by Clara Kramer
We were horrified for Julia, but there was nothing to do. Our lives were in his hands. We couldn’t risk his anger, even though this new affair was endangering Julia and Ala as much as us. There was no understanding Beck. Anyone who would dare to hide 18 Jews had to be crazy, defiant, arrogant and confident. I couldn’t even be angry with him. None of us could. We’d just sit in silence and deal with this one added threat to our survival and go on.
Adding to the problem was Ala’s new boyfriend, the Nazi pilot. Adolph had been flying fighter planes on the Russian front for over two years. Beck had immediately told us that he was a good man and had confided in Beck that he despised Hitler. But even someone who despised Hitler could betray us. But Ala was in love and so Adolph came to the house often. He would come in the afternoon, sometimes unannounced, spreading panic in the bunker. Or he would come for dinner, bearing flowers and little gifts, staying late and sometimes even staying over. Beck liked him, so he would even come when Julia and Ala were away at Julia’s sister’s house. Our narrow window of freedoms had been slammed shut. We couldn’t move, cook, talk, or even go the bathroom when Adolph was here. The card table was in the Beck’s bedroom, right above where our pails were. Adolph and Ala would play cards, chat and listen to music for hours and hours. They’d dance right over our heads. Or if it wasn’t them, Beck would be entertaining his card buddies or others in there. It seemed like there were people upstairs more often than not in the evenings. While these visits might help defy the rumours and accusations that the Becks were harbouring Jews, it sentenced us to long stretches of silence in which we could not move or speak. Even my own breathing had become shallow. Our lives were miserable. Finally Patrontasch asked Beck to move the card table to the living room so that we could at least relieve ourselves without fear of being overheard.
While the progress between the Russians and the Allies seemed hopelessly stalled, the news from our little town was more than grim. It seemed like every day, either Beck or Julia was forced to be the unfortunate messenger of bad news. I mourned the growing list of lost friends.
When Beck returned from the Janowska work camp in Lvov, where he would go and gather news for us from stolen conversations at the barbed-wire fence, he had to announce the final extermination of the inmates there. We had already known that Hermann had perished during the summer, but there was no more protecting Lola from the truth. She had lost everyone now. When Julia returned from Zaleszcryki, a nearby town, she said that partisans had been hanged like Christmas ornaments from the trees. They had deported old Mrs Twordyewicz. She was stooped over, practically blind and deaf, just a wisp of a woman. Not to mention that she had converted to Catholicism as a little girl and had gone to mass every day of her life. But they deported her just the same. Another friend of ours, Misko Segal, had been found and murdered. Sometimes the details were hazy. They had found another Jew in hiding. His name might have been Springer. Beck wasn’t sure. It hardly seemed to matter what his name was. Beck had announced that the man had at least had the time to hang himself and cheat the Nazis of the pleasure of killing him. Would we be brought to that? It seemed inconceivable that that idea would be a solace at such a time. But so much of what we were hearing and living seemed inconceivable. Beck was most shook up by what happened to Mr Chachkes, a well-known lawyer in Zolkiew. Beck had heard that he and his sister-in-law had been captured in a small village outside of town. Beck didn’t know Chachkes at all, but he and Julia were both frantic because the police had found papers on Chachkes that incriminated the peasants who had hidden them. Both Jews and their saviours had been taken away in chains to Lvov.
There had been a new round of rumours that the Becks might be harbouring Jews. Beck’s boss at the alcohol depot, Meyer, apparently thought Beck was leading a life ‘too rich’ and ‘too good’ for his salary. He informed none other than SS Obersturmführer Von Pappen, the SS officer who organized the deportations and liquidations in Zolkiew, of his concerns. Even two of Beck’s diehard Polish card buddies, Eisenbard and Dr Lucynski, who didn’t mind playing with Krueger, Schmidt and the other Nazis, were terrified of Von Pappen and no longer dared to come over to play cards. Eisenbard had told Beck he had heard his house was ‘unclean’. If Beck’s best friend was saying that, what would the rest of the town be thinking?
