by Clara Kramer
‘Kol Nidre, Vi Et Areh, Vi Char Ra Me…’
The entire prayer goes: ‘All vows, obligations, oaths or anathemas, pledges of all names, which we have vowed, sworn, devoted or bound ourselves to, from this day of atonement, until the next day of atonement (whose arrival we hope for in happiness), we repent, beforehand, of them all, they shall all be deemed absolved, forgiven, annulled, void and made of no effect; they shall not be binding, nor have any power; the vows shall not be reckoned as vows, the obligations shall not be obligatory, nor the oaths considered as oaths.’
When I was little I didn’t understand this prayer. How could the most holy prayer of our religion absolve of us all sins in advance? It was just crazy. Sometimes I would listen to the discussions about this. Some of the men would say this prayer was a reason for so much anti-Semitism because it allowed the gentiles to think it was all right for Jews to break their promises and agreements in every way possible and their God said it was okay. My father explained that this prayer is between man and God, not between man and man, and it demonstrated the great and overwhelming sense of God’s understanding of human frailty and His capacity for compassion and forgiveness. My father said we started the service with the Kol Nidre to inspire us to be more like God. He told me that the prayer was written in the early Middle Ages when under threats and torture many Jews had to give up their religion or convert. Since we Jews take our vows so seriously, God doesn’t want us to feel bound by vows that would cost our lives. I had never thought so much about the meaning of Kol Nidre before tonight.
As we beseeched God to forgive our sins and write us in the book of life for the coming year, I thought about the meaning of the words in our prayers. When you’re 13 years old and the worst thing that has ever happened to you is getting the measles or a broken arm from ice-skating, you think you’ll live for ever. Now I didn’t know if we would live another day. And I couldn’t stop thinking about Mania. I was angry at God. I didn’t know how our God could exist and allow all this to happen to us, his supposed chosen people. The murder and suffering and grief were enormous, more than I or we could bear. It was too much for the human heart to take. I knew my mother’s heart was about to explode, but it continued to beat, as did mine and those of the others. I didn’t know how such a thing was possible. I didn’t know how I could be so furious with God and yet find so much consolation in our prayers.
We didn’t talk much after the evening service was done. I went to bed, holding the children close. The little ones didn’t have to fast and we had some bread for them. Fasting for the rest of us was nothing. It was a way of life. Never has fasting been so easy for me.
It was hard for me to pay attention to the service the next day. I was filled with dread at the thought of the upcoming Yizkor service, where we would commemorate all those who had died the year before. I knew the service almost by heart. We supplicated ourselves in every way to God’s power and forgiveness. The words resonated with new meaning and a new force, humbling me, frightening me. One of the most powerful prayers was a simple enumeration of any and all kinds of sins which man might possibly commit against himself, his family, his fellow man and ultimately God. We beat our chests as we enunciated each prayer.
‘…nothing is hidden from You. You search our innermost thoughts and our hearts…And so may it be Your will to have mercy on us and forgive us our sins, grant us atonement…
‘For the sin we have committed before You of hard-heartedness…of immorality…a gathering of lewdness…by deceiving a fellow man…by insincere confession…by eating or drinking…by committing usury…by casting out the yoke of heaven…with proud looks…by a grudging eye…knowing or unknowing…by causeless hatred…For all these, God of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us…I am dust in my life…may it be my will, Lord my God and God of my fathers, that I shall sin no more and the sins which I have committed before You, erase them in Your abounding mercies…’ We were asking for forgiveness for our sins, but what about the sins of the Fascists and the Nazis and the SS and the Gestapo and the Ukrainians and Tilzer and Schitling? When did they atone? And what for? Did they even think they were sinning in this upside-down world?
My father turned around. It was now time for the Yizkor service. It was and is our custom that those with parents still among the living leave for this part of the service. Mr Melman sent me, Igo and Klarunia into the passageway near the latrines. We were the only ones who had parents living. Zygush and Zosia waited in the main part of the bunker, watching while I and the others crawled into the passageway.
