As the bombs continued to fall and the explosions thundered louder towards Warsaw as the days wore on, my family grew increasingly fearful. The artillery shells exploded one after another like a disjointed firework display. As the shells fell, they shook the earth in waves. It felt like simultaneously experiencing an endless earthquake and a continuous firestorm. There wasn’t a safe place to hide, at least not for us, the Jews. When the sirens sounded and the air raids started, we were excluded from the air raid shelters. We learned about this discriminatory rule the hard way. As shell fragments hit the building across from ours and the sirens blared, my family raced out of our home and towards the safety of the shelter. Debris rained down on us, and sparks narrowly missed our bodies as smoke burned our eyes. A child swirled about in the street, lost and stunned. Mother grabbed his arm and pulled him along towards the shelter. Once there, we were forced to step aside so that others could enter. Father yelled, fighting for protection for our family, but to no avail. Mother let go of the child and watched him slip into the safe house where his mother and father were screaming for him. Although the building was packed, five more people could have easily squeezed inside it. Two families we knew begged the others to let us join them. “There’s room! Let them in! Let them in!” they insisted. But, their efforts were in vain. A chubby old man yanked the steel door closed, sealing us out. It was cruel and unfair. My family carefully, yet quickly, ran back to our apartment, nearly falling over as shock wave after shock wave vibrated the ground.
Many times we huddled together in our apartment praying, hoping that we would not be harmed. I wish I had the words to convey how we felt during those raids. It seemed as though time concurrently rushed by quickly and crawled by slowly. Our actions were fast but our minds worked deliberately to carefully analyze which room to dart to next. Sometimes we hunkered down in our bathtub away from the windows, and at other times we hid underneath our kitchen table. We formed a tight ball, squeezing our arms around each other, as pictures crashed to the floor, as bookshelves shook, as our pulses raced. During the bombardment, my thoughts drifted to the animals I had visited at the zoo for the first time five years prior. I envisioned the terrified monkeys shrieking madly, unable to comprehend the actions taking place. I imagined the elephants, the gentle giants that had nearly touched their trunks to our faces, stomping around, alarmed, with nowhere to run. What would happen to the animals? Did anyone care about them? Why was I so worried about the animals?
Smoke filled the air, suffocating the sky. Our city was heavily bombed on Yom Kippur, a solemn high holiday reserved for fasting and atoning. Even though my family didn’t celebrate most of the Jewish holidays, we always made an effort to observe Yom Kippur. That year, however, we spent the day riding out the attack, fearing for our lives, begging to be spared.
Explosions, gunfire, the humming of airplanes and the rumbling of tanks called out in all directions. Fires spread rapidly, fueled by the substantial number of German incendiary bombs landing on the unusually dry vegetation. The German Luftwaffe, complete with hundreds of modern dive-bombers and fighter planes, quickly dominated and defeated the outdated aircraft units and smaller front put up by our Polish Air Force. During the night, flames engulfed structures and poured out of windows, lighting the skyline. When a series of bombs detonated just a few meters away from our apartment complex, I experienced short-term deafness. All around me shells were scattering and deep craters were forming in the street, but all I could hear was a low humming reverberation. Maybe it was better than hearing the devastation, I don’t know. I thought my hearing was gone forever. My mother cradled Blima, who was just over a year old, and did the best she could to calm her shrill screams. Mendel, my father, and I kept watch at the window ready to call out our next tactical move.
At one point I saw a group of neatly dressed German Waffen-SS soldiers showboating in front of a video camera, most likely recording propaganda for future use. Their uniforms were impressive with distinctive white and black symbols on their left elbows and shiny, well-made leather boots on their feet. I found myself admiring their uniforms, in particular the rounded brim of their combat helmets, but at the same time hating myself for it. They were laughing as they ruined my beloved city. It was sheer torture seeing the place I had grown up—my fantasy world—being destroyed, particularly after seeing what a mockery the Nazi soldiers were making while doing it.
