My Mother's Ring: A Holocaust Historical Novel

by Dana Fitzwater Cornell

  Mother began mending clothing for our neighbors for a meager profit. Most residents were destitute, so she mainly received potatoes and bread for her work. Food is what we needed more than money though, so it was well-received. Meanwhile, Blima was growing up and moving freely around the house. Since she was so young when we moved, she believed we had always lived in our cramped apartment with the Pusniaks. Although she was skinny, she thrived in the ghetto. Mendel loved showing her the world through his imaginative eyes. He told her grand lies about everything around us, portraying the ghetto as a paradise, so that she would grow up somewhat carefree.

  The Pusniak family lived alongside us for close to two years, and yet I don’t have many recollections of them. The reason for this clouded lapse in memory, I can’t explain. While flashes of my consciousness flicker back to social interactions with longtime companions and family friends, those images aren’t burned inside me very deeply. I was too focused on myself and on my family.

  CHAPTER 19

  Very clear to me, however, is the summer of 1942 during which our world was turned upside-down yet again. The Germans had decided to begin transporting thousands of us out of the ghetto. We were told we would find work in new places; and for many of us, the news, though unexpected, filled us with hope since our current circumstances were so bleak. Adam Czerniakow, leader of the Judenrat, was in charge of making sure quotas were filled for deportation. Throngs of Jews signed up to be the first to leave—bundles of belonging in tow—but the volunteers soon dwindled and the Judenrat, under pressure from the Nazis, found a new way of finding recruits. They used messengers to deliver notices of forced deportation. We came to view these people as “angels of death” when we realized deportations might mean death sentences. Those who were previously shipped out in work details didn’t correspond with loved ones and never returned. We anticipated a similar fate. We didn’t know what would greet us at our next location.

  At the end of July, Adam Czerniakow broke down with guilt after learning that he had blindly sent thousands to their deaths. His negotiations with the Nazis to spare groups of Jews from deportation failed, impelling him to swallow a widely distributed suicide capsule—a cyanide pill. Following suit, countless other desperate Jews, including widowed women, took their own lives. I asked myself how I could survive if even the leadership was crumbling.

  Mother called Mendel, Blima, and me to our bedroom that evening and spoke to us about the need to remain strong and to continue finding the good in our situation despite the actions taking place around us.

  “Don’t give in to the easier route,” she advised while twisting her wedding band nervously. “When your life seems to be at its worst and drowning is easier than fighting for air, than that is the time to pull yourself together and focus every one of your senses on surviving. These are the moments that define you. Without living through these experiences you don’t know what kind of person you really are.”

  Just as I had promised her years beforehand, I told her I would always choose survival. Mendel sheepishly acknowledged that he had fought off thoughts of eternal rest over the past three years, but he vowed to never let his negative thoughts overpower him. Blima, still too young to understand, smiled and sang “life, life, life!” over and over again. With this, my mother was convinced that the three of us would not take our own lives. Promises are so easy to make and then not keep, though.

  In August, our fears were realized when we learned the truth about the deportations. Always, it seemed, our worst fears were exceeded. A group of recently deported men made their way back to the ghetto in part by hiding on trains transporting clothing to Germany. The clothing was former deportees’ clothing, the very outfits they had worn when they were shipped out of the ghetto. The men spread horrific, seemingly unrealistic, stories about events taking place at a camp about one hundred kilometers northeast of Warsaw called Treblinka—the place where the cattle cars were unloaded. It wasn’t a work camp, they said, but an extermination camp. They described the layout of the facility, including the flowerbeds and cheerful reception areas that disguised gas chambers and burial pits. “We aren’t being sent to work,” they warned. “We are being sent to die.”