My father waited until everyone was in the passageway and then chanted the opening prayer of the Yizkor service: God, What is Man…? I have always thought it was one of our most beautiful. I knew from my father that our prayers were not only the work of rabbis but that many had been written by rabbi/poets in Spain in the Middle Ages.
Lord, what is Man that You recognize him?
The son of a frail human that you reckon with him?
Man is like a breath; his days are like a fleeting shadow.
In the morning it blossoms and is rejuvenated,
by evening it is cut down and brittle.
According to the count of our days, so may You teach us;
then we shall acquire a heart of wisdom.
Safeguard the perfect and watch the upright,
for the destiny of that man is peace.
But God will redeem my soul from the grip of the lower world,
for He will take me, Selah!
My flesh and my heart yearn–
Rock of my heart, and my portion is God, for ever.
Then the dust returns to the ground, as it was,
and the spirit returns to God Who gave it.
I was listening to the prayer and thinking about Mania and looking at little Zygush. I could see in his face that he was slowly realizing that his mother, Uchka, was dead. Zygush was smart enough to know that my father would never have made a mistake about such a thing. He started to cry softly. He simply looked at his little sister, who knew the words and recited them without knowing what they really meant. He took Zosia’s tiny hand and held it, then brought it to his lips and kissed it. She smiled at her older brother, but she didn’t understand that he was crying because he knew that their mother was dead.
Everyone was now looking at Zygush, realizing our horrible mistake and the burden we had put on his shoulders. The bunker had become holier than any synagogue.
My father also knew, but continued: ‘May the all merciful Father who dwells in the supernal heights, in His profound compassion, remember with mercy the pious, the upright and the perfect ones.’ We gave the response: ‘He who makes peace in His heavens, may He make peace for us and for all Israel. Amen. Next year in Jerusalem.’
The families hugged and embraced each other, drying their tears. I crawled to Zygush and Zosia and embraced them. I saw my mother, standing alone as my father closed and gathered the prayer books. I saw Mania’s name on my mother’s lips. I went to my mother and we embraced, locked to one another, afraid of ever letting go.
There was a knock on the hatch. Patrontasch opened it and we saw Mrs and Mr Beck framed in the hatchway above us, our two angels in the heaven of their bedroom. They handed down the trays with the post-fast meals. The Melmans, Steckels, the Patrontasches, all had trays with the small roasted chickens. Zygush and Zosia watched the food go by. My mother couldn’t help herself. She looked at the food and the children with bitterness in her heart, although I knew the Melmans and the Patrontasches would share on this day.
Then Julia, arthritis and all, climbed down into the bunker. She turned and reached for two potholders and brought down a big pot of chicken soup, filled with noodles and pirogies. ‘Mr and Mrs Schwarz, this is for you.’
For once, my mother was almost speechless. All she could get out was: ‘But we—’
Beck smiled. ‘Don’t but us…’
And Julia blushed and said with a huge smile, ‘I even got y
ou a rooster. I remembered the custom. I knew you needed a rooster.’
My mother embraced Julia and then Beck and then we were all embracing each other. Zygush was crying now, for he did allow himself tears of joy. My mother immediately started pulling out the best pieces of meat to put in the children’s bowls. Nobody was talking now as they ate in satisfied silence, grateful for just a few minutes.
I couldn’t help thinking about Mania. Her presence in the room was stronger than ever. I remembered the last Yom Kippur before the occupation. The night before the night of Yom Kippur, we were gathered in our backyard as was our tradition. My family, all my aunts and uncles and cousins, more than 20 of us. Uchka called for Zygush, who was in the walnut tree, and he flew down like a little monkey and ran to where Mama had gathered all the children in a circle. We put our arms round each other. My father had a live rooster in his hands. He held it by the feet and swung it around the heads of the children and he started to pray. ‘May You bless and protect these children and may their sins all be taken on by this rooster which we sacrifice in Your name.’ When the prayer was ended, he would give the rooster to Mama, who would take it to the schochet, ritual slaughterer.
