Don't Tell the Enemy

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  “You too.”

  Our entire exchange had taken less than two minutes. I hurried back across the street before the policeman finished his route. I silently darted from one building to the next on cold bare feet.

  But a few steps away from our front door, a familiar voice said, “Krystia, what are you doing out?”

  It was our next-door neighbour Petro Zhuk, the policeman.

  “Morning chores,” I said.

  His flashlight pierced the darkness for one brief moment. “Chores?” he asked, directing the light at my empty hands.

  Petro was no Nazi, but still, the Commandant was his boss. His job was to look for smugglers and food hoarders. Thank goodness I was no longer carrying the cheese. But if he found the film I would be in trouble.

  “I was just going inside.” I took a step towards the house.

  “Krystia,” he said, “you know I can’t make an exception just because we’re neighbours. Raise your arms.”

  His hands moved down the front of my coat and over my skirt, pausing when they reached the roll of film that was shoved in the pocket of my skirt. I took measured breaths and willed my heart to stop its wild pounding.

  The silence between us hung in the air.

  Then he said, “You can go now. But please realize that if the Nazis knew what you were doing, you would be shot. And if they thought that I was bending rules for you, I would be shot.”

  I murmured, “Thank you, Petro.” Then I turned and walked to my front door as Petro continued on his beat. Once the door closed behind me, my knees turned to jelly and I collapsed.

  * * *

  Even if Mama hadn’t been robbed on the train, we still would have been hungry, because the police often went from door to door and ransacked houses, looking for hidden food. They found the rest of Doctor Mina’s medicines and took them away. Thank goodness this happened after I had delivered the sulfa.

  They miraculously didn’t find the coins from Dolik, which I had hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the outhouse.

  I helped Maria fetch the water each morning, as she was too weak to carry the bucket on her own. Neither Mama nor I could work at the Commandant’s any longer, because Frau Hermann said the sight of our gaunt faces ruined her appetite. In so many ways I was glad not to have to go there anymore, but it also meant that we couldn’t listen in on conversations.

  I was so hungry that I would go up to the loft and scour through Yasna’s hay, looking for stray seeds. Mama, Maria and I slept a lot, because with such extreme hunger, it was hard to keep awake.

  We would have loved to buy some food with the money that Dolik had given us, but there was no one to buy it from because the Commandant had stopped the Volksdeutche from selling to locals.

  It had also become more difficult to do the document exchanges through the barbed wire because the police had increased their watch. I had to time it just perfectly.

  Most days Maria and I walked Yasna just a few blocks down the street, then turned and came home and went to bed. At least in winter there were fewer chores. We couldn’t have done them anyway.

  By late February, we were like walking skeletons. Mama bundled herself up in her winter jacket and took the coins with her to Lviv. “Don’t worry if I don’t come home for a day or two,” she told us.

  Maria and I drank hot water and linden tea, trying to trick our stomachs into thinking we were full. And we went to the loft and chewed on hay.

  When Mama came home, Uncle Ivan was with her. He was so thin and pale that I knew there was no more food for those in the forest than we had in our house.

  “Dear nieces,” he said, enclosing us both in a bear hug. “First, I want to pass on your Auntie Iryna’s greetings. She sends you her love. Second,” he said, “we’ll all be eating soon.”

  Confused, I looked from his face to Mama’s.

  She smiled sadly. “Let us sit, daughters. You know that Krasa will soon give birth, and once that happens, she’ll come back to us and we’ll have milk.”

  “What about her calf?” asked Maria.

  “It will stay with Polina until after the war, along with Iryna’s calf and cow, because if we’re caught with two cows, one will be taken away.”

  “When is Yasna going back to the country?”

  “I just bought her from Polina with the money from Dolik.”

  “But she doesn’t have milk,” I said. “So why would you want her?”

  “Nieces,” said Uncle Ivan gently, “that’s why I’ve come here today. I will be helping your mother to slaughter Yasna. With Yasna’s meat, we won’t starve.”