  With this news, a dreadful, sinking feeling came over the ghetto. While some of us refused to believe these men, many of us knew they had spoken the truth. Now when the “angels of death” appeared, they were greeted with cries of hysteria. No one wanted to leave the ghetto. The Judenrat had to take a more active role in the expulsion process. The Nazis pressured them to meet quotas by threatening to transport their families. In order to protect their own families, the Judenrat sent the rest of us to the meeting area where caravans of cattle cars departed. I looked on as entire orphanages of innocent children were sent away. Hundreds of unaware children rolled away still clutching their dolls and favorite toys. The SS soldiers barked orders, pushing groups of Jews into wagons, resulting in the separation of parents from their children. Romani, more commonly referred to as gypsies, another group quarantined inside the ghetto, were also rounded up and whisked away. Words are not adequate to describe these scenes—the agony, the desperation, the rage. I remember thinking: How can this be real?

  Everyone scrambled to find work, thinking that workers would be less likely to be removed from the ghetto. Those with money bought their places onto workshop and factory employee directories. Unfortunately for my family, we did not have enough money for this. In fact, my name was bumped from the factory list altogether.

  Because everyone was so afraid of the deportations, people dodged them. Therefore, the SS devised scams to lure uncooperative residents out of hiding. A common trick they used involved loading the collection wagons with everyone who showed up for deportation and then driving the wagons until they were just out of sight. Simultaneously, the hunting through apartments for violators ceased and it would appear that the dodgers had been spared. But this was just a trap that enabled the guards to have the advantage so that they could lure the violators in; they offered the dodgers tempting and oftentimes irresistible rewards, not punishments, if they came out of hiding. I remember hearing them running through the streets yelling: “Food! Food for all of those who come out of hiding!” In this way, several of us succumbed to the hands of the enemy.

  No, we were not “led like sheep to the slaughter” as many people have implied that we were. We fought for our survival, attempted to undermine the regime through underground movements, and we did what we could to resist our fate; but we could only do so much with the resources we had. We were a people who were starving and beaten down. When push came to shove, some of us made the choice to reach out for the hope of receiving food—which meant having enough calories to go on another day—even if it meant risking deportation. Holding onto the hope of living to see tomorrow even if it brought nothing but pain seemed like a better course of action than continuing to live within the confines of the ghetto.

  Was the unknown—the unconfirmed destination of the transports—better than our current situation in the ghetto?

  CHAPTER 20

  The last week of August, a “messenger of death” arrived at our door. The news, although not surprising, was earth shattering. It flattened our hearts, grated our spirits, and contorted our hopes. It tested our resolve. It beat us around like we were a fish on the end of a hook. We had been chosen and there was no way around it. Hook, line, and sinker, we were headed for the frying pan. No one said a word that night.

  I thought about the home where I had grown up, about the familiar smells and much cherished items it contained. The photographs we had left behind on the mantle, the quilts we had so carefully folded, might never be held again. I pushed out memories of the curtains I had so loved as a child, pushed back visions of myself sitting on the stool on laundry day, even cast aside thoughts of my mother’s savory baked goods. I couldn’t let myself think back to life before our imprisonment, for if I did so I would be overrun with emotions that would do nothing to help
me. I willed myself to focus on the events that were unfolding in the moment, to focus on reality.

  We were to report for deportation on September 3, a date that is so etched in my memory that even at my age I can’t forget it. September 3, 1942: the day we were to depart from the ghetto and whittle down all of our belongings yet again and set off to another unknown destination—maybe to the so-feared Treblinka camp—with fears of an even worse existence than our current one wrestling around in our heads.

  CHAPTER 21

  Early in the morning on September 3, mother, Mendel, Blima, and I awoke to sounds of commotion. SS soldiers and other uniformed Germans were stomping through the streets, preparing for ghetto residents to swarm the sidewalks. Apparently we were a part of a colossal deportation. We had prepared a list of items we wished to bring with us. Mendel stood at the entrance to our bedroom calling out items and checking them off the list as we stuffed them into cloth sacks. Each of us would take a sack with us, my mother had decided, because suitcases would be too heavy if we had to carry them for long distances. She suggested we pack both summer and winter clothing in case we remained at our new home long enough for both seasons to cycle through. We had inspected our shoes for signs of wear the night before and I clumsily replaced the soles in all of them so that we would start our journey with functionally new shoes, as father would have wanted. Mother told us to leave behind large, heavy, and cumbersome items. To my surprise, she wasn’t at all upset about her beloved mahogany table not making the list. Since we had arrived, though, she had altered her priorities and stopped her Sunday tradition of rubbing it with oils. It amazed me how the things we had placed the most value on prior to the war had the least value in the ghetto. They became inanimate objects that were functional, yet not practical or even tradable.