CHAPTER 10
By the time Poland surrendered to Germany about three weeks after the initial attack, Warsaw was in shambles and Polish government officials, as well as many Jews, had fled the city. Giant craters littered the cobblestone streets and whole sides of buildings had sloughed off. Without walls to provide privacy, I could see people walking around inside their houses; I saw people sleeping in their bedrooms and eating dinner in their kitchens.
Smoking embers smoldered for days. Nothing was immune from the devastation. It didn’t matter if you were Jewish, Christian, wealthy or poor, no group of people was spared from the terror. Dozens of mothers who had given birth in one of the largest hospitals in the area crowded together on the floor in the basement with their newborns after the maternity ward was bombed. Churches, apartments, monuments, stores, and even public utilities were obliterated. Nearly everything was reduced to rubble.
Women and men alike took part in the cleanup; in fact, men still dressed in their designer business suits would grab a shovel and remove debris on their way to and from work. An effort was organized to repair the rails of the trolley cars that had been ripped apart. Those citizens who were lucky enough to be able to relocate used horses and buggies to transport their most precious items to other locations. Others, who had no place to go, were left homeless. Children wandered about in the streets surveying the wreckage with their innocent, wide eyes. Livestock roamed about, unsure of what to make of the situation. My family’s apartment was only mildly damaged, but we helped those who were less fortunate.
As a result of the German occupation, Jewish schools were forced to close and a series of increasingly oppressive laws were introduced. Just as my mother predicted, Hanna’s fate in Germany had become our fate in Poland.
The year that followed brought harsh changes to the fairly stable world I had known before the war started. Had I not been so sheltered, maybe the changes wouldn’t have come as such a shock. German soldiers adulterated the landscape, standing on every street corner, monitoring everything. Due to commands from the Nazis, a council of Jewish leaders was established to maintain order, called the Judenrat. A man named Adam Czerniakow was put in charge of the organization. The Germans pressured him and the rest of the Judenrat to carry out German commands while at the same time projecting a degree of normalcy in the city so that residents didn’t become alarmed because of the occupation. But, they didn’t fool us; we were alarmed.
Strict decrees were introduced right away. The most humiliating to me was the requirement that all Jews twelve years old and older had to wear an identifying marker on the outermost garment of their right arm. The specifications required that it be a plain white band with a blue Star of David in the center. From then on, anyone could identify us as Jews no matter where we went. After that, it seemed that people would go out of their way to taunt me. Little children teased me or knocked packages out of my hands when I walked while the older generation stung me with racial slurs. It took all of my willpower not to rip the goddamn armband off and burn it or punch my tormentors square in the face. I had to keep reminding myself that I could act however I wanted in my daydreams but in real life I had to follow orders and let insults roll off my back. To be fair, there were many Poles who did not take part in the persecution. Not everyone was a prejudiced participant. Some people continued to converse with me, however they only did so when the Nazis, or even their friends, were well out of sight.
Pogroms, or small organized attacks, against groups of Jews played out in all areas. People’s true colors were revealed. Jewish property was confiscated and bus
inesses were defaced. Demeaning, disgusting graffiti soon covered every Jewish-owned storefront in the area. It was only a matter of time before my father’s store was among the vandalized.
One afternoon, father and I were working in the backroom of his shop hammering the heel into a particularly handsome pair of men’s dress shoes when we heard the bang of the front door as it was ripped from its hinges. The heavy, regular clomping of SS boots made its way towards us. The hollowness of the thin floorboards became apparent. I was holding a hammer in one hand and one of the shoes in my other when they entered our workspace, yelling. Their spit rained down on us like a sprinkler as they shouted at us. Sitting there with three rifles pointed at my forehead, I was terrified. The mustiness of the dark space became distinct. I lost control of my body. The hammer slipped out of my hand and punctured the floor. I clung to the shoe like it was some sort of security blanket. Father, however, was unmoved by the situation. He removed his cigarette from his lips, blew a large cloud of smoke in the men’s direction, and calmly unfolded his license along with a few other papers and passed them over to the men. They examined the documents, which elicited more shouting. Then, just as soon as the men entered, they left. They pivoted in unison and clomped out of the room. Father stood and followed them.
