We sit silently, both staring at the floor. Then in a flat, monotone voice he continues. “After October 21, there were maybe two thousand ‘legal’ Jews left in the Little Ghetto. Those who had the work papers and are ‘essential’ are still working in the factories. We heard that after the Aktion, some Jews were able to stay hiding in the ghetto—in false ceilings and in cellars. But just last week the Nazis and the Ukrainians went through the ghetto knocking down ceilings and walls and they found people hiding, hundreds of them. The Ukrainians were even more brutal than the Nazis. They herded those poor people into the Great Synagogue, made them take off all of their clothes, and did horrible, inhumane things to them.
“My friend is a Polish policeman and came to tell me what he witnessed. I have never seen him so crazed or sick. He said that the Ukrainians kept the Jews in the synagogue for days, with no sanitation or water or food. Oh, Pani Gomolinska, how can people be so cruel to each other? The Ukrainians ripped the babies from their mothers’ breasts and threw the infants against the walls. Then they threw their mangled little bodies into a huge bonfire. The mothers were screaming. The Ukrainians laughed and hooted as they shot the mothers while the milk flowed from their breasts. Then they loaded the living onto trucks.”
Again, silence. He looks at me. “There are still a few fortunate Jews hiding outside the ghetto protected by Polish families. My place is so small,” he says apologetically.
My mouth is filling with saliva. I am afraid I will throw up. I swallow the bitter bile down. I am afraid to look in his eyes.
“My father?” I ask.
“I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “Your dear father and the two youngest were in the second transport to Treblinka.”
“But not Regina? She was to be protected! We paid Pani Zbeingska with our silver candlesticks and furs and she promised to take Regina when the need came and dye her red hair brown.”
He shakes his head no. “When the time came, Pani Zbeingska took the candlesticks and the furs but sent Regina back within one hour, still with her flaming-red hair, so all the world could see that she was a Jew. I’m so sorry,” he says. “At least Regina was with her father and Beniek when the trains left.”
“And Uncle Josef?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Hela and Marek?”
“I don’t know. There was some story about Marek being taken to Bugaj hidden in a large sack.”
“And Heniek?” I whisper. I am sure Heniek is fine. He was working for the Judenrat and must be more of an essential worker, even safer than being at Hortensja or Bugaj.
Pan Dobranski sadly shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“And Rozia Nissenson?” But then he doesn’t know who she is. “And the rabbi?”
“The rabbi was one of the last to go. I heard that he stood there while they beat him and they tried to humiliate him, but they could not break him. He was such a strong man, with his one arm. He said that he had to stay with his flock and he would not let them go alone like sheep to the slaughter. He told the Jews it was better to have a living death than a dead life. He was put on the last train.”
“And Rebbitzin Lau and Lulek?”
“I don’t know. I think they were able to hide,” he says. “Pani Gomolinska, it is not safe for you here. They have not finished looking for Jews. You must go back to Rabka. I will walk with you to the train.”
I have nothing to pay him with, no way to thank him. Soon I won’t have enough money left to buy even my one bowl of soup. I feel totally numb like when Mama died, and again, I am moving like a robot. I am Gucia with no family left. Danuta Barbara is somewhere else. Somehow, we get to the station.
Then I start shaking through my core. My stomach feels numb and cold and hollow and sick, sick, sick, and my teeth are chattering. Pan Dobranski puts me on the train to Rabka.
The train goes through Kraków and I look out the window and remember taking this same journey on my way to begin university, when I was young and innocent and happy, to meet my future. Was it only a few years ago? How can the scenery look unchanged when the universe bears no resemblance to what it was? I remember that time, looking forward to exploring new parts of Poland if I wasn’t too busy with my studies. In fact, Itka Moskowitz and I had talked of visiting Oświęcim sometime to see the sights; it was a picturesque market town fifty kilometers south of Kraków. Of the twelve thousand people living there, seven thousand were Jews whose ancestors had lived there for over five hundred years. There were even twelve synagogues in that little town. We were also curious to see the Gypsies, who seemed fascinating and exotic in our imaginations. Now, in this new universe, this town of Oświęcim, which the Germans call Auschwitz, is not only Judenrein but “cleansed” of the hated Gypsies as well. It is not a destination I would choose for a pleasure trip.
For weeks I have controlled my emotions every moment. But now I cannot control myself. I have used up all my strength or will to go on.
I sob the many hours on the train, hoping no one will notice. Perhaps they will just think I have a very bad cold.
Sabina
For wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge;
Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.
—Ruth 1:16
DECEMBER 1942
I cannot believe that I have slept, dreamlessly, through the night. I awake in my small bed in my guesthouse in Rabka and I think of what Pan Dobranski has told me. Maybe Idek and Josek and Hela and Marek are safe. But my father and Beniek and Regina and the rabbi and twenty-four thousand of my landsmen. Are they dead or being tortured or are they just working in some other place? How can any of this be true?
I have no idea what to do. I have no plan and no hope. I get up like a brainless machine and wash and dress and leave the room and walk to a café and have coffee and buy the newspaper and walk to the park.
