arms around me, weeping, “Oh, Hanka, if it had not been for you, I would not be alive now. You dragged me out of bed and saved my life!” Then, her old brusqueness returning, she whispered close to my ear, “The devil take the cottage. But—my things, my fur coats!” And again she burst into loud lamenting. I tried to quiet her.
Slowly we began to emerge from the shelter. Hours of hard work awaited us. It was now about four in the morning and dreadfully cold. As we came up to the surface, everyone gasped. We looked towards the right, where the residence for sisters and girls had stood. There was not a trace of the villa. The awful realization of its destruction sent chills down our spines that were worse than the cold and wind.
We had no electricity in the hospital. The windows, despite protective taping, were shattered. The window sills and floors were covered thickly with snow and broken glass. The elevator was not running. And we, as well as our patients, were scantily dressed, clad only in what we hastily had thrown on when the alarm sounded. We could not let the patients return to their rooms—many beds were covered with broken glass—so they were told to stay in the shelter. Then we began the seemingly endless task of cleaning and reconstructing.
Temporarily, we were to share quarters with those who lived in the other villa, which fortunately had survived the bombing. After a few days they hoped to find permanent quarters for us. Lena, hearing of this, wanted to take the opportunity of asking to be sent home to Holland. She had lost everything—she did not want to lose her life, too. But her efforts were in vain; this was no time to listen to individual problems.
The next few days were quiet, giving us a chance to bring some order back to the hospital and resume our normal routine. Meanwhile, rooms were eventually found for us on a more permanent basis in a four-story house on Hohenheimerstrasse, near the hospital. Here, in this rented space, I was given a front room on the fourth floor, which I was to share with Nastya. I was even pleased with the change; Nastya was a quiet girl who seemed to be quite congenial. She seldom went out. I could talk to her in Ukrainian. She was rather simple, but of a sincere and outgoing nature.
Before we knew it, December had come, and with it the deep snows and frosty days. The Germans were suffering great losses on all fronts. We were accustomed now to the air raid sirens as though it were our daily bread. It was arranged that the sisters and girls would alternate night duty at the hospital so that, in case of a raid, there would always be some on hand to help transport the patients and babies to the shelter.
And so it happened that one night—shortly after New Year’s, 1945—when Nastya was on duty at the hospital, I was alone in our room, sleeping so soundly after an exceptionally hard day that I did not hear the sirens. Suddenly, everything in the room shook. I was thrown from the bed and was jolted awake when I hit the floor. I cried aloud, for I saw a huge fire burning directly across the street. Its flames illuminated the whole room with a crimson glare. I thought that the very bricks and stones were burning. I began to shriek hysterically and run around the room. When I opened my door I saw flames lighting up the stairs, but when I ran down below to the street it was dark. The bombs exploded constantly. I saw that I could not run through the street to the hospital shelter, so I found the entrance to the cellar of the apartment building and went inside. There it was dark and icy cold. The cellar was filled with water because the pipes had burst. The water was rising higher and higher—and here I was, all alone in the entire building, shivering in my slip. I was in mortal fear. Oh, God, was this the end? I folded my hands in prayer and begged God, begged my mother—“Help, save me!”
The rushing sound of the water made me realize that if I stayed in the cellar I would drown. A few times I tried to clamber out, but each time I was thrown back by the explosions. If I perished here, no one would even know what had happened to me! At that moment I resolved that, if I survived, I must confide in someone as to who I really was. At least, let someone know what Sheva Weiler had suffered while pretending to be Hanka Buczek, as a means of self-preservation. I could hear the crackling of flames above, and through the small windows I could see flames cross the street. I heard the walls collapsing. Oh, God—don’t let me be buried alive. Don’t let this building collapse about my watery grave! I recalled the scenes of the burning ghetto.
When at last the “all clear” sounded, I could hardly believe my ears. The wait had seemed interminable. I was completely wet, frozen, and near exhaustion. Like a mouse leaving its hole, I crawled out of the cellar and groped my way to the front door. On the other side of the street the fire was raging out of control; several buildings were in ruins. I ran through the frozen garden to the hospital shelter. I could not see where I was going, moving only by instinct. I must have been almost at the entrance to the bunker when I heard a voice, like in a dream, calling out, “Hanka, wo warst du?” It sounded like the gynecologist’s voice. The next moment I lapsed into unconsciousness.
When I came to and opened my eyes, I found myself on a cot surrounded by Lena, Nastya, several sisters, and the gynecologist. I was wrapped in a heavy blanket, and Sister Marta held her hand on my forehead. I remembered nothing of what had happened before. My first words were, “Where am I? What happened to me?”
“Hanka, Hanka,” Sister Marta said, “you were lucky that you fell unconscious at the entrance to the shelter. Otherwise, who knows whether you would have lived through it, for at that moment the gynecologist found you.”
I remembered nothing, absolutely nothing.
Sister Marta continued, “We had to give you an injection. He did everything he could to revive you.”
