In this area one could see the awful effects of bombardment. The entire street was filled with rubble, brick, and stones, and there were some laborers working on clearing the road. There was not a single house that had not been damaged more or less seriously. From stone to stone and from brick to brick I hopped. At last I saw a lone house that had not been bombed. There was a sign—BAKERY; I knew that I had found my goal.
A tiny bell tinkled as I opened the door. It was a small bakery store; a few customers were at the counter making their purchases. I looked around and saw Pepa Kleinwaks at the cash register—the same Pepa I had known back home. As she finished counting out the change for the customer, I heard her familiar, pleasant voice saying, “Danke schön!” When she raised her eyes she saw me immediately.
She merely waved to me, however, and motioned for me to sit down and wait. She went on serving the customers as though nothing had happened. Finally she came over and sat down next to me. She looked well but seemed terribly nervous and frightened. She asked how I had arrived, and I told her by streetcar.
“No,” she said, speaking to me in German, “I meant how did you get to Stuttgart?” It seemed to me that Pepa did not want the German women to know that we knew each other well.
I answered her also in German, in a low voice. “I got here the same as you did, Steffy. They caught me, as they caught you and all the rest.” I realized that we had to be careful because Steffy’s boss stood within hearing distance.
“Steffy” was amazed that I had run into Bluma Wildman—“Marysia.” Now we started talking in Polish. She told me in a whisper that she seldom saw Bluma, because she feared that if one of them were caught it might also incriminate the other. It was safer not to meet—even in a group it was possible to draw attention to oneself.
Where we were talking, several customers entered. Steffy had to help out behind the counter, and soon it became no longer prudent to continue our conversation. I said goodbye to Pepa and told her that if she ever wanted to get in touch with me, she had my address in the letter I had sent her. With that I went away.
I was still in a state of shock. I could not believe that our meeting had actually taken place. Now I had the long trip back ahead of me; I prayed to God to let me return safely to the hospital, without air raid alarms or bombardment.
It was dark already when I returned to my ward. As soon as Sister Marta saw me, she exclaimed, “Hanka, du hast Besuch gehabt!” Someone, it seems, had been to see me while I had been gone. Expressing surprise, I asked who it was.
“Oh, some tall blonde who called herself Marysia. I told her that you went to see a friend from your village, and she seemed to know who that was. She waited for a while, but went away. She said she came especially to see you.”
Well, that was hard luck! Here Bluma Wildman came especially to see me—all the way from Möhringen—and did not find me in! I recalled that I had mentioned to her that my Wednesday afternoons were free . . .
That night I could not sleep. I kept thinking about the incident—it was almost unbelievable. Three Jewish girls from the same city, so close together here—it could certainly arouse grave suspicions.
Two days later, I received a postcard from Pepa, asking me to wait for her Sunday. She wrote that she would come to the hospital. That Sunday when I came out of my ward before dinner, carrying a tray in my hands, I noticed a familiar figure going up the stairs. Sure enough, it was Pepa. I asked her to come into the kitchen attached to the ward and told her to take off her coat and sit down.
We had a very pleasant talk, remembering old times in Rohatyn and describing to each other our experiences after leaving Poland. I told her about my Czech friends, and how they were opposed to Hitler. Pepa asked me if they would take the names of her uncles and aunts in America in case anything happened to her.
It was a great comfort to know that there were three of us from Rohatyn here, close to each other. Now with the coming of spring the air seemed fragrant not only with the early scent of awakening life but also with the scent of war’s swift end. Even though the news from the front was censored and consisted mainly of lies, we knew that things were going very badly for the Germans. And if the Germans were no longer talking of victory, we knew that defeat was certain. My unexpected contact with these girls from Rohatyn was like a balm for my wounds—like the best medicine for a sick soul.
The days rushed by and I had hardly a moment for myself, but whatever free time I had I spent with my Czech friends at the restaurant rendezvous or with Steffy or Marysia. My antagonism toward Hitler increased even more; once, in chapel, when Sister Superior prayed for his victory and long life, I walked out, almost getting myself into quite a bit of trouble. One Sunday when Marysia came by, we went together to the restaurant and I introduced her to the Czech group. We thought that we could almost smell the end of the war in the spring air.
In April 1945, the radio brought us news that stunned me. I was standing in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I overheard one of the sisters tell another that President Roosevelt had died. The name of Roosevelt echoed in every corner. I knew he was the president of the United States but did not know much else about him—yet the news of his death shocked me deeply. Tears started to course down my cheeks and I was shaking. When my free hour came, I ran out to the nearest newsstand and bought a paper—a German paper, of course. The street was swarming with people. A boy stood on the corner, selling papers and shouting, “Extra! The American president is dead!” The Germans snatched at the papers with gleeful smiles, as though this news gave them a ray of hope. I could see it in their faces as I returned to the hospital: They seemed certain that with the death of President Roosevelt the United States had lost the war.
When I came into my room, I threw myself on the bed and cried. I did not care if the others whose rooms were on that floor heard me. I sobbed loudly, for I too feared that all was lost. The front page of the paper, in giving the news of Roosevelt’s death, made it look like a victory for Hitler.