Sitting on that same bench is the young woman I saw as I was leaving for Piotrków. I look at her and realize I know her. It is Sabina Sheratska; Markowitz before she married. I recognize her from Piotrków.
We never really knew each other, but I remember that night so long ago, when she and her friends Leon Reichmann and Henry Marton and Sala Jacobowitz and others in Betar mocked David Ben-Gurion. I remember that big fight and how horrified I was that Jews would be so violent with each other. It would be safer for me to walk on, not take a chance of arousing suspicion, but I feel so lonely and desperate. I take the risk and sit next to her on the bench. In a whisper, in Polish, we start to talk.
I tell Sabina all the heartbreaking news that I have just learned from Pan Dobranski and she sits there, stunned like me. She and her husband had escaped from the ghetto separately, since it would be more dangerous for her to be with a Jewish man if they were stopped. He is living with a Pole outside Warsaw and they have been able to stay in touch by mail. We decide to share a room. It will save both of us money and at least we won’t be alone anymore.
We stay in Rabka for a few weeks. Luckily for Sabina her husband is very well off and has good contacts. He is able to send her money each month, so unlike me she does not suffer constant hunger. It is difficult to sit across from her at a restaurant, sipping my meager bowl of soup, while Sabina can afford a real meal; but I understand that in these times no one knows how long they will have to stretch their limited resources. And from earliest childhood Sabina has been sickly, so she must eat enough to maintain her strength.
Even more important, her husband has been able to send her an official Kennkarte, the German identification card. Hers is foolproof. Sabina has dark, wavy brown hair but bright blue eyes and her Polish is perfect, so with her valid Kennkarte she feels safe that she can pass.
The name she has chosen for herself is Janina, Junka for short, and that is what I will call her. I tell her to call me Basia. She is worried sick about her family and, like me, driven to despair by the loneliness and boredom.
Because of her, Sabina’s husband helps me, too. He
instructs me to have a regulation-size photo taken and to send it to him. He uses the photo I have mailed to him and he sends me back an authentic government Kennkarte with my new name and my picture stamped with the official German seal. Once I add my fingerprints, it’s perfect! So much better than my barely passable ghetto forgery. This is more important than food!
In order to better pass as gentile Poles, we decide to go to the Catholic church to familiarize ourselves with what they do. We sit in the back and watch the strange ceremonies. We try to mimic the motions of the people sitting in front of us. It is so difficult because the service is in Latin and what little I remember of the basic vocabulary and grammar I learned in school does me no good here at all. We don’t understand a word. But we go home and practice crossing ourselves and wonder what that small matzo they put on the people’s tongues must taste like.
We have heard that there are still a few Jews hiding in Rabka and the Gestapo is looking for them, so we decide to leave and go to Zakopane. It is another resort town and we will just be carefree Polish tourists on our Christmas holidays in the Tatra Mountains with no thoughts of the war.
Into the Lions’ Den
Daniel was then brought and thrown into the lions’ den. The king spoke to Daniel and said: “Your God, whom you serve so regularly, will deliver you.”
—Daniel 6:16
FEBRUARY 1943
Zakopane is truly beautiful but bitingly cold. Sabina and I have the same boring routine each day. We wake up, have coffee, read the paper, go to another café for coffee, take a walk, go back to our room to rest, find a cheap restaurant for dinner. Sabina orders a small meal. I have just a bowl of soup. We try to fortify ourselves from the icy weather. I am worrying about money and Sabina is worrying about her husband. She has enough money to last her for a while, but she has not heard from him for six weeks.
APRIL 1943
I am almost out of money and must find work. We don’t talk about it much, but we are both worried that Sabina’s husband has been caught. We know that the Nazis urgently need workers for menial labor in Germany and are conscripting Poles to work there. Those Poles who can afford it pay lower-class Poles to go in their place. Few, but some, volunteer. I know that we can find jobs easily here in Poland but even so, we are not safe in Zakopane for a minute.
My mama always said that a Pole could smell a Jew a mile away, and that is true. Each day we are here is a danger and we are both on edge. I suggest to Sabina that we go to the Arbeitsampt, the German employment bureau, and volunteer to work as maids in Germany. That way we can make money and work in a private home, away from prying eyes. The irony is startling. We would be safer in Germany than here.
The Germans’ blind submission to authority makes them stupid. If the government says there are no more Jews left in Germany, they could be looking one in the eye and not believe that person could be a Jew. Here a Pole might see a Jew; there a German would only see a Pole.
But Sabina is afraid. She can afford to keep moving from town to town, and she worries she doesn’t have the stamina for physical labor. She suffered from tuberculosis as a child and has always been frail. And of course there would be the danger of exposing ourselves to scrutiny at the Arbeitsampt.
Even though I dread the prospect of being on my own again, I don’t see that I have a choice. Unlike Sabina, I have to earn some money soon to keep from starving. And after almost getting caught at the extermination company in Nowy Sącz, I know it is too dangerous to take a job in Poland. So I dress like a Polish peasant, pinch my cheeks to look healthy, and with my heart in my throat and my Kennkarte in my purse, I go to present myself to the local Arbeitsampt.
