For that reason, when I was given the opportunity to board a passenger train bound for a larger, more established DP camp in Germany in July, I accepted the offer. I needed the change of scenery and I hoped that a larger camp would provide me with better access to information with which to locate my relatives. I joined a thousand or so other men and women on a train ride to British-occupied Bergen-Belsen. Along the way, we paused from time to time as DPs from other camps joined us on our week-long journey. Parentless children cried in their seats as men and women still clothed in their prisoner garb spent the time in silence, staring out the windows. It was a time of reflection for the adults onboard. I can’t recall many specifics of the trip—I slept through most of it—but I do remember that we were delayed for quite awhile due to detours imposed by the damaged railroad tracks. The delays didn’t bother or bore me; because of my experiences, I had become a patient man.
CHAPTER 48
When we finally reached Germany, we were relieved to discover that the camp was not actually located in the former Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, but instead it was nearby in a former German Army camp. We were treated to housing assignments in real buildings with sealed walls, a gigantic step up from living in the drafty barracks of the concentration camps. Originally, we were all housed together—Jews and non-Jews—leading to discontent because of the prevalence of anti-Semitic behaviors, until Jews were segregated in November.
Lonesome and miserable at first, I soon came to enjoy my time in the Bergen-Belsen DP camp. It was here that a gracious optometrist, also a refugee, fixed my glasses so that I could see clearly for the first time in more than three months. Time quickly flew by and I easily cultivated friendships with the other survivors. We shared our war stories with one another, creating an instant bond between us. Together we watched as the rebirth of Jewish culture took shape in the form of theater, religious celebrations, music, athletics, journalism, and education. We attended weddings within the camp, celebrating the unification of lovers. Within a year, we celebrated life as countless babies were born. All the while, we listened to radio broadcasts and read newspapers, scanning through daily lists of survivors for the names of our loved ones. We were supportive of each other to the point that we wouldn’t let each other believe that our relatives were anything but alive.
But, as we all slowly learned heart-wrenching news about our loved ones, our optimism faded away. Receiving positive news about those dearest to us was a rarity.
Day after day, we scanned the camp newspaper as well as newspapers from other DP camps, searching for answers. Simultaneously, we kept our ears glued to the radios. Names of survivors were repeated and circulated for months before lists of casualties made their way into news outlets. We learned of pogroms, or violent mob attacks, throughout Europe and were particularly saddened upon hearing of an exceptionally brutal one in Kielce, Poland; this massacre resulted in about forty Jewish casualties.
When a year had gone by without a sign indicating that anyone from my family was still alive, I sought emotional support from the camp psychiatrists. The doctors worked to pull me out of my depressed state and provided me with invaluable guidance. They helped to prepare me for navigating a brand new life, one that involved dealing with the trials of possibly being the sole survivor of my family. By then, with the help of various relief organizations, I had moved into an apartment building on the edge of the camp with other Jewish survivors. We became each other’s pseudo-family.
Just like my father, I became a smoker. When my companions and I smoked together we spent the time socializing, but when I smoked alone I spent the time thinking. I was always drawing on cigarettes and thinking of my family, my blood relatives.
On a rainy day near the end of 1948, I received my first concrete piece of bad news. In response, all I could do was to shake my head in grief. My paternal grandparents had been exterminated in Treblinka in April of 1940. The news saddened me but only slightly since I had barely known them. However, when my maternal grandparents were listed among the dead a few days later, the news crushed me. They had survived until December of 1942—until they lost their lives in Auschwitz. Finding out about the passing of two people I cared for so deeply, my body reacted by depriving my lungs of oxygen as an imaginary weight compressed my body. My grandparents had either been betrayed by those individuals who were hiding them, had been discovered during random searches, or had grown tired of waiting for the war to end and had surrendered to the Gestapo. Salt-and-pepper haired and fragile, they didn’t stand a chance in making it through the initial selection process. Like Blima, they would have been directed to the left after they arrived at Auschwitz. Looks can be so deceiving. My maternal grandparents were young at heart and still vibrant. They would have worked alongside prisoners many decades younger than them without a problem, at least for awhile. Thinking about that, I was outraged.
Over the years, my close-knit group of Jewish friends thinned as individuals immigrated for the purpose of establishing new lives or returned home in order to try to salvage their old lives. As time went by, the hope of finding survivors dwindled. I never learned what happened to Rivka’s parents despite outreach efforts to find them. No inquires about Rivka from them ever reached me.
I remained confused as to where I wanted to go, and so I stayed near the camp with other refugees, keeping busy by playing on the football (soccer) team and by writing for the newspaper. I took advantage of vocational training opportunities, trying my hand at agricultural endeavors, but decided farming was not my calling—shoemaking was. Along with others in the camp, I also enrolled in English-speaking classes to prepare for a possible life in the United States one day. Studying the language and the culture consumed a great deal of my time, but I enjoyed it.