One night the sirens called us to the bunker. This time the bombardment seemed to last longer than ever. We huddled there in fear and waited, some talking in whispers, some praying, but in general a tense quiet reigned underground. I found myself near Lena, and in the dim light we exchanged questioning glances. We heard not only bombs but also what sounded like house-to-house shooting. With the echo of each shot people looked at each other, puzzled and afraid.
That was a very long night—it began early, and seemed to have more hours in it than any other night we knew. This waiting set our nerves on edge. From time to time someone would unpack a bag of provisions and pass around some biscuits or candy. Most of the patients, as well as the sisters, usually had with them something to eat in the air raid shelter—just in case. And we always kept containers of water handy. Thank God, until now these bags and fire pails had stood unused and unnecessary. This time the food supplies were distributed freely, as if we sensed that there would be no further need to come down to this shelter again. After midnight we all tried to catch some sleep, but new salvos of fire and new explosions of heavy bombs gave us no rest.
Oh, God, I thought, if this is really the end, let us stay alive. Don’t let us be killed right before the end!
10
At Last—The Liberation!
NOW IT WAS ONLY A MATTER OF HOURS, not days. It must have been near dawn, but it was always dark in our bunker. The entrance door was closed and no one had the courage to look out. Suddenly, we heard a knocking on the door of our shelter and the sound of heavy steps—military steps. Such a sound had often brought fear to my heart. The door flew open and we saw the figures of four soldiers in French helmets and uniforms, armed with guns.
“Where is the doctor?” one asked in halting German. “We have wounded who need care.”
I could hardly believe it! These were not Gestapo whom I hated and dreaded. These were my liberators. We had been expecting them for a long time, I and many others like me, waiting for them to d
eliver us from bondage. But I could not believe my own eyes, could not move from my spot.
Lena called out, “Hanka!” but could say no more. And the quiet Nastya took hold of my hands and suddenly burst out sobbing like a child.
The sisters started to leave the shelter, to go to tend the wounded. I felt I would have liked to run to these soldiers and kiss them, to thank them for this surprise, but I felt unable to move. We heard the French soldiers giving some orders, and a sister who understood French repeated that we were to move out of the bunker; that all was quiet; Stuttgart was in their hands. That day was April 30, 1945—the day of my liberation, a day I shall never forget. It seemed that all the anguish I had lived through, all the accumulated suffering, descended upon me and weighed me down. I must have been dazed and in shock. I realized that I was free, that the dream I had lived for all those years had come true, but I also realized that I no longer had a home to return to, no one was waiting for me . . . After a while I got up and started walking in silence.
The Herr Inspektor stood by the exit and told everyone to take care in getting out of the shelter. When I passed him, he said, “Guten Morgen, Frăulein Hanka.”
“Good morning, Herr Inspektor,” I replied. And now tears started running down my face as I took my first steps in freedom.
It was already daylight. We could smell smoke everywhere, and we could see fires in the distance. We all quickly went to our stations. In the operating room several wounded soldiers were already waiting. Not much was said by anyone.
There was little talk at our meals, but I could read the pain in people’s faces at the loss of the war. One could easily tell the Germans from the others now, simply by looking at them—the foreigners were smiling. Nastya and Katya were already planning to leave as soon as it was possible. I also said something about leaving, but I did not as yet disclose my identity—and the fact that I had no home left. Experienced as I was in dealing with treachery and deceit, it seemed to me wiser to wait a little longer. Things might change at the front—one could never be too sure.
The following morning, when I reported at my station, the picture of Hitler was gone from the wall, and only a square of lighter paint and a nail indicated the spot where it had hung. I wondered how Pepa and Bluma had reacted to the occupation of Stuttgart by the French. I wanted very much to see them and to share my joy with them, but for the time being there was no communication and I had to wait. In the hospital things were restored as quickly as possible to a normal routine.
After several days, “Marysia” came to see me. I greeted her very warmly, and simultaneously we said—as though the thought were uppermost in our minds—“What are we going to do now?”
Marysia told me that she had already seen her friend Zosia and that they were only waiting for me to decide where to go. She also said that she had as yet not disclosed her identity; I remarked that it was wise to wait. Bluma went on to tell me that the people she was staying with still talked as if the ultimate victory would be Germany’s, that things would not remain as they were now.
“It is no longer important what the Germans believe,” I replied, “but it is better for us to be careful. My mother said that in a war, the front can change.”
“Have you heard from Steffy?” she asked.
“Not a word. Who knows what might have happened to her?” We decided to go together to visit her if she did not get in touch with either of us by the following Sunday. (We learned later that she had vanished, found a cousin in the French army, and left Stuttgart with him.)
A couple of weeks had gone by since the end of the war on May 12, 1945. The Germans had to get used to one fact: that they had lost, completely and irrevocably. I felt that now I must disclose my true identity. But where, and with whom should I begin? The moment of the great revelation, the one moment I had dreamed about always, came rather suddenly, and because of a very trivial incident. It happened that one morning Sister Marta joked with me, saying her usual, “Hanka Buczek, putz weg gibt’s Dreck”—when something within me revolted. I felt that I could not go on like this anymore, that it was time that they knew who I was. I said aloud, with tears in my eyes, “Sister Marta, I am not Hanka Buczek—my name, my real name, is Sheva Weiler and I am Jewish. My time for hiding is over and I don’t have to go on acting a lie any longer.”