Curious to see what would happen next, I ran after them. Outside, other SS soldiers were standing around, holding paintbrushes and cans. Most of the Jewish-owned businesses on either side of the street had already been vandalized by the multicolored paint. Father ran in front of one of the soldiers, screaming for the men to stop until a young soldier struck him in the face with the butt of his rifle, bloodying his nose and causing him to become momentarily disoriented. While my father collected himself, the soldier swiped a diagonal black line across his chest. The soldiers laughed, firing off insults. Father became irate. That spurred the soldiers to continue on with their heckling. I stood there stunned, feeling too weak to intervene. I wanted to hide inside the store, but my feet wouldn’t let me move. I just watched as my father was painted across the face and neck with a lopsided Star of David. The watery scarlet-colored paint dripped down his skin and onto his shirt. His face was flushed both from anger and embarrassment. Another soldier picked up a paintbrush saturated with yellow, primed to follow suit. But, my father reacted quickly. He crushed his cigarette beneath his feet, furrowed his brow, grabbed the brush from the soldier, and finished painting the store windows on his own. The soldiers watched as he drew a perfect Star of David and the word “Jude.” They were taken aback by his gesture. By reacting in the manner he did, my father took the “fun” out of the situation for the men so they walked away and moved on to hassle another Jewish store owner. Father turned to me and said, “No one ruins my storefront except for me.” His words said it all. Defacing his store was torture for him, but he wasn’t willing to die over it. By defiling it himself, the experience wasn’t as traumatic for him. I can understand that.
A few minutes passed and I could do little to ease the awkwardness of the situation so I stood there mute, still holding the leather shoe, and robotically nodded. Father grabbed it from me and sent me home. The cumulative, noxious wet paint fumes made me feel lightheaded as I made my way back to our apartment.
When I walked into his shop the following morning, father was asleep at his workbench—his hair was sticking up in all directions and glossed in a waxy film as if he had been pulling at it with his polish-coated fingers—and the pair of shoes we had been working on when we were interrupted was laced and tagged for pickup.
CHAPTER 11
Non-Jewish owned businesses ostracized us by posting humiliating signs, insinuating that we were on the same hierarchical level as dogs, barring us from entering. Jewish customs and rituals were also strictly limited or outlawed altogether. We had to tip our hats to the Germans whenever we saw them. Clusters of aggressive Polish teenagers unleashed random, violent attacks on the Jewish population without fear of reprisal or reprimand. When a German was killed, one hundred Jewish lives were threatened and taken. The city that was my entire world became a place I no longer recognized.
I felt as though I wasn’t even safe in my bedroom.
Information was strictly slanted and controlled, especially since the Nazis forbade Jewish newspapers and the ownership of all radios (I suppose my father had been just a little ahead of the game in getting rid of ours). Even so, underground political groups were organized in attempts to defy the occupiers. Through them newspapers were printed and limited information was shared.
Food was in short supply, so Jewish ration cards were stamped with a “J” and hours of shopping were restricted. There were times when we would stand in line for more than an hour waiting for our ration of bread only to be told our attempts at subsistence were in vain when the supply ran out. Getting our hands on such items as milk or chocolate was even trickier, if not impossible. Only once did my family obtain milk and that was during a crisis when Blima was sick. My mother was under the impression that milk acted as a natural healing remedy and therefore she always gave it to us when we weren’t feeling well. She did what I believe any mother with little money and an ill child to care for would have done had she been in the same situation. She heatedly negotiated with a woman who was selling milk until an agreement was reached. In the end, my mother grunted as the seller pushed a glass bottle across the counter to her. I watched as mother pulled her silk dress over her head, smoothed down her hair, and handed the dress to the other woman. Fortunately for her, she was wearing a full-length cotton slip underneath her dress, but that didn’t prevent other shoppers in the outdoor market from stealing glimpses of her and making remarks. Mother grabbed the milk and led me out of the market, her head held high so as to not let the other customers think that their stares affected her. “Don’t turn around, Henryk. Let them think what they will think. Their thoughts don’t have any impact on the way we feel,” she told me. Her words of wisdom always poured out so naturally. Exchanges like that would become commonplace as the German occupation continued.