The gynecologist interrupted her to ask, “Hanka, how do you feel?” Then he turned to the sisters and said, “I thought she would never regain consciousness! But now I’m sure she will be all right.”
The others were coming out of the shelter, but I could not be moved. I was shaking all over; I don’t know whether from cold or because of nervous shock. My forehead felt like a piece of marble and my body could not thaw out after that icy bath in the cellar. In normal times, I’m sure I would have died of it—spending a night almost naked in a cold, flooded cellar.
But these were not normal times, and it was not long before I was fully recovered. One evening I had a surprise visit from my Czech friend Josef. He knew that Hohenheimerstrasse had been bombed, and because he could not reach me by telephone he came personally to see if I was all right. He told me that now it was just a matter of weeks and days before Germany would be destroyed completely. It was dangerous to stay in Stuttgart. He asked why I did not try to leave. But how could I tell him that I would be running a greater risk if I tried to leave Germany now rather than remain in it? He did not know my true identity. Oh, how I was tempted to tell him—but I did not think that this was the time or the place. He promised to come the next Sunday, and we agreed to meet in the afternoon at the usual place. I was determined to tell him then—if only we both managed to stay alive!
To my disappointment, when I came downstairs that next Sunday, Josef was not alone—his friend was with him, in the company of a Czech girl whom I had once met before. We went for coffee to the corner restaurant, and then went out for a walk. We walked in twos and talked about a lot of things, until I managed to bring the conversation around to the subject of for
ged papers. Again Josef underscored the probability that Stuttgart would be severely bombed and that I should try to leave.
During our talk the other couple walked ahead a little distance, and I drew a deep breath of the fresh, wintry air. At last I said that my departure could also place me in danger of death, a death that would be worse than being killed by a bomb. We stopped still for a moment, while I told him, with a great effort at controlling my emotions, that I was a Jewess living in Germany under falsified documents. My name, date of birth, place of birth—all were untrue. He heard me out in silence, not saying a word, but I could read in his face a great astonishment—and admiration.
“You were wise in trying to save yourself,” he said when I had finished. “So now you ought to keep on trying to survive.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But I cannot risk being questioned about my papers. That explains why I was so worried when you mentioned leaving.”
“But you took a great risk when you helped us in our work and acted as intermediary for those packages.”
“Yes. I did that, however, because it gave me enormous satisfaction to be able to do something against the Germans.”
Whenever we saw the other couple drawing near, we changed the subject or remained silent. Only when we moved on further away from them did I add that I had lost my entire family and now had only relatives in Palestine. I said that my mother’s wish before I left the ghetto was that if I managed to survive the war, I should join my cousins and family in Palestine. “My cousin’s name,” I told Josef, “is Fishel Weiler—we both have the same family name. His father is my father’s brother. I don’t remember him too well. But I want you to know that, should I be killed in a bombing or by the Nazis, my earnest wish is for you to write him after the war, and let him know what happened to me.”
“I will remember,” he assured me. He did not make further comment. On my part, I felt a great relief to have someone I could trust. Tears brimmed in my eyes and I wiped them away quickly so that the other couple would not notice. Now Josef understood why I could not be induced to leave Stuttgart. His friends were tired of walking and it was getting late, so we turned back in the direction of the hospital. We did not say much after that. I was conscious of immense peace, as though I had thrown off a heavy stone from my shoulders. Josef, I suppose, was thinking of what I had told him.
I took leave of my Czech friends at the hospital gate, and went inside with a light and confident step. Now I had the feeling that there was someone helping me to carry my burden. And even if I should perish, my memory would not be lost forever. I felt sure that he would make every effort to trace my cousin in Palestine and give him a message. It was a good thing that I had this friend I could trust.
Despite all the work I had to do under pressure that cold January, I did not forget that I had not heard from Marie Kraus for a long time. Her silence was disquieting. One Sunday early in February when I had a free afternoon, I decided to go and see whether Marie’s house still stood and whether her name was on the door. I took a streetcar to the Schlossplatz and from there walked the rest of the way.
Alas, when I arrived I found to my astonishment that she no longer lived at her apartment. But I was a firm believer in fate, and often felt that some special destiny was guiding my steps. On my way back from Marie’s house I ran into one of those inexplicable happenings. There was a restaurant I had to pass on the way back. It was a large restaurant with a plate-glass window that filled one whole wall in the front. I knew the place well, for I also had to pass it whenever I went to the post office for mail. I paused for a moment and glanced at the people obviously enjoying themselves. I stood—and could not take a step further. At one table there were two girls—one fair-haired, the other dark. The blonde had long hair and, even while seated, looked tall; the brunette seemed tiny next to her companion. As they talked, they leaned close to one another and seemed oblivious to their surroundings. At first glance the blonde reminded me of someone, but I could not remember just who it was. She looked exactly like a Jewish girl I had known in Rohatyn—a girl who, as rumor had it, had also escaped from the ghetto several weeks before my departure. People said that two girls had escaped: Bluma Wildman and Pepa Kleinwaks—someone had helped them get to Vienna. But the dark-haired girl was certainly not Pepa; she was a complete stranger to me. And how would Bluma Wildman have gotten to Stuttgart? Maybe the girl I saw here was a German that just happened to resemble Bluma?