Beck was right to be worried. The man was ruthless. It was common knowledge that Von Pappen had had a talented Jewish carpenter working for him by the name of Hiam Schott. Von Pappen liked him and had protected him. There had been orders that no one was to bother Schott. So he had been spared the deportations and the akcja. When Schott had cut part of a finger off, Von Pappen had personally driven him to the hospital to have the wound taken care of. But as they walked out of the hospital together, Von Pappen had nonchalantly pulled out his side arm and shot Mr Schott in the head. God knew what would happen if Von Pappen or any other quisling found out that Beck once stole his Christmas carp to celebrate with the Jews he was hiding downstairs!
Beck had already just been sent to Von Pappen because his rifle had been stolen. This was enough of an offence for Beck to be shot or hanged. Beck had fallen asleep on the job and the rifle had been stolen by a Ukrainian Blue Coat. Beck had had the chutzpah to inform Von Pappen that he had been pretending to be asleep. He had claimed that all the Ukrainians were thieving bastards and that he had wanted to catch one of them in the act. Von Pappen had said he would have to think about what measures to take and had sent Beck home.
The litany of deaths, the rumours and Beck’s own provocative behaviour convinced the men in the bunker that something must be done. This grave offence would not go unpunished. After much discussion they had come up with a possible solution. Mr Patrontasch would have to convince Beck to apologize to Von Pappen.
Mr Patrontasch knocked on the trapdoor and, a few minutes later, Beck opened it.
‘A word, if you have a minute,’ was all Mr Patrontasch said.
Our lives were at stake and we were sending him on a mission that was as perilous as an escape from the ghetto or high-level diplomacy between Roosevelt and Stalin. Convincing Beck, who was as stubborn as any human being could be, to apologize to a man he thought a murderer would be a difficult feat. But just a few minutes later, Patrontasch returned, pen and paper in hand. Beck wanted Patrontasch to write a letter to ‘soften up’ Von Pappen. Even though Beck was a Volksdeutscher, he had very little German. Patrontasch started to write in his elegant German script how honoured Beck was to be able to serve the Reich in whatever capacity he might best be used. He wrote that it had always been a dream of his that Germany would return to Poland and fulfill its destiny of eastward expansion, bringing culture and civilization to the Slavic masses. He wrote how much he admired Von Pappen personally and how pleased he was to have the privilege to serve under such a German patriot. The lies flowed effortlessly. ‘Beck’ begged Von Pappen to understand that his personal failings in no way detracted from his loyalty to the Fatherland.
When Beck came back a few hours later after delivering the letter, with vodka and tobacco as a reward, he bragged that Von Pappen had been eating out of his hand. The crisis had been averted and the men shared an uncomfortable laugh with Beck. If only Von Pappen had known that a Jew had penned the eloquent ode to the Fatherland. But the relief was short-lived.
That same night we were awakened by Julia screaming and knocking on the trapdoor. ‘It’s the Ukranian police!’ It had to be three o’clock in the morning. Mama was so upset she fainted and the children started crying, but by this time they knew how to cry silently. The rest of us started praying. Beck must have been reported by one of his many enemies. It could have been the rifle. It could have been anything. The ‘why’ didn’t make any difference. The police were at the door and we would know soon enough. We listened as they informed Julia that they needed to bring Beck in. The commandant of the Ukrainian police wanted to interrogate him. As calmly as she could, Julia asked what he had done. The policemen didn’t have the entire st
ory, but they said that Beck had been as ‘drunk as a Polack’ and that he had said ‘something’ to the chief of their Blue Coats. We had heard Beck at his worst so we knew it could easily have been any one of a hundred horrific things. Beck had just escaped Von Pappen and now the Ukrainians were after him, and in the middle of the night. These men had grudges that went back years and years and now they were looking to settle old scores.