  I sat there, stunned. I knew, deep down, that Uncle and Mama were right. Yasna was a farm animal, not our pet, and slaughtering her for meat meant that we might survive the winter. But that didn’t mean I felt good about it.

  The gruesome job had to be done without the Commandant knowing, and that was easier said than done. But Uncle Ivan managed to get the carcass cut into pieces and wrapped in paper. Then we realized we had far too many packages of meat to easily hide. Uncle Ivan took some to his bunker in the forest, Auntie Polina came and took some to the country, and we filled the shelves in the coldest corner of our root cellar.

  Hiding meat in my clothing to take it to the ghetto was a difficult challenge. No matter where I put it, the bulge was obvious. Maria finally tried stitching the package into the bottom of my skirt.

  “But this doesn’t hide the meat at all,” I said, looking down at the bulge.

  Maria got our second skirt and handed it to me. “Put this over top of the first one.”

  I did what she said and the bundle was hidden. I just had to be careful how I walked. Thankfully, I got all the way to the ghetto without incident and threw the package over the barbed wire to Nathan.

  “Say hello to Maria from me,” he said. “Tell her I miss talking to her.”

  It wasn’t until after we had distributed the meat and hidden the rest that we dared to cook some for ourselves. When we sat down to that first roast beef dinner, my eyes filled with tears. “Dear Yasna,” I whispered under my breath, “thank you for saving our lives and the lives of our friends.”

  And much as I thought I would feel awful about it, that first mouthful of beef tasted heavenly.

  * * *

  A few days after that first beef dinner, Marga blocked our way as Maria and I were carrying water home.

  “I know about the cow,” she said.

  I pretended to not understand. “But Marga, I already apologized to your mother about the cow.”

  “Not that one,” she said. “The old one you’ve had in your barn all winter … and now it’s beef. I’m going to tell the Commandant.”

  We tried to step away without responding, but she grabbed my arm. “If you’re so hungry,” she said, “why don’t you go to Germany instead of breaking the law? You could be a guest worker of the Germans. They would feed you.”

  I pushed her arm away and we hurried home.

  “What do you think of her suggestion?” Maria asked. “Maybe if one of us left for Germany it would be easier on Mama.”

  “Do you really think the Nazis treat any Slavs or Jews fairly? We’d be slave workers, not guest workers,” I said. “Don’t believe anything Marga tells you.”

  When we got home, we told Mama about Marga’s threat.

  “She may not be the only one who knows about the beef,” said Mama. “Someone likely smelled it as we were roasting it. We need to hide what’s left in a better place.”

  “But there is no better place,” I said.

  “Yes, our neighbours are all German now, so they won’t help us,” said Mama. “And we can’t ask the Zhuks, since Petro is with the police.”

  “What about Father Andrij and Anya?” I asked.

  Mama’s eyebrows rose at the suggestion. “That might work,” she said. “I’ll ask.”

  Early the next morning, before first light, we loaded up the cart with meat and waited until the policeman who patrolled ou
r own street had passed, then took the cart across the road to the priest.

  “We won’t put it in our root cellar,” said Anya. “If they search, that’s the first place they’d look.”

  She and Father Andrij hid the meat in the church’s crypt instead. Hundreds of years ago, that’s where parishioners had been buried. I’d also heard that in ancient times, parishioners would hide in the crypt to avoid being caught by attacking armies. It seemed somehow appropriate to hide food there to help us survive the Nazis.

  And we had acted just in time. The next morning, the Commandant himself came to our door, and he brought his police.

  The moment Mama opened the door he stepped in and surveyed the room, sniffing the air — probably for the scent of roast beef.

  “So you’ve slaughtered your cow,” he said.

  “We did not,” said Mama.

  “But she is not in your shed,” said the Commandant. “I’ve already checked.”

  “She’s in the country,” said Mama. “Where there’s more hay.”

  The Commandant motioned to the policemen. “Check the whole house,” he said.