Sister Marta’s face reddened with embarrassment, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She exclaimed fervently, “Du mein lieber Gott, Hanka!” She took my hands in hers, laughing and crying, and made me sit beside her. She said, “I always said that you were a very intelligent girl, but now I must admit that you were smarter than I thought.” After a moment she continued, “But how could you have lived like this? I would have died of fright.” She shook her head in wonder.
“The fight for survival is stronger than any fear,” I replied.
Now I resolved to go directly to the Verwaltung and tell the Sister Superior and the Herr Inspektor. Sister Superior’s reaction was as though what I was revealing to her was perfectly normal; the Inspektor was stunned, and could hardly believe what he heard. “Unmöglich, unmöglich,” he said. “Can it be possible? I can now imagine, Frăulein Hanka, what you must have gone through!” He had tears in his eyes and was visibly moved. Oddly enough, I remained calm. Only then the Herr Inspektor said, “But thank God you have somehow managed to survive and you were fortunate enough to come here. You will admit, I think, you were not treated too badly at the hospital? And if you have no other place to go, no home to return to, this hospital can still be your home for the future.” When he repeated, almost wistfully, “You had a good home with us, and good care,” then I said—truly—that I had been treated on par with the German workers and that they had not made me feel that I was a foreigner. He added, “You were a good worker and the sisters were very pleased with you and love you.”
“Thank you, Herr Inspektor,” I said, “but at the first opportunity, when I can find a place to go, I would like to say farewell to my pail, mop, and broom.”
A faint smile crossed his lips, and he said, “They helped save your life. Don’t hate these humble tools on that account. We would be happy to have you stay at the hospital and I say this on behalf of the entire staff.”
“No, thank you. I would like to leave here as soon as I can and go to Palestine, where I have some cousins. All my family at home has been killed.”
“Well, wherever you decide to settle,” he said, “may God bless and help you. However, do us a favor and stay here until we find someone to take your place. Everybody is leaving, and it is so difficult to find replacements.”
I agreed to that and went back to my work station. I felt a great relief, having thrown off this heavy stone that had weighed upon me for nearly two years at the hospital.
One day, Marysia told me that her friend Zosia had heard of a committee, organized by an American Army captain of Jewish background, named the Eskin Committee. All of us who had lived through the war were supposed to report to this committee. There we would receive food packages and clothing and we would be helped to get in touch with our relatives. If we had any family abroad, the committee would give our names to the newspapers in the United States, or South America, Canada, Palestine, France, and so on. Could we have asked for more?
At last the day came when I met Marysia and Zosia at Schlossplatz and took a streetcar to Eskin House. We reached the building where the committee was located and went up a short flight of stairs.
When we knocked on their door, someone called out in English, “Come in!”
Entering, we saw a GI sitting behind a desk. The soldier took our names and asked if we had any relatives abroad with whom we would like to communicate. The committee would help us locate them. He also registered us for rations of food and clothing. He said that as soon as more of us would apply, they planned to open a camp for survivors.
Marysia gave the name of her sister, who was in Buenos Aires; Zosia gave the address of her uncle in the United States, as well
as someone in Palestine. I mentioned my cousin Fishel Weiler in Palestine, and when the soldier asked if I had someone in America, I said no. I recalled that two of my friends from Rohatyn had emigrated with their parents before the war, but no relatives of mine lived in the United States.
“But if you have friends, they might want to get in touch with you, or learn from you news of what happened in your town,” he said, and he took my name to report to the newspapers in America. Before we left, he told us that on Saturday we would gather for prayers. If we knew of more people like ourselves who had survived, he added, we should tell them to come and register with the committee.
We turned to go home, feeling ecstatically happy. At last there was someone who cared about us. Now we were able to meet with our own people. It was a day of hope, of joy!
The early summer days passed slowly. Eskin House became a place we often visited, for prayer meetings and in the vain hope that mail might arrive for us. When Josef left for Czechoslovakia, Marysia and I took his room in Vaingen—and I said my final (rather sad) goodbyes to the hospital. We continued to go to Eskin House; one day, beyond our wildest hopes, Marysia received a letter from her sister in Argentina!
In our daily trips there, we began to see people who had been released from the concentration camps. Several young girls arrived about that time, who looked like boys with their shorn hair; we knew they were girls only because they wore dresses. They were emaciated, their eyes circles with shadows, deep-sunken; it was fearful to look at them.
I went back day after day to the Eskin House. Maybe, after all, someone would write to me! I lived in hope. And one day, to my great amazement, I saw my name: Sheva Weiler! It was the first letter that I received after the war. I did not cry at once, but my hands shook when I reached to take the letter. Who had sent it to me? It was not from my sister, nor from my mother, nor anyone in my family, but from a stranger. The sender was Max Altman, Florida, America.
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