Fortunately the intake worker is a Volksdeutsche. This German woman speaks Polish poorly, so she has no idea that my accent is educated and not that of a peasant. It all goes quickly and smoothly and after typing up my registration she tells me to report to the transition camp in Kraków on Friday. I go back to the room feeling sad to be separating from Sabina but mostly relieved that I passed.
But Sabina has had a change of heart. While I was gone she realized how terrified she was of going our separate ways.
“Basia,” she says, “I would rather risk my physical health with hard labor than my sanity from being alone again. And now seeing that you made it through, I want to go tomorrow to apply as well. Please, will you come with me?”
I am shaken by her request. This means exposing myself to danger again for no reason. She shouldn’t have put me in that difficult position, but I cannot say no. So on Tuesday I go with her—again into the lions’ den.
The woman stares at Sabina. “I don’t know about you. You look like you could be a Jew,” she says.
“With those blue eyes?” I snap.
The woman says that the other day they almost caught a Jew. But the Jew escaped by jumping through a window, breaking the glass, and leaving blood everywhere.
We look at her blankly.
“Well, it is a good Kennkarte,” the woman says, looking at Sabina’s identification papers, and she stamps her registration.
It is done. Sabina and I are happy! We are going to Germany!
Friday, Sabina and I report to the transit camp in Kraków. We are in a group of a thousand Polish registered workers. Both of us are in a panic and barely talk at all, so afraid of giving something away. Can they tell that we are Jews? Can they tell from our accents that we are educated city girls and not uneducated villagers? We are herded into a large, now-empty factory which has been turned into a dormitory and we each get a little cot. We feel lucky to get the ones by the wall. All of the women must sleep together in that one huge room. But first we are called to dinner in another vast room. None of us has eaten any food all day and we are starving.
We are each given a bowl and stand in line. A huge vat is steaming. They give us some black bread and then ladle something that looks like goulash into the bowl: hot meat swimming in a thick soup. It smells delicious. The serving is generous, and the bread is not too coarse. We sit at large tables, surrounded by maybe eight hundred Polish women. Some of the women cross themselves and mutter a short prayer before they eat, so we do, too. With the first spoonful, Sabina and I glance furtively at each other. We realize that this meat is pork. If we hesitate, if we do not eat it, we will be discovered. And if one of us does not eat it, both of us will be found out. I cross myself again and bow my head, and silently I recite the Shema, our holiest prayer: “Sh’ma Yis’ra’eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad” (Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One). What else can we do? In Jewish law, life is holy, and the preservation of life—one’s own as well as the lives of others—is our highest commandment, more important than almost any other mitzvah. So in this moment, because our lives depend on it, we must eat non-kosher food.
The woman sitting at the next chair looks at me curiously.
“I have not had meat in so long,” I whisper. “I had to thank Mother Mary before I ate more.”
The pork is delicious and both Sabina and I take the dark bread and wipe our bowls clean. I can’t tell if I am relieved, surprised, disgusted, or ashamed. I have been hungry for so long.
It is lights out and, like most of the other women in our dormitory, Sabina and I kneel at our beds, cross ourselves, and pray before we get under the covers. The truth is we are actually praying to any God who will listen.
The next day is Saturday, our Shabbos. We are given eggs and bacon for breakfast. Again we eat. Again it is delicious. Then we are forced to remove all of our clothes, put them on top of our suitcases and walk, totally naked, into a large shower room, leaving our suitcases and clothes on the side, near the walls, where we can keep an eye on them. Cold water comes flowing out of the showerheads and we are told to lather ourselves with the harsh soap. I have never stood unclothed in front of anyone in my life. I feel utterly humiliated. I keep my eyes closed tight.
We are given rags to dry ourselves and then they spray us with powder, I suppose to ki
ll any lice. Still naked, we stand in a line and we are examined, everywhere, in every little private place of our bodies, by male doctors. It is a disgusting and traumatic experience. But I keep thinking how lucky Sabina and I are to be women. If we were Jewish men, the physical mark of our covenant with God would mean immediate discovery and death.
After that degrading examination, we are allowed to put our clothes back on and then we take our suitcases and are marched to the train station and put back on the trains. We are two Jews who are escaping from the Nazis and this evil war by choosing to go to Nazi Germany.
For the first time in so long, much to my surprise, I feel relief. The trains are very nice. Sabina and I are able to sit next to each other on comfortable seats. We start to relax. We are allowed to choose our destination and are aiming to get to the most southwest part of Germany, near the Swiss border. My heart flutters when we cross the old border from what was once my beloved Poland into Germany, though it could be said that we had already been living in Germany since October 6, 1939, when Hitler declared victory in Poland.
But my relief is short-lived. An SS officer, whom I’d noticed looking our way, takes the unoccupied seat on my other side. He asks if we speak German, and I say that I do. After some inane small talk he asks what kind of work we are looking for. In my very best German I tell him we both want to work as a Wirtschaft, thinking that it means domestic maid in a private house. Sabina and I hope to stay together, but we know that it might not be possible, and perhaps we would be safer apart. If one of us gets caught the other might still be free. And I reason that if we work in private houses we can keep to ourselves; the fewer people we are in contact with, the better. It seems the safest option.
Claiming My Place Page 14