All the while, I held onto the hope that my mother was still alive. Everyone, including my most trusted psychiatrist, told me to “let go” of my hope, but I couldn’t. When her name appeared on a list of deceased victims, the tragic news hit me like a crushing blow to the chest.
I couldn’t eat.
I couldn’t sleep.
I couldn’t think.
She had perished in Auschwitz in June of 1943, which corresponded to the same time a massive typhus epidemic wrecked havoc on the camp, taking thousands of hostages. Was she murdered or did she die from disease? What would have been less painful? During all of those years I had spent thinking about her, she was already gone. My mother, my best friend, had been my guiding light through every transport and every camp. How could I go on without her?
And then it dawned on me: I was the only survivor of my family.
I felt so empty—so alone in the world. I needed closure. How is it that a man’s entire extended family could die and yet he doesn’t get to go to a single funeral?
Deciding what to do once I learned of my utter solitude was a challenge. In the back of my mind I had always considered returning to Warsaw. My psychiatrist warned me about the potential ramifications associated with returning to my childhood home, but by then I had become tired of listening to his advice. I needed to make my own decisions for once. I was convinced that I must return to see the place I had grown up. Everyone told me that I should move on with my life and not look to the past before I looked to the future, but it was just something I had to do.
Therefore, I took a train to Warsaw so that I could fill the void in my heart with one last glimpse of my boyhood apartment; the place I had once thought encompassed the entire universe.
CHAPTER 49
During the journey, I found that even though I wasn’t wearing a Star of David on my clothing, I was still the brunt of insensitive jokes. Having endured far worse during the war, I ignored the ridicule, letting the mockery bounce off of me. As the train neared Warsaw, it became obvious to me why everyone told me to avoid the city.
Walking from the train station to my old home, I could barely navigate through the destroyed streets. Stores were boarded up and still bore anti-Jewish graffiti. The
cafes and restaurants I used to patronize were long since neglected and abandoned; their windows smashed and their innards gutted. The city was deserted of Jews. The ruins made the city feel dirty. But, I pressed on, a part of me still hoping that when I arrived at my apartment I’d find my family gathered around the mahogany table as mother pushed aside her beautiful curtains just in time to catch a glimpse of me walking up to the front door. In my vision she would float over to the door to greet me, the familiar savory smells of her cooking billowing out of the oven as she corralled me inside. Father would smile as Blima would run up to me with a drawing she had colored in school. Mendel would tell me about his newest batch of students, eager for me to share in the triumphs of his day. Everyone would laugh and scream in celebration of our reunion. We’d talk of wonderful things; there would be no need to talk of the war-torn years.
What I found once I reached the building was of course very different from the fairytale I envisioned in my daydream. Nearing the front door, I noticed that the linen curtains mother had sewn were replaced with heavy, woolen shades—my first indication that someone was living in my old home. Since I had traveled so far, I knocked on the door anyway, needing to know who the new residents were. The family that my mother and father had given the responsibility of watering our plants and making sure no one broke into our apartment had shattered my family’s trust and had moved in, staking a claim to the apartment. When they saw me they slammed the door in my face, refusing to acknowledge me or to let me enter for a final look around the place.
Pinned to the steps, I stood there for several minutes, shocked. Not only was I concerned about my boyhood treasures and family heirlooms inside, but I also wanted to feel the warmth of my old home. But, with no fight left inside me, I turned around and left.
Why had I suffered through the war only to be left alive in a world that no longer cared about me?
Following my disappointing return to Warsaw, I boarded a train bound for the DP Bergen-Belsen camp the very same night. From the moment I returned back to the camp, I spent all of my time working toward a common goal: leaving Europe. I had seen everything that I needed to see and I knew it was time for me to carry on with my life. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate place to begin anew than the Land of the Free: The United States of America.
Together with the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, the UNRRA, and other relief organizations, I obtained a sponsor in America to assist me with the financial burden. The man who sponsored me was someone I had never met before but would go on to have a life-long friendship with. His name was Andrez Wolski and he was an old coworker of my father’s who had moved to America just before the war broke out.
While awaiting my visa, I continued learning English. I practiced by writing letters and engaging in lengthy conversations with others who were also learning the language until I became not only competent but nearly fluent. Finally, in June of 1950 after the Displaced Persons Act of 1948 was amended, allowing for more refugees into America, I made my way onto a list of immigrants headed for New York. There isn’t much to say about the nearly two-week trip other than to tell you that the ship was full of refugees fleeing Europe. As we neared the harbor, we were treated to a brilliant firework display. It seemed to symbolize our rebirth. Only later did I learn about the annual tradition of lighting fireworks on Independence Day.