  We three stood there as the policemen went through all of our cupboards, and the loft, then went outside to check the root cellar.

  They came back a few minutes later. “There’s nothing here.”

  The Commandant looked at Mama, then at me and Maria. “I still think you’re lying,” he said. “You’re fined twelve hundred zloty. Pay it before the end of March or I will force you all out of this house.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  Mama had no choice. Night after night she had to sneak onto the train to Lviv with packages of meat bound to her body under bulky clothing. She stood at the back entrance to fancy restaurants and sold each piece. It took nearly all of our remaining meat to pay the fine. But Yasna saved us from starvation. I hoped the rich Nazis who ate in those fancy restaurants would choke on Yasna.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aktion

  In the first days of spring, the police poured into the ghetto once again. This time they rounded up young people. Leon and Dolik both managed to evade them, but as the Nazis’ wagons trundled away, I saw Nathan inside one.

  It seemed that whether you could work or not, whether you were young or old, poor or rich — all Jews were targeted.

  There was no question any longer what the Nazis were up to, or what they meant when they talked about an upcoming Aktion: every Jew in the ghetto was slated for death.

  I was sick at the thought of all these young people being shot, but Nathan was like family. We had gone to school together. We were neighbours, and he was Maria’s closest friend. As the wagon he was in rolled past us, Mama and I had to hold on to Maria so she wouldn’t run after him.

  But two mornings after this Aktion we found Nathan, wrapped in a blanket, curled up asleep on our kitchen floor.

  “Nathan,” cried Maria. “Thank God you’re alive.”

  He jolted awake, and for a moment he seemed not to know where he was. Maria rushed over and helped him sit up. “How did you escape?”

  “They took us into the woods,” he said, clutching the blanket around him. “A burial pit was already dug and we were ordered to line up in front of it and remove our clothing. But before we were even finished, they began to shoot. When the person beside me was shot and fell into the pit, I stumbled and fell in after him. I lay very still as the Volksdeutche covered us with shovelfuls of dirt. After they left, I climbed out and ran. All I had on was my underwear. The rest of our clothing was gone. This blanket — I found it in a farmer’s barn.”

  “We’ve still got some men’s clothing here from Auntie Iryna’s,” I said. “I’ll get it for you.”

  When I came back with what clothing I could find, Maria was sitting on the floor beside him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Mama handed him a cup of tea. “What are you going to do now?” asked Mama.

  “If they find me here, they’ll shoot me. And they may shoot you,” said Nathan, shivering as he took a sip from the steaming cup. “So I can’t stay here. But I’m not going back to the ghetto now that I’m out. Not even with Tate still there.”

  Nothing more was said about it that evening. Nathan knew that every minute he stayed increased the risk for all of us. Mama and I went about our usual chores, as much as we could, but I noticed that Maria spent every spare minute with Nathan.

  They’d sit in a corner together, holding hands. Sometimes I’d notice them sharing animated whispers, but I didn’t hear what they were talking about.

  The next morning when Mama and I returned from getting water, Maria and Nathan were both gone. A note was on the table:

  We’re escaping together. Pray for our safety.

  Love, Maria and Bohdan

  Bohdan? At first I was confused, but then I realized that Nathan must have had the passport that identified him as Bohdan Sawchuk hidden in his underwear. But where could they escape to? Would they hide on a freight train? Or maybe go into the forest with the insurgents. Maria knew the code to get through.

  Mama was beside herself. “How could Maria run off like this?” she cried. “Please, God, let her be safe.”

  Maria had turned eleven only a few months ago, and Nathan was just twelve. But I realized that what we had seen, what we’d had to do … The war had made us grow up quickly.

  “She’s a smart girl, Mama.”

  “I want her home,” said Mama. “She’s too young to be out there.”

  For the next while, every minute of every day felt sad and empty without my sister, but I tried to comfort Mama. “You know how careful Maria is,” I said.