In the distance I saw my streetcar approaching the stop. I should run to catch it, but some instinct told me to stay here. Why shouldn’t I enter the restaurant and convince myself—the girl really was the image of Bluma. I should have a closer look at her. Perhaps she would recognize me? It would not seem strange for me to enter the restaurant; I could be looking for someone, meeting a friend there. I could even sit down at the next table and order coffee. I had enough money for that. And I was no longer wearing the telltale badge with the letter P . . . no one would stop me from entering. I directed my steps towards the small table where they sat. They were so busy talking that they did not even notice me come in. The closer I came, the more certain I became that it was really Bluma. But who was the other one? Though she was dark, she did not have to be Jewish—and I resolved to be very careful so as not to betray Bluma. When I reached their table I spoke to Bluma in Polish. “I think I know you. Do you recognize me?”
Bluma reddened and her first reaction was that of fright. The other girl was even more panic-stricken. They pushed their chairs away from the table and started to walk towards the door. Bluma said, “I never saw you before in my life. I don’t know you.”
I followed them and caught up with them at the door. At that moment the other girl ran away and disappeared in the crowds on the street. But I stopped Bluma, and carefully avoiding mention of her name or mine because I did not know who might overhear, I said, “We don’t know each other very well, but we come from the same town.”
Then Bluma took a close look at me and I thought for a moment that she would faint. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “you are Sheva Weiler!”
“Yes. I am called Hanka now. Hanka Buczek. What is your name here?”
“Marysia. The other girl is also one of us,” she replied. We went out into the street and walked quite a distance before Bluma started calling, “Zosia, Zosia!” She was thrilled by our meeting.
Zosia was standing on the corner, pale and frightened. She must have thought that someone had come to denounce her friend to the Nazis. Now she came closer, her eyes questioning.
“Zosia,” Bluma assured her, “this is one of us, from Rohatyn.”
Now I could observe the girl at closer range. She was delicate, short and frail of build, and young—about the same age as Bluma and I. She asked nervously who I was. She was dreadfully upset by this meeting, and all the more so because the streets were full of passersby. We turned into a side street that was not as crowded. Bluma Wildman wanted to know what happened to her family, her parents—but all I could tell her was that I had left in November 1942 and later heard that our ghetto had been liquidated in June 1943. I also mentioned that I had had a letter from the Krupka family from which I learned that my mother and sister no longer existed.
“And what about my folks?” she asked nervously.
“Who knows?” I replied. I called her attention to my black suit—Mrs. Krupka had sent it to me as a sign of mourning.
“Do you know who else is here?” Bluma asked, and without waiting added, “Pepa Kleinwaks.”
“I knew that you two left Rohatyn together,” I said. Bluma expressed amazement that their departure was known to the rest of us in Rohatyn. It was supposed to have been a deep secret! But she should have known that in the ghetto there were no secrets.
As we stood on the street corner, we talked about our experiences and agreed that we would not really be safe until the war was over, until the day of our liberation. Bluma told me that she was working in Möhringen
in a bakery; Pepa Kleinwaks—who went under the name of Steffy—worked in a bakery beyond Stuttgart. Zosia, her friend, was working in a private home at Vaingen near Stuttgart. Before we parted, we exchanged addresses.
This meeting was unbelievably strange. We promised to see each other again and to remain in touch. I also gave them my telephone number at the hospital. As I left, I kept turning back and waving to them again and again. As soon as I returned to the hospital and entered the ward Sister Marta knew from my expression that something extraordinary had happened. I told her that on the way back from Marie’s house, after not having found her there, I had run into a girl from my home village.
“You see,” Sister said, “and you thought you were the only one who was caught! There were others that were enrolled for work here.”
I waited eagerly for the day when “Marysia” (Bluma) would come to visit me. I was also anxious to get in touch with Steffy (Pepa Kleinwaks), and I decided to call on Pepa myself. On the first afternoon I was free, although I was exhausted after the almost daily and nightly alarms, I asked Sister for permission to go to see Steffy. Sister explained which streetcar I should take and said that it would take me about an hour to reach that suburb; she also advised me not to take chances, because one never knew when a bombing raid might take place.
It was a lovely afternoon. The sun’s rays had cleared the streets of snow. I felt like a bird loosed from a cage. It seemed such a wonderful thing to be able to go out, breathe in the fresh air, obtain some new experiences. And what could give me a greater thrill than to meet another Jewish girl from Rohatyn! I imagined how happy Pepa would be to see me. What a surprise meeting!
Eventually, after changing streetcars and enduring an air raid warning, I arrived at the street where Pepa worked and lived. Altogether I was nearly one-and-a-half hours on the way by trolley, and I still had to walk some distance.
Sheva's Promise Page 26