Once we arrived at Ellis Island we had to remain on the ship while we docked for the night until the offices opened the following morning. Then it was a long day of waiting in lines for various inspections, from health to literacy. The process took me five hours, but it was nothing compared to the lines I had been accustomed to over the years. As officials marked seemingly random refugees with colored chalk, people around me feared being barred from entering the country, but I wasn’t afraid. It was the first registration process I didn’t mind going through since registering for school as a child. Other people chose to either shorten their names or change them, but since I had just been a number for far too long, I proudly kept my name as my parents had spelled it.
The day was Wednesday, July 5, 1950.
CHAPTER 50
I had to start my life over in a place I barely knew with only the clothes on my back, my tin bowl, and my gold ring. I spent that first night, and the following ninety nights, at Andrez’s house in New York City. He welcomed me into his home and place of business with open arms and for that I am deeply indebted to him. He took me under his wing, hiring me as an intern at his shoemaking store so that I could relearn the trade using the most current techniques. I soon became obsessed with the art, studying its history and keeping up with the latest fashions in my spare time. With his help and with the assistance of relief organizations throughout the city, I eventually earned enough money so that I could move into my own tiny studio apartment. Lacking in the typical cozy items found in most homes, such as decorations, I nonetheless fondly referred to it as my “mansion.” To me, the aging, dingy apartment was an immaculately perfect haven.
Working seven days a week and sleeping far less than my body craved, I earned Andrez’s respect. When he retired four years later, I was the first person he asked to take over his business. And so “Stefan’s Shoes” was born, a name I chose in memory of my father. He never saw the gift I inherited from him, his talent, at its finest. When I apprenticed with my father I was too immature to take the art seriously. I didn’t care to cultivate my shoemaking skills because I saw it as his field of expertise, not mine. In truth, I owe my life in part to his passion for shoemaking, for it had carried me through Auschwitz-Birkenau and it had provided me with a way to make my living in America. Without knowing it, my father had helped to save and to shape my life.
I had always thought that my mother was the one who had kept me going throughout the war, but my father had played a pivotal role in my success, as well. The mental toughness instilled in me by my mother and the physical handiwork taught to me by my father played vital roles in my survival.
CHAPTER 51
I only had my name on the lease for a few days when my life took another unexpected turn. I was sitting on the stool behind my cash register reading the newspaper, wasting time before the morning rush came in, when a photograph on the bottom of the fourth page caught my attention. A beautiful woman with a cherub smile and curly dark hair beamed back at me. The caption below her picture was: “Local woman wins area-wide Teacher of the Year Award.” The description made me think of Mendel; perhaps he might have won the award if he had been in the running. Without reading the article, I flipped the page, sipped my coffee, and browsed through the rest of the paper. When a customer walked in, I tossed my newspaper in the trashcan and got back to work. But I kept thinking about the striking teacher who had won the teaching award. There was something about her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
It was only after a few customers came and went that I reached into my trashcan and pulled the newspaper out of it. Shaking off scraps of gunk that had landed onto it, I pressed it flat onto the counter and opened back up to page four. I stared at the woman, unsure of why I couldn’t stop looking at her.
When I finally peeled my eyes from the picture, I read the article above it. In the second paragraph the name “Dorothy Katz” sprang off the paper. There it was spelled out in black and white—it couldn’t be any clearer.
Had the impossible become possible? Was this the woman my brother had fallen in love with in Auschwitz-Birkenau?
I had to find out.
Since it was almost lunch time, I decided to close up early and take the rest of the day off. But first I opened the locked drawer underneath the cash register, pulled out a small cardboard box, and put it into my pocket. With newspaper in hand, I hastily affixed a note to the door and ran out of my store and onto the sidewalk, maneuvering around sightseers, until I flagged down a taxi. I was headed for Dorothy’s school.
Once the taxi driver dropped me off in front of the schoolhouse, I sat down on a metal bench and waited, f
acing the building. I could have gone inside, but I wanted to wait. I didn’t want to take her away from her children. Waiting also provided me with the opportunity to think about what I’d say to her.
But what if it wasn’t her? What if I had wanted for her to be Mendel’s Dorothy so badly that I had just convinced myself that she was?
I sat and waited. I smoked and I thought.
I watched squirrels chase one another in the grass in front of me, and listened as the birds sang to each other in the trees behind me. I inhaled the sweet aroma of fresh, spring blooms. I tasted the salty sweat of my body as tense perspiration dribbled down my forehead and into the corners of my mouth.
Finally, I heard the school bell ring. Dozens of children raced down the front steps carrying armfuls of books and papers. I remained seated on the bench, waiting for the dark-haired beauty to exit the building. Tapping the fingers of one of my hands nervously onto my thighs, I chewed on the nails of the other one. What was I doing there? The odds of the woman in the paper being the woman I was looking for were so slim. I felt so stupid.
And then I saw her.
Wearing a flowery, feminine chemise dress, black velvet pumps, and long white gloves and delicate pearls, she took my breath away. I had to avert my eyes away from hers so that she wouldn’t see my blushing cheeks. I didn’t know how to react.
My Mother's Ring: A Holocaust Historical Novel Page 23