  That didn’t comfort Mama at all, and deep down it didn’t comfort me either. I’d wake up weeping in the middle of the night after dreaming Maria and Nathan had been shot and left in a ditch.

  Maria had dressed in our old skirt and top on the day she left; I wondered if that was on purpose. Every time I put on the better clothes — the soft dark skirt and oxford shirt that had come from Auntie Stefa — I was reminded of Maria, on the run in her threadbare skirt.

  I had always thought that Maria and I were opposites, and I always considered her timid, but escaping with Nathan was the opposite of timid.

  I prayed that they wouldn’t be caught and killed. That idea made me cold with fear. Every night before bed, I prayed for their safety, then cried myself to sleep.

  * * *

  We brought Krasa back home with us in mid-April. Her calf had beautiful black and white spots all over her back, just like her mother, and since she had been born in the spring, we named her Kvitka, flower blossom. Lysa’s calf was nearly all white, but she did have a black star shape on her forehead, so we named her Zeerka, or star. I would have loved to bring Kvitka back with us, but it just wasn’t possible.

  The Commandant eased up on the food confiscations now that milk was more available. A portion of our milk was still taken, but we were allowed to sell some of it, and Herr Zimmer became one of our customers. We had enough leftover to make cheese.

  With the warmer weather, our chickens began laying eggs again, and I could pick wild greens when I took Krasa to pasture. We didn’t have a lot of food, but at least now Mama and I were no longer starving. And I continued to sneak food to the ghetto.

  It was up to just Mama and me to do all our chores, and each time I carried a bucket of water home, I thought of Maria. What was she doing now? Was she safe? And what about Nathan? Would he be able to pass himself off as a Ukrainian? I understood why Maria had gone with him. She loved him, yes, and she wanted to protect him, but it made me feel guilty. Why hadn’t I done a better job of protecting my little sister?

  Mr. Segal was the only one left in his family now, and when it was his turn to meet me at our rendezvous point, he would ask if we’d heard anything about Nathan and Maria. I couldn’t help but notice how much he had aged.

  As spring turned to summer, the aches of mourning and loss were dulled by the bu
sy routine of tending our house and garden and cow and chickens. Weeks went by without the Commandant issuing new notices or singling out more Jews.

  Once, when we had a large batch of fresh cheese, Mama hid on the freight train to Lviv to sell it to one of the fancy restaurants where she had struck up a friendship with the chef. When she got home, she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and hugged me with all her might. “Thank God you’re safe, Krystia. I heard some awful things while I was there,” she said.

  “What sorts of things?”

  “The chef was so happy with our cheese that he had me sit in a dark corner of the restaurant and he served me a bowl of soup with a bun. As I was sipping my soup, I overheard some Nazis talking at a nearby table. They were congratulating each other on the success of their latest project to resolve the Jewish Question.”

  “What was their project?”

  “They’ve completed something they called a death camp just outside the town of Belzec, a hundred kilometres from Lviv,” she said.

  “A death camp?”

  “From the snippets of conversation that I heard, it sounds as if Jews will be taken to Belzec by train …” She couldn’t seem to finish her sentence.

  “What, Mama?”

  “… and gassed to death upon arrival.”

  “Gassed to death?” Mama’s words shocked me to the core. “What does that even mean? And whatever it does, those men were celebrating this?”

  I collapsed in Mama’s arms and we wept.

  * * *

  I urgently needed to tell our Jewish friends about this new plan, but the Commandant had recently ordered even more police to patrol the ghetto, so I had to time my rendezvous perfectly.

  When I next managed to get to the barbed wire, it was Doctor Mina who met me. I pulled four small hacksaws out of my pocket and passed them through the barbed wire.

  “Why are you giving these to me?” she asked. “They won’t help any of us escape from wagons.”

  “The Nazis are changing what they’re doing,” I told her. “It’s going to get worse.”

  “Worse than it already is?” asked Doctor Mina. “The Nazis seem intent on killing all of the Jews.”