Though I was glad to receive the letter, I wondered who this Max Altman was—then, in a flash, it came to me. Back in the ghetto I had been a close friend of his daughter Klara. Now, reading her father’s letter, I began to cry. He had noticed my name in the newspaper in a list of survivors. Like everyone else who had a family in Europe, Mr. Altman kept scanning the papers, and he remembered me from Rohatyn. He wanted to know what had happened to his family and if he could help me in any way. His letter was precious to me, almost as if it had come from a blood relative of mine, for I deeply appreciated hearing from this good man who, after all, was a stranger—and yet wrote to me so feelingly. I took the letter back to Vaingen and let Marysia read it.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “It’s from Klara Altman’s father.”
Bluma and I talked about that letter for a long time, wondering how I could break the news to Mr. Altman about his family that I knew he had lost in Rohatyn. Although he might be expecting it, how could I tell him that his whole family had perished? Nevertheless, I wrote him soon, thanking him warmly for getting in touch with me, and—to spare his feelings—merely telling him how and when I had left Rohatyn, and that at the time my family as well as his were still alive. I mentioned that his daughter Klara and I had been close friends, and if I should hear from her I would write again.
Each day when I went to Eskin House I saw the same eager, lonely faces bent over the “magic table” in expectation of hearing from somebody. And how happy I was when I too found more letters as time went on—a few letters from people in the United States who had emigrated from Rohatyn before the war. Letters filled with compassion, offering encouragement and help—even affidavits for coming to the United States. One of these letters was from Dr. Isaac Lewenter, who in Rohatyn had been our family doctor. He had left with his wife in July 1939 to visit the World’s Fair in New York. His letter was very sad, because he knew already from Pepa Kleinwaks that he had lost his only son and the whole family. (Now we knew that Pepa was already in the United States!) All those letters were sad, for everyone had lost somebody among his relatives in Poland, but they filled my loneliness and poured a balm on my hurts when I read them.
It seemed to me that it was a waste of time to be sitting here in Germany, just waiting—not knowing for what. I was still under the cloud of my war experiences and the loss of my family. I still could not accept the idea that with the end of the war I must begin a new life and must forget whatever happened in the past. Those who had perished did not want to be forgotten. My mother’s last words to me had been: “Do not forget what happened to us and tell the world what they did to us.”
Whenever I stopped at the hospital for a visit, Sister Marta was happy to see me—no matter how busy she happened to be. I usually brought something for her, to prove that I had not forgotten her kindness. On one such occasion, Sister Marta ran to greet me with the news that there was a letter waiting for me. I snatched the envelope with trembling hands, my heart beating wildly. My eyes sought, first of all, the sender’s address—no, it was not from home—but from Mrs. Krupka. While on the one hand I was disappointed because it was not from home, I was nevertheless glad to hear from the Krupkas. What surprised me was that the postmark was German. I opened it nervously and began to read. She wrote that the whole family had escaped in February 1944, from Brody to Vienna. The Krupka family, as well as many other Ukrainians, had fled before the Soviet Army. Now they were living in München. She did not mention anything about my family, not about Rohatyn, only adding at the end that Mr. Krupka’s sister Olga and her mother had remained in Poland.
When I returned home, I found no one there, so I sat down and penned a letter to the Krupka family, telling them that I would be there to see them very soon. I mailed the letter right away and waited for the return of Marysia. She had recently gotten married to an American soldier and was very happy. When she returned and heard the news, she liked the idea of visiting the Krupkas and decided to go with me. Her husband, who had returned with her, said that he would talk to the mayor, and perhaps he would give us the use of his automobile and chauffeur. And so it was that two days later Marysia and I went to München. The weather was bad, and it took us several hours to get there because of the snow and ice. I was eager to see my friends. Having spent six months with them under extreme conditions, I felt a strong bond of gratitude. They had nursed me through a siege of typhus, they had sheltered me at the risk of their own lives—even risking the life of their only child—how could I ever forget that!