The electric light flickered, went out, flickered, came on again…then went out. We were left in darkness.
Chapter 11
A YEAR UNDERGROUND
November 1943 to New Year 1944
Monday, 22 November. The policeman left in the morning but came with another one for dinner and they invited themselves to sleep over again. God! When will they leave already! Today there was no electricity again. We had three candles burning because today is the anniversary of the ‘November Akcja’ where Melman and Lola lost their family. My God! Last year, after the carnage, we came out of the bunker and thanked God for saving us from death. We didn’t expect to live another year in these circumstances. I don’t know where does one find the will to live! You lose your loved ones and you still want to live…
It’s 11 pm now. The Germans didn’t come yet. Maybe they are not coming. It’s bad enough to sit tense all day. It’s worse when one cannot sleep.
We were sleeping more and more. The Nazis had started rationing the electricity and thrown the entire town into the dark. We now only had light for a few hours in the evening or a few hours in the morning. We never knew when. There was little for us to do in the dark and cold, so we slept to keep warm. Zygush always kept a book within reach and the moment the light came on he would grab it. Since he had learned to read Zygush would spend hours with his books. He would quietly read to himself, or else, in a soft and tiny voice, to Zosia, his mouth only a breath away from hers. Even in the dim light, I could see the spark in her eyes when her big brother read to her. I loved that they loved books like I did.
Since we would only be in the bunker for a ‘few weeks’, I had only brought a few of my precious books with me. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought it would be unlucky. Here I was in the bunker alone, and on my shelves in our house were my beauties. Historical novels were my favourites. Big fat novels with stories that went on for ever. Dumas, Dickens, Hugo. I read everything they wrote. And when I think of some of the titles: Les Miserables, Bleak House, Great Expectations, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Man in the Iron Mask…And the plots! The Count of Monte Cristo, A Tale of Two Cities, David Copperfield…Prisons, dungeons, wars, revolutions, false imprisonment, traitors, murderous corrupt power-hungry leaders, betrayal, greed, heroes, impersonations, phony trials, torture! When I was reading them, in the fright of my most gruesome nightmares I never imagined my life would resemble these books in any way. I also loved the Warsaw stories of IB Singer, but I was considered too young to read IJ Peretz, even though there was a portrait of him, done completely with tiny letters, on the wall of our living room.
I also loved the Polish historical-novel writer Henryk Sienkiewicz, who wrote such titles as With Fire and Sword, The Deluge and Fire in the Steppe. Sienkiewicz, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, also wrote Quo Vadis, which had spawned three movies and an opera. But you must remember, I was only a young teenage girl, and I always found the time for the new Kurzmahler book. In her stories, orphan girls always turned into princesses and the only endings were happy ones.
Now my reading depended on whatever Mr Beck could scavenge from the hundreds and hundreds of books abandoned in the streets, looted from the homes of deported and murdered Jews. These books apparently held little interest for the German troops or the Poles and Ukrainians. Even if we had the money, Beck couldn’t buy even one book without raising suspicions. He had a reputation for many things, none of them having anything to do with books. I was grateful for anything; I could hardly ask him to get on his hands and knees and browse through the ashes for my favourite writers. There was a book, I can’t remember the title, which Artek, Lola and all the grown-ups were passing around like dessert. I wanted to read it, but my mother said it was risqué and inappropriate for someone of my age. ‘Salka,’ Artek said. ‘It’s a book! Who knows if any of us get out of here? And you don’t want her to read a book because it might be bad for her?’ We had to laugh.
Zygush wasn’t the only puppet in this child’s closet. As soon as the door opened and light shone in, we all came alive. Cleaning. Peeling potatoes. Boiling water. Washing our faces. Rolling up our pallets. Slicing the stale bread, which at least was easy to cut. If the light stayed on for a while, I would teach the children their lessons, or even now and then we would share a few moments of play, of making dolls. If only the Fascists knew that Jews were darning their socks! Thank God Lola was here to teach us all these things. We tried to make money any way we could, but with no electricity, we were making even less than before.