Even non-Jews were not immune from the wrath of the Nazis, however. Non-Jewish women who slept with Jewish men were shamed for their “inappropriate,” illegal deed. These women were paraded through the streets wearing signs around their necks proclaiming their “misjudgment.” How did the Nazis know the intimate details of our lives? I wondered if we were all being secretly monitored.
Ever-changing curfews were established that if broken resulted in ruthless penalties, including death. The few friends I still had stopped agreeing to see me. The circle of my parents’ friends dwindled, as well. In this new situation, we were all becoming isolated from those we had considered our companions.
You couldn’t even walk down the street without getting harassed for being Jewish. In fact, we were banned from walking on the sidewalks, resulting in many of us being hit by cars as we toddled in the streets. Cars zipped past us, seemingly swerving sharply to run into us. We, as Jews, were like the mice and they, as Germans and Nazi supporters, were like the cats; no matter where we went or what we did, they would find us and make us their prey.
Just before dusk one day, I encountered a couple of German soldiers who were ripe for stirring up trouble. I tried my best to maneuver around them without catching their attention. I knew they wanted to mess with me. Lengthening my stride as I walked towards them, I kept getting closer. There was no way around them; they had already seen me from thirty meters away. If I changed course they would approach me for sure. Then I was ten meters away. Then I was less than three meters away. Then one of them grabbed me by the arm. At the same time, another soldier tackled a man I didn’t even know was behind me. They pulled the two of us up against one another and ordered us to give the “Heil Hitler!” salute. As Jews, we were forbidden from giving this salute; if Nazi supporters saw us doing so, which we would only do to ridicule the stupid greeting, it was an invitation for a beating. I hesitated. Why would I honor the very man who had put us
in such a wretched position? I shook my head “no.” The scraggily man beside me reacted by looking down at his feet. The soldiers again ordered us to make the salute. Shaking, I looked at the man next to me, and he stared back. Even though it was paradoxical for us to salute Hitler, we did. We had to. I knew it was a lose-lose situation, but what choice did we have? As soon as we did, one of the soldiers clobbered us with a baton. I was struck behind my knees and across the small of my back as the soldiers laughed and a few curious onlookers gawked. I dragged myself home feeling totally disgraced.
There were other acts of violence for no apparent reason, which resulted in the death of innocent lives. Jewish men, particularly the more Orthodox ones, were publicly shamed for their facial hair. The SS singled out such a man with a long beard and equally long “peyots,” or sideburns, and called over people to shout obscenities as they hacked off the man’s hair with pleasure. I saw a Nazi soldier gun down an elderly man simply because he was wearing traditional Jewish attire. Following the gunshot, I stopped in my tracks and visualized myself melting and blending into the pavement. Attempting to make a stealthy escape—trying to remain undetected—I crouched down as I turned to walk away and out of the corner of my eye I saw a row of bodies hanging by ropes on lampposts.
At that moment, I craved the lighthearted daydreams and the innocent existence of my childhood.
CHAPTER 12
Over time as the situation in Warsaw grew bleaker, our fate continued to become more uncertain. Polish street signs were destroyed and replaced with German ones. This change brought about feelings of outrage inside me. Streets I had walked down my whole life were defaced with German names I couldn’t even pronounce. Red, white, and black swastika flags were hung out of windows, on top of buildings, and from lampposts. Everything about Warsaw looked alien to me.
My Mother's Ring: A Holocaust Historical Novel Page 4