We eventually came to the place where the Krupkas lived. At the entrance sat a woman with unmistakably Slavic features, and I asked her in Ukrainian if she knew where the Krupka family lived. She immediately pointed out the direction of their house and mentioned the number of their apartment. We went into the building and along a seemingly endless corridor, our German chauffeur following us in sullen silence. At last, I found the number of their door. My heart almost jumped out of its ribcage in excitement as I knocked.
A well-known voice answered, and when the door opened—there stood Mrs. Krupka. “Hania, Hania!” she exclaimed, “Oh, God.”
We fell into each other’s arms. Yes, it was Mrs. Krupka—but somehow she had changed. At Brody, as I remembered her in their lovely apartment, she had always smelled of good perfume, wore fancy clothes, kept her hair neatly combed, and her complexion well-tended—all this was gone! But she was still the same good-hearted person. We stood a long while in a warm embrace, crying for joy at our reunion.
I found that my arrival had preceded my letter and was therefore a complete surprise. Bluma and the German chauffeur stood by without a word, but when at last I recovered my composure somewhat, I introduced Bluma, for although she came from Rohatyn, Mrs. Krupka did not recall ever meeting her. Mr. Krupka and their son Janko were not at home, so she quickly threw on a coat and went to fetch the boy, who was with neighbors. Mr. Krupka was expected back soon.
Waiting for them, I looked around the room and mentally compared it with the apartment they had had in Brody. This room was dark, furnished with cheap old pieces. While it was, of course, a temporary refuge, it was a change as from a palace to a storeroom.
Shortly, Mrs. Krupka returned with Janko. I could hardly recognize him; he had grown, he looked very thin and pale and his clothes were quite shabby. He had difficulty remembering me. Now bashful and shy, he was about six years old. His mother wanted to give us something to eat, but we thanked her. Instead we plied her with questions, still talking in Ukrainian.
Only now did I learn all the news in detail. On June 6, 1943, our Rohatyn ghetto had been completely liquidated. Then the Germans gathered all the inhabitants and shot them; those who tried to take shelter in cellars or caves were exterminated with grenades. The Germans set fire to the ghetto and the Jews perished to the very last soul. It was rumored that a few managed to escape just hours before the liquidation went into effect; they hid in the woods or in neighboring villages but later were killed by the Ukrainians.
Mrs. Krupka insisted on making something hot to drink and started preparing sandwiches. Meanwhile, her husband came home and recognized me immediately. After our greetings were over, I introduced Bluma to him, but he also could not recall meeting her or her family in Rohatyn. We sat, talking on and on, making up for lost time.
Eventually, we had to leave. We thanked the Krupkas and promised to write and come for another visit when the weather became milder. I thanked them again for everything, saying that had it not been for them, I would not have been there alive that day. “I will never forget you as long as I live,” I declared. “Your names are written in the book.”
They looked at each other, not understanding my words. Amid tears and embraces we took our leave of them. When the auto started, I turned back to wave. For a long time Bluma and I did not exchange a word. We were reliving the entire visit in our thoughts.
Now I could write to Mrs. Krupka as often as I liked, and we soon had a lively exchange of co
rrespondence. In each letter she told me something new about themselves and other Ukrainian people who visited them. At the same time, I kept receiving letters from Dr. Lewenter in the United States, in which he seriously discussed bringing me to America. He said that he was getting the affidavit of support ready, and he urged me to send him the information he needed. Bluma joked about it: “You may go to America even before I do!” To lose no time I arranged to take English lessons from a German woman who lived in our neighborhood; sometimes I paid her with money, sometimes with food. I bought Polish-English and German-English dictionaries and tried to learn words of daily usage.
I tried to keep busy to make the days go faster. Whenever I wrote to Dr. Lewenter in America I always put in a few words in English to show that I was earnest about learning the language.
