I know, my dear, that you understand everything, but you don’t understand how weak I am and how hopeless when faced with … this word. What I told you is true, even though he didn’t say no, I know. I know he regrets it and is embarrassed. And (that’s funny) I’m exasperated. If only hearts could be healed of love! But I don’t even know myself if I’d like that. What I want, Noruś, is to go back to life and go hiking in the mountains with you. You will help me, Buluś and God.
JULY 24, 1942, FRIDAY
Dear God, help us. We need to pay our contribution by 12 o’clock tomorrow. The city is in danger. But I still have faith. My faith is deep and I beg You. You will help us, Buluś and God.
JULY 25, 1942, SATURDAY
The following day in the morning! Ordners* came last night. Dido hasn’t paid everything yet. Not enough money. Oh! Why can’t money rain from the sky? It’s people’s lives, after all. Terrible times have come. Mama, you have no idea how terrible. But Lord God looks after us and, though I’m horribly frightened, I have faith in Him.
I trust, because this morning a bright ray of sunshine came through all this darkness. It was sent by my Mama in a letter, in the form of a wonderful photograph of her. And when she smiled at me from the photo, I thought that Holy God has us in His care! Even in the darkest moments there is something that can make us smile. Mama, pray for us. I send you lots of kisses. You will help me, Buluś and God.
IN THE EVENING!
My dear Diary, my good, beloved friend! We went through such terrible times together and now the worst moment is upon us. I could be afraid now. But the One who didn’t leave us then will help us today too. He’ll save us. Hear, O, Israel,* save us, help us. You’ve kept me safe from bullets and bombs, from grenades. Help me survive, help us! And you, my dear Mama, pray for us today, pray hard. Think about us and may your thoughts be blessed. Mama! My dearest, one and only, such terrible times are coming. I love you with all my heart. I love you; we’ll be together again. God, protect us all and Zygmunt and Grandparents and Jarośka. God, into Your hands I commit myself. You will help me, Buluś and God.
ZYGMUNT’S NOTES
JULY 27, 1942, MONDAY
It’s done! First of all, dear Diary, please forgive me for wandering into your pages and trying to carry on the work of somebody I am not worthy of. Let me tell you that Renuśka didn’t get the work permit stamp she needed to avoid being deported, so she has to stay in hiding. My dear parents have also been refused work permit stamps. I swear to God and history that I will save the three people who are dearest to me, even if it costs me my own life. You will help me, God!
JULY 28, 1942, TUESDAY
My parents were lucky to get into the city. They are hiding at the cemetery. Rena had to leave the factory. I had to find her a hiding place at any cost. I was in the city until 8 o’clock. I have finally succeeded.
JULY 29, 1942
The Aktion was prevented for the second time, because of a dispute between the army and the Gestapo.* I cannot describe everything that has gone on for the last three days. I have no energy for it after 12 hours of running around the city. These events have shaken me to the core, but they haven’t broken me. I have a terribly difficult task. I have to save so many people without having any protection for myself, or any help from others. This burden rests on my shoulders alone. I won’t last long and I will share the fate of my three doomed ones. I have taken Arianka to the other side.
JULY 30, 1942
Today everything will be decided. I will gather all my mental and physical strength and I will achieve my goals. Or I will die trying.
5 O’CLOCK
Skrzypczyński will give me the final answer at 5 o’clock. At midday they took away our cards for stamping (along with the wives’ cards). I decided to risk my document, because I thought it was my last chance to save Renuśka. No luck! They threatened to send me to the Gestapo. After a lot of begging, they finally withdrew that threat. But that forgery cost me my job at H.U.V.† for forgery. At 8 o’clock, I’ll find out whether or not I’m going to stay. I set off.
IN THE NIGHT
Oh, gods! Such horror! It was all for nothing! The drama lasted one hour. I didn’t get my card. Have I just slaughtered myself?! Zosia is gone! Now I am on my own. What will happen to me? It’s a great question. I wanted to save my parents and Rena, but instead I just got into more trouble myself. It looks like the end of the world is here. I still have hope.