  On the “to take” list were various assortments of heavy and lightweight clothing, shoes, leftover scraps of food, a pocket watch, items to clean and swaddle Blima, blankets, and our everyday tableware. While other people urged us to take our larger valuables with us, mother thought it was best to travel with only essential items so that we wouldn’t be weighed down by heavy cargo. Although Mendel and I understood her concerns, we were swayed by the advice from those around us; but in the end, mother won the debate.

  Per instructions, we wrote our names on the outside of our sacks in white paint so that if we became separated from them they could be returned to us. We were told that we would be transported to a place where we could “start a new life.” I was skeptical. I didn’t want to “start a new life.” What I wanted was to return to my old life.

  When it was time to leave our apartment, we bid goodbye to our roommates. They weren’t required to depart because of the selective work group the father belonged to. We lined up at our front door, each of us with our bundles of belongings swung over our shoulders. Even little Blima carried a small bag.

  Watching us pick up our bundles, the Pusniak children begged us not to leave. They bounced around and grabbed Mendel by the wrist, telling him not to go. Mendel faked a laugh, made a joke, and told them that he was leaving “just for a little while” and that they shouldn’t worry because he would meet up with them again before they even have a chance to miss him. He stepped away from them and went into the kitchen where he took a chipped milk bottle from the counter and placed it onto the table. He then began shredding pieces of the most recent edition of the ghetto newspaper into strips. Looking on, I inquisitively tilted my head. He paid me no mind as he scrawled phrases onto the scraps and then dropped them inside the bottle. When he was satisfied, he walked back into the front room and handed the jar to the children, telling them it was a magical jar, full of wishes and dreams, and that they should shake it and pour out a few of the scraps when they were scared. The idea of a magical milk bottle intrigued them.

  I played along with his ruse, patting one of the youngsters on the back soothingly. The adults told a host of lies that morning. The kids—the sight of the kids waving and jumping as we left was simply sad. Blima climbed onto my shoulders and wept goodbye to her playmates. Mrs. Pusniak pulled a lacy, linen handkerchief from her apron pocket and patted at my sister’s tear ducts; she did the same for our mother. Then she removed the red ribbon from her own hair and tied it around the neck of Blima’s so loved stuffed animal. Blima ran her small fingers over the smooth ribbon and smiled at Mrs. Pusniak, her dimples showing. The youngest Pusniak child dashed into his bedroom and ran back out carrying a colorful drawing in his tiny hands that he gave to Mendel with a sob. Looking over at it, I saw that it was a picture of all of us inside the apartment except Mendel was bigger than the rest of us and was holding a book and a chalkboard. Mendel thanked the child and gently stuffed the drawing into his bag, choking back tears.

  Then it was time to go. Out the door we went to where we had been sent.

  We opened the door and made our way to the street, a familiar feeling. Once there, we saw that the Germans had cordoned off our entire block and were herding everyone in the direction of the meeting area. They were beating those who couldn’t keep up, including many Jews who were leaning on canes, limping. “Hurry! Hurry!” they yelled, rifles in hand. As I watched the infirmed and the elderly being hurled from windows into collection carts, I begged my eyes to close—to not see the sickening sights taking place—but they wouldn’t stop looking at the atrocities going on around me. Some Jews, perhaps the more well-to-do—though not for long—rode along with their bundles of belongings in wagons pulled by horses. Mendel squeezed my hand as we hurried along on foot. Blima was holding onto my mother’s hand, her small sack in the other with her favorite stuffed animal’s head peeking out of it. We flocked to the meeting place with thousands of others. Our goal was to make it to our destination without being hassled along the way.