Soon the festival of Purim came up, and they decided to hold a ball in the residence camp nearby. When we entered the dining room on the appointed evening, I could hardly believe the change. The hall was decorated in many colors. Everyone received a paper hat and corsages. A pianist and accordionist made up the “orchestra.” A buffet was stacked with sandwiches and drinks. Later there would be coffee and cake.
Almost everyone knew everyone else, as most of the guests were from the camp. Some danced, some sat and talked. I sat at a small table with my friends, chatting. It was already past ten o’clock, but people kept coming in. Suddenly I saw two young men enter. One of them was tall, handsome—a striking fellow. They sat down at a table with two girls who had arrived with them and started looking around. No one seemed to know them; they must have come from some other camp, it was whispered. I noticed that the handsome one kept looking at me intently, and when the music started again he resolutely got up and came in our direction.
Before I realized what had happened, he was standing before me, asking me to dance. I did not know how to dance well, but he was an excellent partner and I let him lead me lightly through the steps of a waltz. I was very slim then, and in his wide arms I thought I’d flutter like a feather in the breeze. He complimented me on dancing so well, and I gratefully looked up into his large, fascinatingly blue eyes. He said that his name was Israel Lederman. He politely asked in which camp I had spent the war. I told him briefly about my experiences. Did I have anyone of my family left? No, I had lost my mother and my sister, all I had . . . Then in turn I plied him with similar questions, and learned that he too was all alone in the world. Then I asked him where he had spent the war, realizing as I spoke that I had touched a raw nerve. He had been in almost every concentration camp, it seemed, pushed from one to another—Auschwitz, Kaufering, and Dachau. He had lost a wife, a child, three brothers, and his parents. He showed me a metal ID with his number: 96447. He had been under the Germans since 1939, as a native of Lodz. Six years might not seem like a long time, but to him it was an eternity.
Between dances we rested, chatting with my other friends at the table. He spotted several persons who he knew in the camp and exchanged greetings with them. After a while the two blonde girls left, but he remained with us until the end of the ball—until it was almost dawn. And then he took me home.
A few days after the Purim ball, I wrote to Mrs. Krupka and, of course, told her about the new friend I had met. The girls at the camp, too, teased me about him the next time I was there. They wanted to know if it was serious! How could it be, I said in mock indignation; I dance with someone one evening, and they want to make a match between us! But their intuition must have been right, for that was not the last time I was to see Israel Lederman. He came again in a few days and spent several hours with Bluma and I. He was a sociable person and made friends easily. After that, he was a frequent guest, and we felt as though we had known him a very long time.
One day I received a notice from the American Joint Distribution Committee to come to their office, for they had received an authorization from the American Consulate to have me registered. I told Lederman about this, and on the appointed date we went there together. When my name was called, I entered a room where an American woman in military uniform sat behind a desk. This was Miss Levine. Looking through some papers, she said that my affidavit had not arrived, but that in any case I was on the list and would be able to go to the United States. Meanwhile, the Joint Distribution Committee would give me an affidavit and most probably I would be able to leave by the first transport. This was good news—more than I had expected. She began to fire questions at me as she filled out a form: Did I have anyone in the family who would be going with me? Perhaps my mother? No. My father, then? No. A sister, brother? No. A distant relative? No, absolutely no one.
She shook her head and looked at me. “All alone?”
“Yes,” I replied.
Miss Levine was very officious and energetic, almost brusque. I sensed her dislike for lengthy conversations, and so I replied to her in monosyllables. She thought a bit, and asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What do you mean, a boyfriend?” I did not understand.
“A friend,” she said impatiently.
It was my turn to think. Then I asked if I could be excused for a moment, and when she nodded, I opened the door to the waiting room and called Israel in.
“Here I have a friend,” I told her. “He also has no one in the world, no relatives. He’s all alone, so I will take him with me if I can.”