JULY 31, 1942
Three shots! Three lives lost! It happened last night at 10:30 p.m. Fate decided to take my dearest ones away from me. My life is over. All I can hear are shots, shots … shots. My dearest Renusia, the last chapter of your diary is complete.
Wedding photo of Bernard and Róża (Rose) Spiegel, 1923.
Renia (right) and her cousin Lila, approximately 1933.
Renia in a boat in the Dniester River in Zaleszczyki, approximately 1936.
Renia and Ariana (Elizabeth) playing in the Dniester River in Zaleszczyki, approximately 1935.
Renia, Róża (Rose), and Ariana (Elizabeth) in the city of Przemyśl, approximately 1937.
Ariana (Elizabeth), Róża (Rose), and Renia in a vineyard in the region of Zaleszczyki, 1935 or 1936.
Ariana (Elizabeth) and Grandfather Markus Finkel, 1936.
Grandma Anna Finkel and Ariana (Elizabeth) in Przemyśl, approximately 1935.
Renia, Róża (Rose), and Ariana (Elizabeth) near Dniester in Zaleszczyki, 1935.
Róża (Rose), Renia, and Ariana (Elizabeth) eating ice cream, most likely in Przemyśl, 1935.
Ariana (Elizabeth), Renia, and Róża (Rose) (all standing) in Zaleszczyki, 1936.
Ariana (Elizabeth), far left; Róża (Rose); and Renia at the Lesieczniki grape farm in the region of Zaleszczyki, 1937.
Róża (Rose) and Ariana (Elizabeth) in Skole, 1936.
Ariana “The Polish Shirley Temple,” in Warsaw, approximately 1936.
Róża (Rose) and Renia in Przemyśl, around 1939, before the start of the war.
Norka and Renia, around 16 years old, 1940.
Norka and Renia in Przemyśl, approximately 1940.
Ariana (Elizabeth) and Róża (Rose) in Warsaw at the Hotel Europejski, where Rosa worked, likely 1943.
Wedding photo of Elizabeth and George Bellak, New York City, 1965.
Andrew Bellak and Alexandra Renata Bellak, the children of Ariana (Elizabeth), at Jones Beach, 1976.
Alexandra and Andrew at Alexandra’s 25th birthday celebration, 1995.
AFTERWORD
NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
by
Elizabeth Bellak
AFTERWORD
I only spent about two weeks in the ghetto, which was in a poor, run-down quarter called Garbarze, northwest of our grandparents’ apartment. The Nazis had given every Jew twenty-four hours to move there and allowed each family to carry only twenty-five kilograms. My grandparents, Renia, and I gathered together our most practical clothes for summer and winter, our sturdiest shoes, and a few coats in case we never got our furs back. My grandfather taped as many gold dollar coins as he could in a corner of his suitcase, hoping the guards wouldn’t find them. The silver was safely buried in the basement; Granny and Grandpa would be back for it after the war.
On July 27, an Aktion began within the Przemyśl Ghetto. Unless you could prove you were employed in an essential labor or administrative position—and then get a stamp from the Gestapo on your work permit—you were going to be forced out of the ghetto to the camps or to your death. Only five thousand Jews were expected to receive this stamp, and Zygmunt and Maciek were luckily among them. Unfortunately, my sister, my grandparents, and I weren’t.
Just one day later, the Gestapo surrounded the Przemyśl Ghetto and began rounding up the people who lived there; 6,500 Jews were loaded into cattle cars and shipped off to the death camp at Bełżec, about 100 kilometers northwest of the city. Another 2,500—who were determined to be too old or frail—were taken by truck
to the Grochowce forest, which surrounded Przemyśl. There, they were shot in the napes of their necks and buried in a mass grave.