We were always on the brink of starvation, yet somehow we managed to get by. Every decent thing we owned had been sold long ago. My very last dress had brought us 200 zloty and 5 kilograms of flour. Beck had sold some of Papa’s underwear for 110 zloty and given us 120. God bless him. But now there was truly nothing left for us to sell.
Papa was not a forgetful man. He remembered every birthday of everyone in our big family. He knew the Talmud and Torah by heart. He was the holder of our collective memory. Mama had been rummaging through the very back of our makeshift shelves recessed into the wall in a last attempt to find something when she stumbled upon a large package in twine. None of us knew what it was. We had wrapped everything in newspaper in a futile attempt to keep the mould at bay. When my Mama held up Papa’s beautiful charcoal grey coat, she shook her head in surprise. ‘Oy, my aiver butelt husband!’
Mama had had the coat made right before the war. The wool was imported from England, had an Afghan lambskin collar and was worth a fortune. Now it brought us only 600 zloty. But it was enough to eat for a week. Even Mama, who had been breaking down, with constant headaches from worry and grief, started to look like her old self again. Every time she’d look at Papa for the next few days, she’d just shake her head and smile. At least we were safe. While we hungered, or sat crouched in the dark, others were being killed or deported.
The news from the outside world hadn’t been good. In fact, there was no news at all. For what seemed like weeks, nothing was happening. At last the BBC announced that the Russians had taken Zhitomir and Kiev. It was the first significant Russian advance in months. Mr Patrontasch took out his map and marked the new front. But only a few days later, the Nazis took back both cities. When Mr Patrontasch erased the advance on his map, I felt like he was erasing our hope as well. They fought on the Eastern Front. They fought on the Western Front. They conferred in Moscow. They conferred in London. But it was all moving with the pace of a tortoise.
We had been in this tiny hole for one entire year, surviving by the generosity of the Becks and sheer luck, almost in equal measure. Despite the fact that time seemed to stand still in the bunker, a whole year had gone by. On 22 November, the anniversary of the first akcja, we lit three candles in memory of the Jews murdered. If we had lit a candle for
each person who had died, our bunker would have shined brighter than the brightest star. It was almost unfathomable to think back to when we had first arrived. Back then we had thought we would be stuck in this hole for a couple of weeks at most, but now with the game of chess Russia and Nazi Germany were playing it could go on for ever. Out of nowhere Beck had said that he thought we might be in here until next November. Another year! I couldn’t imagine it. I don’t think Beck understood how much we depended on his every word for our sense of what was real and what was imagined. I didn’t think it would be possible for us to hold out for another year. There were so many close calls, and Beck’s drinking caused him to be very unreliable, and now Julia and Ala seemed to be torn between saving us and protecting themselves from further hurt and humiliation.
Over the past several weeks, the two of them had moved in and out half a dozen times. Julia didn’t even knock on the trapdoor to announce her plans any more. And when she was at home, she would leave her suitcase at the door as a reminder to Beck. Beck was now having regular ‘dinners’ at the sister-in-law’s house. A couple of weeks ago Beck had told us that this sister-in-law was romancing a Ukrainian policeman. As she had known about us since last Christmas, their pillow talk could spell disaster. But Beck had told us not to worry. ‘I’ll talk her out of it. She’s a reasonable woman.’ And he had gone off to her house just outside of town. Now it was clear that he was doing more than just talking. Was this Beck’s way of keeping her quiet? We didn’t even know this woman’s given name and Julia didn’t tell us. She only referred to her as the ‘sister-in-law’. Not referring to your sister-in-law by name was as good as a slap across the face. It was that big an insult, and was all that Julia could do in revenge. Julia didn’t let us see how hurt she was. Until he straightened himself out, she would only come home at night when Beck was at work. She would have left him altogether if it wasn’t for us.