But when Miss Levine saw Israel, she said, “I know him. He was in the Biediegheim sanatorium. He was sick, and cannot go to the United States. We send only healthy people, understandably. Anyway, what do you mean you’ll take him? Do you intend to pack him into your suitcase? You can only take a husband with you. I thought you might be engaged.”
When my friend heard this, he spoke up promptly. “Well, how long does it take to get married? We’ll be married.”
Miss Levine looked sharply at him and me. “How long have you known each other?” she asked.
“Altogether, five days,” we said.
She shook her head. “There must be an announcement three days prior to the marriage,” she said. “But first, I must look through his papers at the sanatorium to see if he is qualified to go. Frankly, I don’t think we can let him go to the United States.”
“They released me after eight months,” Israel interrupted. “I look well and nothing bothers me. What has been is past.”
We had quite a hard time with Miss Levine. She said that she still would have to talk to the doctor at the sanatorium. X-rays might be necessary. Anyway, she would let us know. “And if you want to get married, that’s your business.” For the time being, she was not going to put my name on the list, for in case we got married she would have to change the name to that of my husband and that would prolong the formalities and delay my departure; we would have to leave on the second transport.
We thanked her and left. Outside on the street, Israel said, “I think we convinced her. When she sees my papers, she will know that I am cured and in good health and she will have to let us go.” As we walked back to the car stop, we talked about the illness he had received from his stay in the camps.
I suddenly had the idea that we should go to “my” hospital and have him X-rayed there. We did, but the sister in the Roentgen room told me that she did not like the look of the X-rays she had made—in particular the left side of Lederman’s lungs—and told me that I would have to go to a specialist. She gave me the X-rays and the name of the best lung specialist she knew and told me to tell the specialist that Sister Gertrube had sent me.
Later that afternoon, Israel and I were able to get an appointment with the specialist. He looked the X-rays over solemnly, as we waited impatiently. Finally, the doctor said, “I’m sorry, but the man whose X-rays these are is very seriously ill. He must have a high temperature, and I’m sorry to say I don’t think he will live more than a few days. Maybe three at most. He is dying, isn’t he?” Apparently the doctor was under the impression that we had brought him the X-rays of a bedridden man. “I’m very s
orry,” he continued, handing us the X-rays, “in his condition there is no help.” When the doctor asked, “Who is it?” Israel replied, “My brother.”
We thanked him and went out. Going down the hill to the trolley stop, I still could not speak but looked at Israel. He was pale and tears glistened in his eyes; he was trembling with the effort to hide his emotions. “Don’t believe him!” I exclaimed fervently. “The doctor mentioned a high fever; he spoke of a dying man. You look fine and healthy.”
Israel could not say a word. In a few days we were to be married, and—here was a catastrophe! But I did not let him lose hope. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow we’ll have our marriage license and we’ll get married. Then we will register and wait for our chance to go to America.”
“And suppose they won’t let me go?” he said.
“If they don’t let you go, we shall wait as long as you need to be completely cured. Even months, if necessary. I won’t go without you. And if they still won’t let you go to America, then we will go to Palestine. I have cousins there—they will help us. All right.” I paused for a moment and went on, “And if we go to America, I am sure people there will help us, too. I have friends there who, as soon as the war was over, volunteered to send me packages and kept on writing to me. And there’s that doctor who is to send me an affidavit—no doubt he would be able to direct you to a good sanatorium, if necessary, or to a lung specialist. They realize we’ve gone through so much during the war, I have no doubt everyone will want to help. And if there is anything wrong with your health, you will be cured in America. But I still don’t believe that you are so seriously ill. Why, you yourself don’t feel sick.”
When Israel came next to visit me, he seemed to be in a brighter humor. He had confided in the friend who shared his apartment, and the man had also said that it was impossible he was so ill and had told him to destroy the X-ray and never think about it again. His friend assured him that he looked the picture of health and that the doctor must have been mistaken.
Sheva's Promise Page 28