  Once we arrived to the meeting area, we saw hundreds of other people already milling around the open area. Children were playing as parents pushed through the crowds looking for friends. Suitcases and sacks with white letters adorning them dotted the dirt-rich ground like postage stamps. We could only guess what the others had packed in their bags. We began to question if we had brought the appropriate items. Like it or not, there was no possibility of returning to the apartment to alter our luggage. Mother shushed our worries even before we could voice them.

  We found an unoccupied portion of grass to put down our things while we rested until everyone arrived. As we waited, I cast my gaze from one side of the area to the other, observing as much as I could. I noticed women wearing heeled shoes and fancy fur coats and dresses, men in handsome, expensive suits, old men and women wearing their finest hats and overcoats even though it wasn’t cold, and children dressed in holiday-like attire. It seemed that many of us had dressed as if they were going to some place nice, some place where looking good would be important. Most, however, were dressed in nothing but rags; some were even barefoot and covered with grime. I noticed that one emaciated man was without a shirt—he probably couldn’t afford one—but he was wearing his armband on his bare arm. His appearance seemed sinister. Looking down at my family, we seemed to be a mix of the two. We were dirty and we were outgrowing our ripped clothing, but we had richly made shoes and mother had a nice, fashionable hat. Would our choice of clothing have an impact on our survival?

  Meanwhile, Mendel, Blima, and I came up with ways to entertain ourselves as the minutes turned into hours and the hours turned into days. As the guards looked on with satisfaction, we waited for one and a half days. Floodlights lit up the darkness so that night turned into day seemingly without the night ever making an appearance. We were blind to the reason for the delay but we were sensitive to the consequences it had on us. Mothers with infants in carriages pushed them back and forth automatically, doing what they could to calm their babies while at the same time trying to comfort themselves. Those unfortunate souls who were already sick when they arrived grew more ill as time went on. Many slipped away as ailments intensified and spread. The longer
we waited, the worse the area smelled. Thousands of people were grouped together without facilities to relieve themselves, resulting in urine and fecal matter littering the landscape, invading our noses. Food and water were limited to what each person brought with them. Mother rationed our provisions—a wise decision that I’m still thankful for today—so that we had vital sources of nourishment during our trip. People without these items staggered around in search of them, receiving handouts from those generous enough to share.

  Mother, fearing that she might lose sight of us, forced us to remain within a few meters of her the entire time we were waiting. She kept Blima perched in her lap like she was still a baby. Despite the lengthy delay, Blima kept in good spirits, happy to monitor the actions taking place around her. Mendel and I split the time chitchatting and nodding off. We watched others moving about and conversing freely, but we hardly fidgeted at all.

  Finally, on the second day, we departed. When the orders were given to group together at the foot of the railway tracks, chaos once again ensued. Families that had become separated during the waiting period scrambled to locate one another. Mothers and fathers yelled for their children. A middle-aged woman dressed in a half-length coat and a flowing skirt stood in place repeatedly screaming violently for her son until her sounds were extinguished by those crushing in around her, moving towards the railway. The mob inadvertently knocked her down and trampled her. I watched, shocked, waiting for her to stand. A few moments later, she rose, rattled and dazed, but relatively unharmed. She brushed the dirt from her skirt and continued her cries for her son. “Jozef! Jooozef! Jooozeeeefff!” she screamed, her voice hoarse. I felt my heart sink into my chest as I listened to her pleas. The sun’s setting rays penetrated my eyes and I had to squint to look at her. Throwing her head in all directions looking for her son, I became dizzy just from watching her. As I turned to walk ahead with my family, I watched as a young boy appeared from the shadows. From his toes to his hair, he was plastered in muck. Shaking and confused, he tiptoed up to his mother and extended his mud-covered hand to her. The woman pulled him tightly into her and squeezed him with tears of relief dripping down her cheeks. As she wiped away the dirt from his skin, welts and bruises emerged. Watching them, the hairs on my arms stood on end and I shivered.