My sister and I were not in either group. Somehow—I don’t know how, and he never told me—Zygmunt smuggled Renia and his parents into the attic of a three-story tenement house at 10 Moniuszko Street, where his uncle, a member of the Judenrat named Samuel Goliger, lived. I wasn’t with them. Zygmunt had escorted me out just before them, and we’d snuck toward the checkpoint to try to get out to my best friend Dzidka’s house.
I think I left in the early morning, but I say that only from a place in my mind where I’ve replayed every memory a thousand times. This is the same place I’ve searched for my last memories of my sister, though those have come up blank. How have I forgotten saying goodbye to her? What was the look on her face? What did she say to me? I’d give anything to remember our last words to each other. I’d give anything to know that I told her how much I loved her.
I do remember the last time I saw my grandparents. They were trying to be brave as Zygmunt motioned that it was time for me to leave, that I had to get out, that time was running out. My granny, whom I loved so much, turned away, raising her hands to her face. My grandpa kneeled down, placed his hands on my shoulders, and looked me in the eyes. Then he handed me a small, colorful box with a chain-link handle. It was the kind of compact suitcase perfect to carry lunch in, as if I were a little girl about to walk to school by herself for the very first time—not a child fleeing for her life.
“I’ve taped twenty gold coins inside,” he said. “It’s all I have. Wherever you’re going, you can always sell these and get some cash.”
My grandmother approached me, carrying a thin blue coat that I only wore on summer nights. She slipped my arms into it, being careful not to wrinkle the pink dress I was wearing, and then buttoned it up. Granny and Grandpa pulled me into a quick hug and then guided me gently out the door into the garden, where Zygmunt was waiting.
I don’t know what happened to them, but I’m sure they ended up in that mass grave in the Grochowce forest. They were just too old for the Nazis to want to take them to a camp.
I’m not sure how Zygmunt got me out of the ghetto, but somehow, he took me directly to the Leszczyńskis’ home. It was a walk-up apartment near the tinned coffee factory that Mr. Leszczyński owned, but in another part of town than my grandparents’ shop, my school, and the ice-skating pond. Dzidka, my closest friend in the whole world, was there to greet me, along with her parents and her two sisters.
I didn’t know how long I’d be there. I don’t think I even understood why I was there. All I knew was that, even though I was with Dzidka and her family—whom I loved and trusted—I was terrified. A few times a day, someone pounded on the door, demanding to search the apartment. Mr. and Mrs. Leszczyński would motion for me to hide under a bed, whispering, “Do not say a word. Do not breathe. We’ll be back for you.” Then they’d close the door.
I crouched under the bed in a little ball, my chest heaving as I tried to choke back tears.
“Just a minute!” Mrs. Leszczyński would call to the person on the other side of the door.
Then, Mr. Leszczyński would open the door and say a few words, and silence would follow. The door would close. For the next two hours or half a day, I was safe.
I trusted Dzidka’s family, and more than that, I trusted Zygmunt. I knew he’d do whatever he could to keep Renia safe—whether she was still in his uncle’s attic, or whether he’d moved her like he’d moved me. He loved Renia, and he had promised our mom he’d protect her.
Of course, you know the rest of Renia’s story. As hard as he tried, Zygmunt couldn’t save her. My beautiful sister was murdered on July 30, 1942, alongside Zygmunt’s parents.
It was several weeks before I found out what happened to her. Crouched in a ball in my best friend’s apartment, I had no idea that someone had told the Germans that there were three Jews hiding in the attic of Mr. Goliger’s tenement house, and that when the Gestapo forced their way in, Renia and Zygmunt’s parents had been taken outside and shot.
The Leszczyńskis might have found out right away, but I don’t know for sure. All I remember was that, as I hid in their apartment, desperately afraid that the Gestapo would come in, grab me, and take me far away from my family, my protectors, my best friend, and a life that had become increasingly bleak, I missed my mother desperately. It was a stabbing ache, like Renia had felt every single day since 1938.
After a week in the Leszczyńskis’ apartment, Mr. Leszczyński told me it was time to leave.
“We’re going to the railway station,” he said.