Beck must have passed out because otherwise he would surely have been yelling at the Blue Coats to ‘shit on their mothers’. It was Beck’s standard expression when he was cursing. The first time Beck had used it, poor Mama had looked shocked and had immediately shot Mania and me one of her looks that said, ‘You better not have heard that and if you did, you better forget you did.’ But by now, she was thankful this was the only curse in his arsenal. He usually said it to Julia.
One of the policemen found Beck and grumbled to his colleagues that if they wanted to bring him in, they would have to carry him. The commotion must have woken Beck up, because we heard another one say, ‘Go to bed, Valentin. We’ll just say we didn’t find you at home.’ The same policemen whom Beck had accused of stealing his rifle were now protecting him. They left shortly thereafter.
While Julia was still trying to find out from Beck what exactly he had said and when to warrant an interrogation, Beck, in his drunken stupor, decided he had to go to the police station, confront his accusers and get to the bottom of ‘this travesty of justice’. Julia stalled him while Ala went and hid his bicycle, hoping that if Beck insisted on going, the walk might at least sober him up on the way. I heard Julia scream, ‘I can’t take it any longer!’ and slam the door shut after her and Ala. Beck continued to curse and throw furniture around the place while trying to find his bicycle. Then a door was smashed in. It sounded like the bathroom door. Why was he looking in the bathroom for his bicycle? He must have been beyond drunk. Beck cursed Julia, calling her an idiot. ‘I shit on your mother!’ I didn’t know if he even realized that his wife and daughter had left. We heard the outside door slam again and then there was silence. The idea of what a drunk Beck would say to this Ukrainian police chief who hated him and was looking for any reason to see him shot was terrifying. There was no hope of sleep now as we waited for either Beck or the police to come back.
When Beck came back in the morning, he refused to tell us what happened and, to make things worse, he was too sick to go to work that night. We were living below a live volcano that could erupt at any moment. Julia only came home for a few minutes to tell us she was going to Lvov to buy tobacco, and Ala left for work. As soon as we heard the bus for Lvov leave from the stop across the street, Beck knocked on the trapdoor. ‘The house is filthy. I want you to come up and clean it.’ Lola and I crawled to the trapdoor because usually we do the cleaning. But Beck said, ‘Klara, why don’t you give me a hand?’ We watched Beck’s hand come down through the hatch, chivalrous and gallant, to help Klara upstairs.
The men watched and discussed the war between the Allies and the Axis powers with Talmudic fury. But it was the war between the Becks that had the most relevance to our lives. Italy, Germany, England, these were places in the novels I read. It was impossible to connect the conferences and battles to the battleground on the floor above. One wrong word and we were dead. It was that simple. There was a world war. It was taking place upstairs.
And now the war had spread into the bunker between the families over a piece of wood five centimetres wide. It had been brewing for months and months, ever since Zygush and Zosia came to live with us and Mania died a few days later. It was almost too horrible to talk about. Because of Mania’s death we were too grief-stricken to ask for more sleeping space for the two children. It was the furthest thing from our minds. My parents had been religious about never mentioning her name. They told not one story about her to make them feel better. They didn’t exchange one memory. We didn’t have one picture of my sister. We were each alone with our grief. Zygush and Zosia learned never to mention her name. Our very silence was our song of mourning. But with the arrival of the two children, there was not room enough for the five of us. It was hard enough to sleep as it was and with Zygush and Zosia it was almost impossible. I didn’t know why we endured the additional discomfort for so long. Perhaps it was because the two children had taken Mania’s place on our pallets and even after she had been dead for eight months to say the words out loud would evoke her memory in too painful a way.
I knew we couldn’t go on being polite and considerate with each other for ever. The resentment on our side about the space and the three families’ resentment about the Steckels’ hard hearts was like a leak in a gas main. All we needed was one spark. The men had been whispering from time to time about asking the Steckels for help, at least for the four children. But they never did. My father was afraid to offend the Steckels, because he knew the Becks depended on their money and he didn’t want Beck mad at us. I knew these men were brought up not to ask for anything, just as Mania and I were. It wasn’t a matter of pride. It was just in the Jewish world of Zolkiew, no one ever had to ask for help. It was always given without a word. It was a sin to humiliate a man by calling attention to his poverty. The Steckels had perfect vision and could calculate to the gram the weight of any piece of bread, lard, meat, potato, onions or anything else. Yet they were blind when it came to seeing that the children’s legs looked like clubs, all bone with the knob of a knee in the middle. They could see their big eyes when the food passed by their faces. I know the children just liked to look at the food and smell it because they couldn’t help themselves and it was better than nothing. Zygush’s little face was looking like an old man’s from hunger. Sometimes all I dreamed about was the day I would be alone with a loaf of bread and a knife and I could cut myself a slice as big as I wanted.
The two children in eight months had never once asked why the Steckels didn’t share their food with us and not once did they ask them for even a crumb. There had to be a word for people incapable of feeling shame. To me, the Steckels were as bad as the Fascists. I felt there were only two kinds of people in the world. Those who wanted to save us and those who wanted to kill us. Even in times like these, a person couldn’t be only for himself. Poor Mania endured torture to save us all, including the Steckels. Yet they dared hoard their money as if they didn’t even know Mania’s name. They owed Mania their lives and did they ever offer their condolences? No! Did they offer to share what they had even for the children in her memory? No! I tried not to hate the Steckels as I hated the Fascists. They were after all hiding from the Nazis just as I was. They were fellow Jews. But to them, my sister’s death only meant a few more centimetres of sleeping space.
My father said almost too softly to hear, ‘I’ve been meaning to mention it. Since the children came to live with us…we don’t have as much sleeping room…’ The spark. We were now five people and had only sleeping room for four. When the children first arrived, we were so happy they were there and grateful they were allowed to stay that we didn’t dare ask for extra space to accommodate them. It meant that not one of us could sleep on their back or stomach. It meant we could not turn in our sleep.
The words came out of nowhere. I know he must have been thinking about saying it for months and months. I was hoping that the others would be ashamed for not thinking about it themselves and just agree. But as soon as I saw the expression on all the faces, especially the Steckels, I knew it was not to be. Not one of us asked for one extra anything in over a year. Not one. Not a cup of water. Not a potato peel. Not a drop of oil when we had it. Mama looked up from peeling the potatoes. There was no reaction at first as everyone was looking around the room for someone to say something. Mrs Melman started to say, ‘The children…’ She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I could read her mind. ‘The children could get us all killed! We didn’t want them. Beck shoved them down our throats and now you want us to give up our room? Genug is genug, enough is enough, already!’
‘
Every family, everybody, has more room than us. You think that’s right?’
‘We do you a favour and this is what we get? A lot of tsuris, trouble!’ Mrs Melman continued.
‘Look at you and look at what we’ve got!’ Mama was pointing at our sleeping area. ‘How dare you! Who are you anyway to come in here all high and mighty?’
‘You lower your voice!’ Mr Steckel actually hissed.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mama.
‘You heard me. Shatt! Shatt!’
Mr Melman tried to be a peacemaker, but it was too late. We were pushy, bossy, picky; we were taking advantage. We were risking everybody’s life. Including their children’s!
I was shaking and the children were crying. They understood no one wanted them there. I couldn’t believe that the other three families were ganging up on us. What had we done? All we had done was lost my sister. I was afraid Mr Beck would hear upstairs and get angry. I had never seen Papa so angry. And then I started screaming. ‘Quiet! Everybody be quiet!’
My father turned to me and, before I knew it, he slapped me hard across the face. He had never raised a hand to anyone in our family. Ever. He looked at me like he wanted to hit me again. His eyes, so black and drained with exhaustion, had a look I had never seen. Hot and brutal. Furious with contempt. I wanted to die. From shame. From hurt. From hurting him. From feeling how hurt he was. But then he realized what he had done. All the warmth returned to his eyes. My father had come back. I had never seen such a look on his face except for at Mania’s death. Everyone in the room was stunned. I had succeeded. The bunker was silent.