I didn’t ask why. I just slipped on the same pink dress I’d worn when I left my grandparents, wrapped my blue coat around myself, and grabbed the small lunch box that my grandpa had taped the coins into. I remembered his last words to me, his mustache, the kind twinkle in his eye, and I thought about how he must have felt giving it to me. He had to have known his life was over and that the lives of his two granddaughters might end soon as well.
I have no memory of the walk to the railroad station, nor do I recall where I sat on that train—or even if I did. It’s been almost eighty years since I left Przemyśl, and I’ve cycled so many smells, visions, meetings, and conversations through my mind that it’s sometimes hard to tell one from the other. I’ve also never returned to my grandparents’ town. I can’t. It’s just too emotional for me.
We had to transfer in Kraków, and Mr. Leszczyński and I exited the train cautiously. He held my hand tightly, and we started to walk right toward a few Gestapo officers, dressed in their familiar gray uniforms with their ranks on their shoulders. They had German shepherds by their sides. Seeing the Gestapo wasn’t unusual, especially in a public place like a train station, but this was different. I didn’t have papers, so there was no way to prove that I wasn’t Jewish. If Mr. Leszczyński was caught smuggling a Jew, he’d be sentenced to death.
We kept walking as my heart pounded in my chest. As we got closer, one of the Germans glanced at Mr. Leszczyński, seeming to miss me entirely, then turned back to the other officers and continued whatever conversation they were having. I let out a deep breath as we made our way past them, and then we waited for what felt like hours for the train to Warsaw.
Today, the train from Kraków to Warsaw takes about two and a half hours. In wartime Poland, it must have been twice that. I don’t remember the ride—what passed me out the window, whether I slept, what Dzidka’s dad said to me, or even if I knew where I was going. But we arrived in Warsaw at some point, and as the train came to a stop, I felt more anxious than I ever had in my life. Here I was in a familiar city, where I’d stood on the stage reading poetry when I was only eight, yet my mom—the person who made me feel safer and more loved than anyone else in the world—felt thousands of miles away.
When the train doors opened, I picked up my little lunch box and looked around. There were no Gestapo officers or dogs on the platform. Instead, there was a crowd of people rushing from one train to another, and it seemed like no one was looking at the little girl in a thin coat carrying a tiny lunch box. But someone was. As Mr. Leszczyński and I walked down the platform, a young man in street clothes stepped forward and raised his hand to stop us.
“You came here with a Jewish child?” he yelled. “I’m turning you in!”
Mr. Leszczyński put his arm around me and pulled me close as he moved toward the man, towering over him. “Get the hell away from me, and if you don’t, I’ll kill you right here,” he said.
What felt like five minutes of silence followed, but Mr. Leszczyński didn’t move. He just stood there, looking down once to make sure I was okay. The man stared at him just a little longer, then turned and ran away. I don’t know who he was. I don’t know how or why he believed I was Jewish. All I remember is that Mr. Leszczyński and I walked off the platform, out of the station, and into the busy streets of Warsaw, my old home that was very much changed.
Mr. Leszczyński took me directly to my mom’s friends, the Beredas. They lived in a nice building on Ossolinski Street, close to Saxon Garden State Park. I had never met Mr. or Mrs. Bereda before, so their smiling, tear-streaked faces were scary and unfamiliar. I trusted no one. But suddenly, I saw the face that had haunted my thoughts and my dreams, and I felt the longing I’d felt for months explode inside me. I dropped my tiny lunch box and fell into my mom’s arms, sobbing. Then my heart broke, because I knew I was experiencing something my sister wasn’t.
My mom probably found out from Mr. Leszczyński that day that Renia was dead, but she didn’t tell me until she’d confirmed it herself weeks later. With the help and accompaniment of Mrs. Bereda’s niece’s husband, a Hungarian aristocrat named Von Anderle, she gathered together her papers and took the long trip to Przemyśl. That train ride must have been the hardest of my poor mom’s life, hoping against hope that her oldest daughter might be alive, but knowing, deep down, the horrible truth.
Renia's Diary Page 28